completely lost interest in writing this. oops!

it had been a long week. i had been working a heavy caseload of work projects and my boss having a very slow nervous breakdown. he had been winding up for about 3 months and we had finally progressed from "let's talk about this at lunch" to "if i don't pick up this phone call at 11:40am, you'll probably leave me a voice mail threatening to kill yourself." It was my fault inasmuch as i enjoyed taking on issues and looney tunes friends. my arrogance demanded that people lay out their issues in front of me and then hear my solutions... that's how i start. then i realize when it's far too late that i'm not a trained professional and the person i've been listening to needs about a handful of lithium and a vicious beating to get them sorted out.

work was work. i was thankful that even when it was a shitty day i was consistently invigorated and willing to push through the day. hell, i'll even come in on the weekends! i don't have a life. i'll work a saturday if i get to wander in on my own time wearing shorts that are disintegrating every minute they're on, great! better to get out of the house and do something productive instead of my usual shopping jaunts or the more slovenly afternoons where i lay around in bed naked & read comic books. sometimes it's good. just not all of the time.

work was work but not when work started calling me. my perky young boss had been promoted up the chain & i reported into the VP again. being that i was a lone wolf & no one else did what i did, there wasn't a lot of urgency to find me a master. i did my shit & didn't need supervision unless it was negotiating a yearly pay increase or tell someone i was booking vacation time.

with sugar tits twink boss gone out of my life i was back into the big bosses life. when i started out at the company he was a manager & we got along just great. moreso because he left me alone and i did a good job. the aforementioned ego i cart around everywhere always lets me down eventually. in an inadvertent lunch invite [i saw him as i was going out for a walk & panicked when he asked what i was doing] landed me into his life.

i'm flypaper for the mentally ill [who am i to judge? i'm straight up INSANE], the emotionally wounded [i just want you to feel better], and hypochondriacs. the latter stems from my life long obsession with human biology and overwhelming shame of my numeric dyslexia that prevented me from being a nurse or ambulance attendant.... i have a burning fascination with learning and sharing body physiology stuff with anyone who'll listen. this encourages hypochondriacs to flock to me... and while i enjoy that initial nurse Nightingale shtick, it does wear thin after a while.

so, with this heady mix of emotionally disturbed psychos who think they have cancer any time they get a cold i find myself getting overwhelmed at times. and by "at times" i mean once a quarter i get sucked into some nutbars life and the only one to blame is me for getting wrist deep into things.

the now Big Boss had evolved from a constant lunch date [which made me INSANE as i use lunch breaks to go for a walk] to someone who would drop by my place to lay on my couch and cycle through crying then anger then angry crying. what am i supposed to do? tip the futon over and put the boots to him for making me mental? probably not.

nothing to do but listen and try not to look too glazed over when he brought up the same problem again and again and again...........

tandem handy

brad came in struggling with bags of groceries. i didn't bother getting up and interfering. more specifically, i didn't really have any desire to get up.
"hey guess who i saw out with Darren?"
huffing and struggling he grunted as he opted to slug it all to the floor.
"i.... ah... ah... i don't give a shit."
"fine then." i went back to doodling with a fountain pen. after some obligatory sorting and moving i could tell brad's ability to hold back was failing.
"well go on then, who was Ken Doll with?"
"who? oh.... oh no matter. it's just gossip. i should bite my tongue."
"don't be a coy cunt. who?"
gnawing on my bottom lip i became transfixed trying to make evenly spaced cross hatching lines. i always fuck up after the 20th swipe and it looks like garbage.
"nathan! who!"
"can you grab me a glass of water?"
"don't drag this out."
"don't make me drag it out. we play this little game and you like it. let the tap run a bit!!"
didn't sound like he spent a lot of time picking a glass out. i hate that. think!
"here! here. confess!"
gulping down a few mouthfuls i gasped. i was always on the verge of dehydrated....
"ahhh... Josh."
"THAT LAZY EYED FUCK?!"
"wasn't that the one who always swallowed?"
"yeah... like, i think he liked it more than fucking."
"hey, no judgement here man. we all gotta get off right?"
"look, no! don't change the subject. why the fuck would Darren go out with him? they're both such dedicated bottoms..."
"maybe they just waive their asses in the air like cats and kinda clap assholes together?"
"wuh...wah... no. oh man. i dunno what they do."
"you look perplexed. is it insane to think of them together? maybe they spoon like little puppies and tweeze their eyebrows in tandem?"
"see, shit like that. that's why people think you're homophobic. or at least self-loathinng."
"ohhhhhhh don't bring that up again. humor at the expense of others transcends gender and sexual orientation. everyone's up for grabs. just so happens i love mocking bummers."
"you're a bummer."
"i know. see, it's like this cycle. i, the hero...."
"NO. no we're not doing that Northrup Frye shit again. you lured me in once and that was QUITE enough."
"you GOTTA read the books! you're a fucking english student! it's your civil duty...."
"did you talk to them?"
"what? who? the boys? yeah i sat and had a beer with them. i got a tag team handie under the table."
moment trying to read me...
"ha ha. very funny."
"so quick to think that i'm bullshitting are we? so outrageous to think i'd get a double handy from two twinks, eh?"
"patience... running out... blood sugar so low... must... kill... old fag."
"go make a sandwich or something. you're useless to me unless you can focus. make me something too if you're up.?

