Psycho Simon...

Simon is proving to be difficult and demanding...and will not let me compromise on him questioning himself...or exposing himself.

This comes after he was raped...

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His sketches had grown furious and violent after that. His favorite artist changed from Tom of Finland, whose joy in male on male sex was evident in every one of his drawings, to Etienne, who revelled in the rape and destruction of hunky men in myriad ways. 

Especially if they were married. 

And circumcised. 

With a resemblance to Robert Conrad, whose numerous moments of bare-chested bondage on The Wild, Wild West had captivated Simon’s inner beast, as a boy.

Kidnappings. Anal and oral assaults. Murders, Burials. He built up a fair-sized portfolio of death after pleasure to satisfy his prurient needs. Gave him a semblance of control over his existence.

Then one night, after having been fucked long and hard by an amazingly handsome black man, in a fit of joy he’d burned them all. Set up a barrel in the back of his apartment building, made sure a hose with a spray nozzle was ready to use, and one by one had turned every one of them into ash. 

The fire department had not been happy, and had fined him for starting a burn within the city limits. Cost him forty-five dollars. But he was glad to pay it. 

Until the black guy never came near him, again. Oh, Simon invited him back, over and over. Even went to where he worked...and was brutally warned never to return. So he slunk away like an abused hound.

That happened twice more. Once with a long lean cowboy from Lubbock; once with an Army PFC from Fort Sam Houston. Both of whom reacted negatively to his dick and only took his ass...or let him use his mouth to satisfy them.

That was when he began to write short stories instead of sketching. Usually good-looking men being forcibly used in the ways he had been. Killing some, but not all. And he built poems...ditties, as he called them...like this:

To show just how warped I can be,

If I walk down the street and see

A man who’s gorgeous, roaming free,

I think the only way for me

To have fun is to tie him down

And then, despite his cry or frown,

Strip him to show skin golden brown

And stroke his dick until its crown

Has grown so full and rich and fine

My lips demand I make him mine

As my hands grasp his ass divine

Till his cum and my spit combine.

Then who knows what next I will do?

I don’t, and I admit it’s true

That all I take is what I’m due –

Complete control of him, in lieu

Of kisses and the soft caress

His fingers might leave on my chest

In nights of loving without jest.

This shows you why I am not blessed.

Now he was wondering if murder on the page was as monstrous as the actual deed, itself. He had brutalized men like Doyle in so many erotic fantasies. But could that be seen as just as bad as actually doing it to a living human being?

Was it the same manifestation, spiritually if not physically? Were the nights he pleasured himself...pretending he was both rapist and victim...would that on the same level as him actually forcing another man...a man in the same mold as Doyle...to submit to his own satisfaction? Had he, throughout his life, been building up a reservoir of pain and anger and brutality behind a dam of simple silence to the point it was now planning to give way and drown whoever happened to be in its path?

Like that bastard cop, Paley?

Had he actually intended to let loose of all his fury, that night? Do far, far more than sketch him?

Had the fates sensed it and stopped him before he did the unacceptable?

Could the honest answer to all of that be yes?

Could he have really become that much of a monster?

Probably.