CL ad... and yes, this is real

"don't be hating on me because i'm getting all the love from this ad."
he was horrified. sticking a bloody turd in his ear would have garnered less of a reaction.
"oh PLEASE i am not going to get jealous over you on craigslist."
i leaned back on the couch and popped some air out of my spine.
"no no, i know it's tough to swallow my creamy load of creativity sometimes. especially since you know i wrote a better one than you did."
he pushed his newly purchased glassed up his nose and sniffed. "i don't HAVE a craigslist post."
"liar. liar and charlatan."
"i don't need to rely on seedy websites to get laid."
"oohhhhhh SURE stick the knife in. wah wah, i can't get a guy to suck my dick at the bar, instead we just text for a half hour and decide who's hosting. you're so accurate. my way is just deplorable."
"sometimes i think you perceive me as a total slut!"
"quacks like a duck... makes the younger duck swallow on the first date... looks like a duck..."
he pinched his lips a little and tapped on his tea mug. we were both feeling irritated and awkward talking without any wine. we still drank behind each others backs, just nothing overt. i'll tell you, the amount of mouthwash we gargle with is staggering. i imagine it smells like rubbing alcohol and fermented grapes that fell behind a radiator all the time. but the point is we were being responsible liars.
"i don't think you're a slut. slut is a state of mind, you know? just that you get tail when you want it, i have to do a little bit of leg work."
Blip. my phone went off again. another email.
since i posted my craigslist ad i had received at least 4 to 7 emails a day responding. i had confessed to brad and i knew the brat had done an ad for himself with little response thus far. stellar.
getting older and also not getting laid for a long time had lead me to getting irritatingly horny. it was almost chemical at this point. i was like a grumpy terrier growling and giving the shank eye all the time. i jerked off 4 times a day, which is a huge increase since i can go 2 to 3 days without needing it. i will always be a camel with orgasms. i don't shrivel and die if i don't get laid... fuck, if that was the case i would have perished a long time ago.
still, i do have my limits. thusly we come to me at this stage in my life. i get hard using the toaster. i burned through all my good spank lube that usually lasts me months in 4 weeks. i was irritated with porn because it was never hard or nasty enough and found myself in the ennui of smut apathy. i had been getting a ton of coffee dates with Nice Boys who all wanted to get to know me before we got fucking. nice.
my wank sessions had been out of control. short of inviting a midget, it was a free for all in my brain. i had been burning for a guy to bottom for me but i had also been thinking about women. a lot. i've fooled around with a chick before but it was so boring it made me want to just call it off and go cum in the bathroom by myself. but these days i was so hot to trot i couldn't stop thinking about chicks either.
i had taken the time to craft something that would catch people's eyes. i didn't want to get the usual menagerie of swingers and sex addicts....
m/wm - 30 - downtown
queer guy who's curious about having a nite in with a couple. not
looking for swingers per se, but curious to know if there's any
nerdy/cute hipsters pref. on the chubby side. this is because i'm
chubby so if that's not yer cup of tea, no worries!
i'd like to fool around with a couple and really enjoy that dynamic of
having fun. NSA, laid back and willing to meet up first.
one little ad, so many replies. it was nuts. sure there were a ton of skeevy jerks but astoundingly, there were amazing people who wrote back. you just got the impression that the post snared a lot of people who wouldn't normally go trolling around for a threesome. the pictures ranged from adequate to luscious. some just wanted dirty email exchanges... a couple did call me to make plans to meet up. nothing had progressed yet, but i had an inbox full of potential meet ups and some luscious pic exchanges. shit, even if they were fakes it was thrilling enough to fantasize about.
i was bursting with thoughts and asking about if i was more likely to be murdered & raped [yes i'm aware of the order i put that in] in a hotel room or if i should meet up at a house after a bar meet & greet. Brad seemed bemused thinking that i wouldn't get too far but turned horrified when i was actually taking my pick and discussing the finer points of what i wanted to experience.
i didn't have the heart to tell him i was pretty sure i had been emailing his older brother & his bi girlfriend for the better part of 3 days. like, it might be him? maybe? no need to worry until i get a last name. which, amazingly, life on the internet dictates i get a cock picture THEN a last name.

god bless, Young Offenders Act

8 months on house arrest. i don't think that's too shabby. friends have served more than that and i'm assured i can do it standing on my head, but i do know how nuts they all wound up. and none of them made it much past six months without snapping.
oh yeah yeah yeah, i get it. i could be getting 4 fingers slammed up my twat getting called Sugar Cookie in jail. lock ups do scare me.

i haven't served any time since i was a teenager. and even then, that was juvie. which, let's not put that experience down, it was brutal. lilly white and meaty i wasn't appreciated by my fellow ladies on the native or black side of things. well, initially. my gift is my fat fucking mouth. i'll take the licks if someone jumps me. i'd rather talk my way out of it. annoying someone into leaving you be is an art. or they'd be so squirreled around that they wouldn't realize i had yapped my way out of a fight. naturally you need to keep a tally of those run ins. it's helpful math when trying to think about the odds of getting a tray smashed over you head at lunch.

god bless the Young Offenders Act. i mooched and screwed the system on the inside long and hard. slapped it on the ass and pulled its hair to milk it for all it was worth. no one knew how smart i was so i aped an epiphany of education to boost my appeal. it was the fucking Miracle Worker. my teacher was a loser with a teaching degree who couldn't cut it with kids. to be fair, i wasn't removing him from any students. my sisters in chains weren't really interested in more schooling so really, i was just making sure he didn't kill himself realizing his lack of usefulness. i looped this guy around and around my finger at a steady pace. it was pure joy to think in my bunk about how i could maintain the whole scene without being too stellar.

at night i chewed on my cuticles reading "under the volcano" and Henry Miller that i had never gotten around to checking out. i hid them and toted around "to kill a mockingbird" as my gee-golly-shit-i-can-done-learn book. don't get my wrong, i do like the book, just that i had read it in grade 2.

teacher-teacher was thrilled with my progress. i do feel that i was justifying his job with his fat Pygmalion dyke impressing with my learned skills. the head of the training and education bitch clocked me, but i held strong. she would try to trip me up dropping big words and theories on my head. just baiting me to come out and reveal my pantomime... always in character i didn't make it too overt. this shit all chalks up for a speedy release.

the fights i got into were minimal and the few times i laid a thrashing on some cunt we shook and made up before the guards could separate us. i'm willing to part with lunch for a few weeks to shut someone up. it was swill anyway so i didn't miss much.

i kept my head shaved and received many little looks and kisses from the white supremacist chicks and rednecks. pretty gross cunts but i guess everything looks good when you threaten someone into eating you out when you're on work detail. i hadn't been raped, but admittedly i wasn't entirely thrilled about the whole scenario. just not stupid enough to kick up a stink. there was no option for me getting some muscle to help out, just every broad for herself. my roommate was a hard as fuck native chick who hated my guts but i unrelentingly engaged her in stories and conversations until she told me to shut up. sadly i finally got a laugh with 4 weeks to go in my stint. i didn't derive enough pleasure from it to stay pen pals after i left, but still, a new fan is always appreciated.

packing up my cell, teacher-teacher came to say goodbye. he looked at my book pile lovingly mailed to me by my cousin who stole them from the library at home.

"these.... these are adventurous! i'm so glad you're setting the bar high!"

my roommate was napping/pouting and refused to roll over.

"teacher-teacher she calls you... but that girl could teach you. isn't that right, doc?"

"doc? heh, that your nickname?"

"YEAH man, we call her doc 'cause she smartest bitch on the block. could be a professor. teach you something, man. you so stupid."

i leaned on my bunk and smiled softly. "you should really read this one, my fave in here. went through it 4 times."

forking over a busted copy of "the brothers karamazov" he turned it over and looked up stunned.

"i was supposed to read this in second year... never got through it, just got the coles notes... guess i should read it."

"ya man, good stuff. thanks for the help. keeping book smart made sure i got my ass out on time. YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT IT, LADY."

"ah shaddup. go home."

"i will... want me to write?"

"want me to knock your fucking teeth out before you go?"

teacher look scared and i just shrugged like it was some whacky sitcom dialog.

"i...well... hope to not see you here again."

"yeah me too... i'll do adult prisi if i fuck up again so juvie was just a lucky break. catch you on the flip side, man."

he looked dejected. did i ruin his faith in everyone? probably. was he going to kill himself at christmas? probably. but i'm not to blame, i'd just be one microscopic fuck up pain point. not the catalyst. in theory.

don't laugh.... it's actually mostly true

i find spooky stuff fascinating. i'm not at all sensitive to spirts of creepy residual feelings. my stoic side will tell you publicly it's all bullcrap. my inner flaky hippy cries out that there HAS to be something else out there.

i'm the type who would love to have a supernatural experience, but probably too blunt to catch things. it really has to slap me in the mouth.

in highschool i was dating a girl who came from a long line of Scots who fancied themselves as psychic or at the very least, sensitive to the residuals of something beyond memory and history. she read a mean and thorough tarot, even though i admit that's 90% cold reading a person.

she was a beautiful soul, but was terrified at me loping after the chance to experience some sort of ghastly apparition. she cringed and tried to tell me that no one should look for this stuff. it sat heavily on her and thought it ignorant to be an eager explorer.

a mutual friend had recently moved into a new home. well, new for her. the home had been part of the original 200 homes in my local community. i melt in Victorian era homes. the wood, the sounds, the layouts... an infinite realm for me to explore and i was hyper to get snooping. we walked in the door and i was giddy to get the tour. my ex stopped and stood up from untying her shoes.

"let's GO! i want to see what's in Heather's place!"

she was rigid and looked right past me.

"i'm not coming in. we can't go in. let's go. my mom is probably still in the driveway."

being my first little f-ed up highschool relationship i naturally wasn't well-skilled at being a positive partner.

"fuck this! everyone's coming over tonight. i'm not having a fight here in the front hall!"

she was a very passive and easy-going chick but she got hard real fast. "i'm NOT staying. it's..."

"it's what?"

"it's too sad. we can't stay."

she said it with little feeling beyond a tremulous waiver over the word sad.

captain dickbag me just threw my hands up and walked into the house. "you can sit here or you can come in."

she wouldn't move. wouldn't even take her shoes off. heather came to see what was taking us so damn long to come in. i made a joke that we had someone who'd seen too many Scooby Doo episodes and was worried about the mystery of the haunted yellow house.

heather gave a laugh. "i know, old houses are scary. come in with us and we'll take a walk. if you're too scared, hey, it's ok. just give it a chance."

she agreed but only if she could keep her shoes on.

into the house for a look-see. to die for. modern updates bookended with original wood floors and a staircase banister that could have supported a chorus line of girls sliding down it.

i was in heaven but my lady was still upset. she would sit in the living room but there were specific rooms she couldn't walk into. the upstairs bathroom, the study and the sun room were all off limits. she said she couldn't stand to be in them without feeling sick.

tour over, and the rest of the party began trickling in. we warmed my ex up with some drinks and typical nattering banter that happens when 16 year old chicks get into a room with wine coolers. we voted to chuck on a movie for a while before we piled out to be riff raff in the community.

it was something dramatic as i know we were all very quiet watching it. booze makes for multiple trips to the bathroom so no one batted an eye if someone got up to leave. heather just asked that we stuck to the downstairs bathroom to keep the general population out of her parents room and her dad's office.

in the lulled state of staring, i clearly heard someone walk up the stairs. there's no mistaking the creak of wood that old. left foot, right foot, hand on railing daisy chaining upwards. heather absently said over her shoulder, "hey man, don't use the upstairs one after this time, ok?"

none of us responded because, well, we weren't the one going upstairs.

the footsteps went up the stairs, down the hall. floorboards flexing and crunching overhead. then a swift slam of the bathroom door. the thud was jolting. none of us would be that ignorant to swing a door shut like that... right?

a friend asked, "hey, who *is* upstairs?"

taking stock we all looked around. all 8 present and accounted for. right? or...? we had to be drunk and missing someone. nope. that's all of us.

many perplexed faces and the final ruling was that simply it was the house percolating with noises and an open window plus a gust of air slammed the bathroom door shut. i wasn't buying into it. a house doesn't churn out the sound of someone mounting the stairs to go to a specific destination in the house. my ex looked beyond nervous and stood up suddenly.

"i gotta go home... right now."

heather talked her down off the ledge again. it was just a noise. it's nothing to worry about... don't stress. she agreed to stay and i reaped the reward of soothing a disturbed damsel.

a night plying ourselves with liquor scrubbed the incident from our minds temporarily and it drowned as the night rolled on.

the next morning my mom picked us both up. when i came out she was out of her truck and gawking at the house.

"amazing! my best friend Nina lived here when she was a kid! i can't believe you know someone who has it now."

we hopped into the truck and mom went off about how much she loved that house as a child. so much room and everything spoke to her imagination, just knowing how old it was.

i know my mom didn't grow up very wealthy, let alone Nina.

"how on earth did Nina's parents afford that house?"

"oh... real sad story. the previous owner hung himself in the bathroom so the house sold for cheap."

my ex covered her mouth and i was just stunned. that noise? those footsteps? the door slamming?

the sound of some ghostly entity who forever would walk up the stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom to die.

cane corso's are just big muffins

"are you two getting out of bed... or...?"
"why? why the fuck do i have to get out of bed? it's the weekend. i have a cold. i have a dog and really, i think this is all a jealousy thing!"

i readjusted myself to spoon closer into the beast. i was babysitting a furry brat for a couple of weeks while my upstanding citizen friends went on some homo boat cruise or tour around morocco or something. all i knew is i had a loaner 105 pound dog and i wasn't really interested in doing much more than cuddle and feel gloomy in bed.
Brad hated the dog. correction: he was scared of the dog. he had only been around wee scrubs and never got over seeing Abel stumping around the apartment like a muscular pony.

Abel was a lamb. truly the reason why i love large dogs. just a chilled out beast who was only frightening when play sparring with another mutt or when i was tardy feeding him. even the latter wasn't THAT bad. he just grabbed his chow pan and clattered it up against the wall until you came to acknowledge him. and if you ignored that, he was a good chum and would come find you. last time the woof was living with Brad and i, he was pissy that i took a shower without feeding him first. i came out to brad on top of the couch terrified with Abel bonging the food dish against the wall. it was just a bratty cadence of "feed me now. feed me now!"
brad gasped when i came into the living room to see what the noise was.
"Oh god... he looks angry..."
"jesus... you're a fucking fag wimp you know that? Abel, drop it." clatter. "good babe. go lay down."
he looked at me like i was some sort of omnipotent beast master and shook his head.
"look, we've talked so many times. Abel is a marshmallow. i trust him more than that cunty little schnauzer Mac has. Seriously, how many times has that bitch bit you or come REAL close?"
"like a million ti..."
"LIKE A MILLION FUCKING TIMES." Abel peeked around the corner and gave me the sad face.
"ok, listen. all you need to do is go into it confidently. he knows he's huge and if he can boss you around, he will. and you ignore his ass as much as possible so yeah he's going to be creative to get your attention. can you just pet him for a minute? I want you to be ok with him. not like last time where you just chickened out and left for the weekend."
"no... feed him first."
throwing my hands up i went to feed the beast. glomping down huge mouthfuls i scratched his back a little and smiled. i always got such an endorphin rush around animals. too bad i'm too irresponsible to actually own one instead of temp loaners. beastie face turned back to me dripping with smashed up kibble particles and a stumpy tail wag.
"you're a good lad. finish up and we'll take you for a walk with your uncle Brad."
"I have stuff to do."
"stuff, eh? ok then." i pulled out a brown paper wrapped joint. it was real pro-like and spun up by the fat jamaican dyke who i chatted up during smoke break at work. she was in a different office, but let me tell you, pothead homosexuals lock and load when we spy another like-minded individual. we had an arrangement where i turned over some of my ativan and she bequeathed me right proper spliffs. there were a conversation starter. and packed to the tits with brain melting goodness.
"mmmmmmmmmmooooooooooookaaaaay i think i'll come."
"that's what i thought. you're walking him."
"NO!"
Abel stopped eating and cantered over to see Brad.
"look what you did! you scared the baby! seriously, dude. let's just get over the fear of this."
my ringmaster proverbial whip of a joint was just enough clout to get him to consent.

raw pear and fennel salad is what i was envisioning

"i'm going to die... we've eaten nothing but raw vegan for 4 days in a row."
"no man, i have a contract for 7 days. get your shit wrapped tight because you have to endure it just a WIDDLE bit longer."
"veal... prime rib... lobster...."
"you can reward yourself on the other side of 8 days. trust me. nothing complex in and the nasty within just shits out."
"yeah. can we talk about that? your little supplement? the end result can only be described as violent and unrelenting."
"oh i know. it's like a condensed shot of fish oil bombing the hell out of your guts. clean slate. right right?"
"no, hey, i'm so not interested in talking about Clockwork Orange any more. we've really taken a large look at the topic and i feel that we've exhausted all discussions about it. and what it means to you. which is a lot. i know." he lifted a hand to silence my oncoming criticism. "hed-deh! shh. listen. we're done with it. it's over. we're through."
"fine."
"good."
"guess we don't need to talk about you going over to africa any more?"
"don't be that dick. just because i make the call that a topic is over, you want to drop something important to me."
"clearly it's a threat intended to demonstrate to you the importance of the topic that we are not allowed to talk about again."
"remember when we had that like, 36 hours where we didn't talk at all?"
"sure. i'm game."
i stood up to get some air out on the patio. admittedly, i was going nuts with all the bunny food. i could have eaten a steak raw with a baked potato on the side. but it was just a good plan to stay in lock down. get some shit sorted. get some half decent food in our guts and see what starts pulling back.
tapping out a smoke i leaned up to the balcony. i wish i could bring my meaty eastern euro booty call over. just... a bounce! that's it. we can make it quick! why am i negotiating with myself?
pulling down on a rationed cigarette, Brad shuffled out with a jug of orange juice.
"i actually feel a whackload better. like... i'm not saying you're right, just..." glug glug. "ahhhhh.... delicious."
good enough. i don't need to pander to get a really deep apology.

"i'm a lady" - santogold

Brad and i were having a dysfunctional sweat lodge. we had locked ourselves into the bathroom sans cellphones, booze, coke or that clutch of opium i had that never seemed to dissipate no matter how hard i tried to comsume it all. magical really, but i'm not here to present that phenomenon. no, tonight brad and i were locked int the bathroom only with joints. all natural paper. shit, the glue was probably made from sort of monkey spunk that was all organic.
admittedly, we had been... doing it up. often. as in too often. the boy couldn't even blame me any more. he was the one who seemed to come home more with the drugs. i acted stuck up and did them all before i came home to make it seem like i wasn't the dealer anymore.
we had been been well behaved otherwise. Brad was too fragile to poke into a fight. the publisher had told him to take a fucking jump off a cliff with his new book. like, 'give me my advance money back, bitch' kind of pissed. it was a seeming mystery since he had previously been a solid meal ticket with well-received books under his belt. i even did a little recon with my connections around town. word on the street was Brad concocted a steaming pile of shit and no one would back it.
had i read it? well, i told Brad i had. i read about every 15th page or so and made mental notes of descriptions to bring up in conversation about the novel. i actually like how he writes, so it's nothing to do with taste. they're hard hitting descriptions that bring the story to life. people like that shit... but i didn't have time to read 300 pages of his latest opus. i'd like to chalk it up to pure laziness, but no, i have to fess up to you and confirm that i was overwhelmingly jealous. i have a million stories in me but i can't get them out. ever. let alone select the appropriate verb tense. ever! so that issue did halt me from actually getting into his newest book. i'd make it about 3 paragraphs and then stare off into space pouting that *i* should be making this shit. i should be writing shit down. but therein lies the problem: i couldn't be bothered to try.
my madness aside, the 6 months that brad had been living with me were action packed. and i did love the kid to bits. but drugging and drinking and partying were catching up to him. my Australian Paw-Paw ointment was all but gone last time i checked from him skimming it around his hungover eyes. normally i would have a massive faggot attack over it because it was my fix-all for piles and singed assholes. what? it's true.
looking into the red tub i sighed. too much.
brad had been trapped in the apartment for close to 2 weeks with overwhelming agoraphobia. i had tried dragging him out the door on the weekend and his terrified screams were enough to drop him before we even made it to the door. he did nothing but sit out on the patio floor chain smoking or lie in his twinky nest on his bed swaddled in blankets. we've all been there. i can't point fingers. i spent the better part of 5 months of my life like that. a couple weeks won't kill him. the lure of getting more coffee since i refused to buy more beans [plan a] or me setting up some blind date requiring him to leave the building would get him out.
i wandered out with the empty tub and found his bedroom door open. he was burning coffee scented incense. my incense. jesus, man...
"kid, staff meeting. bathroom. now."
"no|!"
i was on a bit of a short fuse... i dashed into his room and grabbed his ankle to pull him out. hey presto! he had underwear on! better than the last time i tried this. that was embarrassing. well... for him.
"let's go, blondie. we're having a talk."
he moaned yet let me drag him by the ankles. i hauled his legs up and leaned him against the wall. he had to finangle to get comfortable again and actually sounded like he was crying and swearing.
"staff meeting. all present and accounted for. jesus kid, what's the deal?"
"my fucking BOOK! my fucking book.... months. this was it. this was the story i had in me... get it out... on my fucking mind." thud. his head bopped onto the floor. there was little to no memory of the last time that we had cleaned the floor. i'm very sure i mopped it after i barfed last month. yeah. yeah he's fine.
"kid, i know this is fucked up. you have the story, it's done. you can't change that the publisher has a dick up his ass about it. do what your agent said. you shelve the book and start another."
"i'm not a fucking wind up toy!!"
"sure you are. get some other drafts off your hard drive. offer them up to the publisher, see if you can get a delay on this whole business. show that you'll flesh something else out. something, you know, different"
"I can't. i can't write anything else."
"which leads me to agenda item number 2: our current stasis of partying. all the time. non stop. to the break of dawn. we keep that party goin' on...."
"I GET IT."
"get it? good! guess you want me to cancel that order for an 8 ball?"
"no! we're going out for a birthday party tomorrow... and... ugh. ok. ok point taken. and received. and acknowledged. i just... needed to go a little crazy."
"oh for sure. i get it. i really do. but i booked us in to see a therapist this monday."
"wait... us?"
"I told my friend we're a couple and we're getting a great rate. i figure we can get both our shit on the table and dealt with AND it's only half the cost!"
"you're serious?"
"No. dick. i'm not, but we're detoxing. effective today."
"i see weed doesn't count."
"you know, man.... you just can be a little pill sometimes, huh?"
"sensitive. fine. let's have this joint and discuss further."
"no further discussion. i'm lighting this and we're not drinking, coking, tripping or eating anything unhealthy for 2 weeks. i have some ativan for you to take, we order in a few loads of groceries and just get our shit on straight, ok?"
"you've done this before?"
"piece of cake. plus i have this little friend who'll bring us over shit to make smoothies."
"how lovely.... please just light that and let's get this thing going. i need a change of scenery."

coming closer

nothing beats pawing at someone warm watching mindless movies on the couch. nothing. not even getting down to fucky fuck time either, i'm just talking about that close quarters mob up playing with hair and attempting to find the perfect posture to be as close as possible.

i shifted one more time to get my delicious couch mate flush up against my front. snaking an arm over his solid chest i grappled for his right hand to knead in my fingers. he sounded like an over fed rotweiler in front of the fireplace, grumbling contently and melting just a bit more into me.

"your hand and wrist muscles are so tight."
"i didn't realize. just keep doing whatever it is you're doing."

his big hand slipped around in my fingers as i pushed into the skin and really fought to separate the terse muscles. his knuckles were all dents from chipped out pieces of skin and forged knuckles worn down from their original state. some of the tattoos on his hands were nicked and interrupted in places from heavy abuse.

i have to admit, i have a soft spot for visible tattoos and when i first met him i noted the sweeping lines extending beyond his dress shirt. being a buttoned down type came with the territory of being an admin assistant for years. it's too conservative for flashing heavy tattoos, or at least at the places that i managed to stumble into. so it's all the more thrilling when i can meet someone who doesn't give a shit and has a ton in hard to miss places. tho i find it hard to meet guys like that. i'm not a bajillion piercings/blanketed in ink person so those lads assume i'm not interested in them. which is total bullshit. i'd probably maybe think about quitting my job at doing reception at a tattoo studio, i like the scene! but whatever, it's usually just me staring at a hot guy on the streetcar thinking about dazzling sleeves wrapped around me. but.... but i had lucked out. oh well, i mean, this isn't the boy you bring home to mother. but that's my favourite type of all.

we had made a firm agreement not to fuck around right off the bat. the pace had originally been set that it was all contact and we'd get to cum at least twice when hanging out. *i* was ok with it. i mean, holy fuck! i don't have a lot of thick, dark eyed men wanting to show up and have me strip them at the front door. dating be damned, i'll take it.

Anto's Croatian sensibilities short circuited a little when he finally figured out he was a homo. so much of what he had programmed in him had to drop. yet, there were odd flare ups that were stunning to see. you can't escape your childhood i guess.
we had met though work where he was an associate for a major club owner in town. and by associate, i mean the blooded mob that did all the security and other clean up items for the golden goose. i had been over tired and worn down from a couple high maintenance smut stars i had been babysitting for a week. i was either going to break a bottle off in one of their asses or attempt to sleep in the coat room when the club owner spied me up for a chat.

he wasn't even the usual shitbag owner either. rather efficient and knew the game inside and out. didn't do drugs, didn't slut around, but was a solid winner for his financial backers. Anto was lingering around behind him trying to look at the walls instead of the bacchanal of hot men and dancing vibrating all around. the owner shook my hand and made a crack that i should go home to bed and take my boys with me. great, they weren't just pissing me off either. i looked back at them and shook my head. the owner laughed and clapped a hand over my shoulder. told me not to stress so much and just enjoy myself.

i didn't take the owner for a queer at all. lots of fag bar owners are just super wealthy people who know an investment when they see it. you gotta at least be tolerant to be on the floor like this tho and i appreciated that he didn't give me the shank shame eye when i was wrangling whores all night. like trying to keep a dog in the bathtub. oy.

the owner leaned into my ear closely. "this is my associate Anto. he's a new boy so he's been hanging off me like stink. take him for a bit, yes? i'll get your boys into the vip room. you get a break, and me too." popping a none too subtle glance over his shoulder Anto was oblivious to being traded around with porn stars and questionable men in a dark club.

he was eye-poppingly hot. like that tall and thick that you just wanted to climb up and hump until you finally have a blood vessel pop from over excitement. ok wait, let me take a step back and quantify.

i hate saying i find non traditionally good looking guys hot. it makes it sound like "i like ugly guys because i'm ugly too!" which.... let's be real honest here, is fairly accurate. still, what i consider upper echelon hot might not be in a magazine but it was teeth-grittingly arousing to me.

Anto was maybe a hair taller than my dubious 5 foot 9 inches of stacked shit. the main difference is that he was more familiar with the inside of a gym than i am or ever will be. brown eyes turned black in the poor lighting and some plush lips with a solid scar cutting through top to bottom. which causes me some sort of bizarre hormonal reaction further impacted by seeing all the tattoos crawling out from under clothing.

there was a rush intro and Anto seemed stunned that he had been swapped over to me. it's like leaving your dog at a friends place for the weekend. they look a little frantic and dumbfounded that they could ever be left behind.

"hey, did you want a drink?"
"sure... no... i'm working. I think?"
"let's just get a drink."

i found the optimal spot to talk and not feel like you have to be shouted at to be heard. we kibbitzed and he didn't even put on airs pretending he was terribly committed to being straight. he enjoyed being away from all the din of jackassery and i utilized my impressive cold reading skills to drill into him and find a goldmine of conversation. more drinks and he took off his dress shirt to relax in a dastardly tight t shirt. not for one minute did i assume he'd put the moves on me. without even over thinking it it, i just believed that he'd get randy from the drink and kicking back to go out on the hunt. but.... he stayed and leaned in closer. resisting the urge to lean in an bite at his nipple through his shirt i called his bluff and leaned in more. i love getting near someone and getting the sent of them warmed up with their heart beating heavily.

more drinks, more talking, more sussing him out and absorbing as much as i could. finally a hand on the inside of my thigh. i'm sorry, i don't give a shit who the hand is attached to, but put a move on me after months of inactivity and i'll respond. there's nothing tastier than laying into a deep kiss with someone who fancies themselves as a top and spin the dynamic around to make them feel like a shaking bottom. sucking shared breaths out and firm grasps is merely guidance. you just have to see what the reaction is. i do surprise myself with the number of times a top in the moment has a little breakdown and craves being the one on the bottom so to speak.

i don't even really recall how we got home. and it was out of this world for me to ditch clients. i said a silent prayer that they'd make it home and not raped and dead in the bottom of the lake and pressed up against Anto in the elevator. i think i've been in this apartment complex before? maybe? yeah that doesn't make me feel like a whore at all. that surge of personal anger spilled out inside the apartment. my usual polite self dictated that i would ask if there were roommates to mind but instead i just told him to strip off in the doorway while i waited. stunned look, yet he complied like a good lad and we trotted off to the bedroom. sparing you the details it was a little more than rough but nothing that i would say is beyond the intensity of a make up fight fuck.

we had been in a steady rhythm of meeting up and pounding each other with lovely come down sessions of weed and chatting in bed. this was perfect for me. someone who texted me once a day and then would let me tie him up for a while to mack all over his tattoos. and scars. both of which there were plenty to sample from.

Anto finally asked to meet up for a coffee, which i found
strange since i would be put off trying to feel up his cock in the middle of starbucks.
"can we...."
all the scenarios... what the fuck have i been doing? don't call me. never tell anyone about this, i've been high on PCP the whole time and really made a bad decision.
"can we date? i want to actually be with a guy, not all physical stuff you know?"
"oh! really?! sure! jesus, i thought you... well, you know, the mind makes stuff up and... yeah never mind. let's date. we'll get a coffee and talk about boys and then we can go to the AGO."
"The what?"
"Art gallery. if you want to date, that means i get to drag you out to places that you have little to no interest in visiting. those are the rules."
"ha ha, smart guy. i LIKE art so i win."

it... it.... it was kinda nice. i didn't tell another living soul that we were dating, or even any mention of it. it felt like if i said anything out loud it would evaporate. i mean, it had to end, but right now in the irresponsible moment it felt fantastic. even now on the couch i loved resisting the urge to dig into his jeans and squirm around in a sexy closeness.

psycho ex's and jizzy bed sheets

"hey, question: is there any chance you had sex in my bed?"
"No, i have memory foam on my bed. i like getting the extra support on my knees when i'm going down on a guy."
"yeah, well it definately looks like someone fucked in my bed this weekend."
"really? did you swab it? is there a mouldering condom in there?"
"I make my bed in a REALLY specific way!"
"Fuck you are INSANE. No. I didn't fuck in your bed."
"Who did?!"
"Why don't you ask the only other person you were stupid enough to give our spare key to?!"
Stunned i watched him rapidly digest the thought. On through the process of going from who on earth.... to oh god damn it.
"Jimi was here?"
"So, remember when you stomped in the house and i said 'oh hi i missed you and we should talk about something?""
"this is what we need to talk about, I guess."
"sit."
I slid onto the floor into the cup of a pillow pile and invited him to join me. no one likes giving bad news, especially me. thankfully i had essentially chugged a bottle of wine out of panic and stress waiting for Brad to come home. so that lubed me up enough to feel motivated to talk. i did have to caution myself not to run off like a greyhound as i usually do when i'm drunk and chatty.
"I got in from Vegas early..." which was bullshit. i wasn't even in vegas, i went up north to get topped by some older dude for the weekend. i just didn't want to tell anyone in case it was a total wash out. oh hey, no, i do tell people. but it's more to give a cell number and address in case i got murdered. you know, safety first. "vegas" was my catch-all excuse to be gone for the weekend. it suited me fine as most people assumed i was in some porn industry orgy. i'd rather they have that fantasy and damned if i want to tell people when i'm going to sit in a sling for 2 hour rounds doing poppers and seeing if i can finally get a proper fucking.
"how early did you get in?"
"Saturday... it was a write off and whatever i came home super early."

truth? my ass hurt too much to take more reaming so we got lunch, had a kiss in his truck and i took the bus home.
Being an awfully good liar i had made sure to move my car out of the parking garage so it looked for realsies that i had taken off.

"I pulled in and noticed Jimi's car down there and I thought maybe you had come home early as well. Up to the apartment and i can hear the tv on and some bustling in the kitchen so i walked in and screamed 'Lucy! i'm home!' and Jimi was in the kitchen naked and let me tell you, he's kinda gone to seed since you two broke up." nice. way to throw in a diss. that'll solve everything! fuck.
"WHAT?! he was just in the apartment naked!?"
"yeah... and remember last month when we got high on that really shitty e..."
"that was just speed?"
"that night. do you recall how we wound up in a screaming match about how you thought i was eating your expensive hippy cereal and i thought you were scamming my l'occtaine shampoo?"
"ah not one of our finer moments..."
"So THAT mystery is solved. he was eating a huge bowl of the cereal and you know how that shampoo just flutters around in the air with that delicious smell? clearly he had jumped out of the shower after putting a handful into his hair."
Brad was still stunned so i kept things moving. it was an impending crisis and my instinct is to be wordy and take my time getting to the punchline.
"i asked him if you were here and he shook his head no. that's when i, you know... freaked the fuck out."
"what the hell did you do?!"
"lunged at him and shook the shit out of him like a rag doll screaming at him for being in my apartment and gave him a big shove into the living room."

my anger was propelled beyond my normal limits knowing that this piece of shit had gotten me banned from my favourite bar for 6 months due to him fighting with Brad and I. and another violent rush from me came from thinking about seeing Jimi grab Brad's arm so roughly it left him bruised to the bone.

"I took my jacket off and stood over him screaming. it made no sense, but i was clearly upset." that's the dumbed down version.

truth?
"you rotten little piece of shit! how did you get in here? tell me you don't have a key!" a mighty slap across the face. he was suprised by my entrance so i had to ride this wave before he stood up to me and most likely curb my jaw off the toilet bowl. i gripped his wrist in my patented owch hold and pinched deeply. i wanted to break his arm and knock out what few real teeth of his remained after a long childhood of abuse and neglect. i knew if i broke something i'd have to talk to the cops. fuck that.

Back to the Brad Version.
"He screamed at me, "Stop! Stop!! i have a key! i didn't think anyone was home...."
"Stop stop what?"
"uh... stop stop...being... mad?"
"real convincing... did you hurt him?"
"Nothing permanent. Do you want to hear this... or?" god help you if you interrupt me telling a story.
"Nathan!!"
"ok ok speeding things up. He said he didn't think anyone was home and that's why he was hanging out at the house."
"How would he know?"
"easy enough to find out that you're out of town. my car was moved out of the garage... i mean, i obviously moved my car out to go so he tailgated someone into the garage. I think he was waiting to see me leave as well."
Brad looked sick. this whole rant was started with a terse investigation on who fucked in his bed and knew the ending wouldn't be good.
"so he clearly had a key. did you give him one?"
"of course not! never. even when we got back together."
"Cute. so he took the key and got it cut."
"wh... who... was he here with someone?"

Truth?
I was just about to dummy this fuck head in the face a couple of times and saw someone sit up on the couch.
"well who in the FUCK is this?!" ready to get tag teamed i reared up like a trapped animal to look much bigger of an opponent than i actually am. 8/10 times it works. for the other two times you get your ass kicked or you run away.
the new naked boy clamped a pillow to his crotch.
"THOSE WERE MADE BY MY DEAD GRANDMOTHER! DO NOT GET YOUR DICK CHEESE ON THEM! DROP THEM!" new naked was crying and looked scared. ok, so he's on the back burner. the one in my grip was the main issue.
"You've been coming in here while we're gone and using it as some sort of swanky fuck shack, haven't you?! this isn't some villa for you to escape to! you go to the bathhouse like every other stupid whore and you get a fucking towel rental!!"

Brad looked so sad. let's get it over with.
"yeah he was with a guy."
"who?"

Truth? it was The Boy. The Boy being that one boy who got away from Brad. The Boy provided a steamy affair and was the muse for his second novel. which actually was my least favourite that he did. it was too lame and happy. i like tears and Irish famine-levels of despair. Brad wasn't the type to get his heart whisked away so from the assorted conversations we had on the topic i knew how much Brad liked him. he said after the novel came out he spent the better part of 8 months suicidal and incredibly depressed after The Boy dumped him to be single. he was thriving on all the attention from being that guy in the book. no one can blame him for wanting to cash in on it. so The Boy broke Brad's heart and as much as he had fucked, screwed and blew his wad on a ton of great guys, i was never convinced it was ever resolved.

"ah, man.... listen. i don't want to hurt you."
"don't... i'm just going to pull the sheets off my bed."
"want to sleep in my bed? let me tell you, that memory foam really cradles you while you're trying. trust."

in all honesty, i'm too intimidated to put up an actual craig's list post

i was busy working on a new craigs list ad looking for dudes to let me play with their feet when brad interrupted. "any word on if they're hiring at your friends place?"
"huh? yeah... no nothing yet."
"is there anything i can do?"
"just, uh, just gotta sit and wait i guess." fussing with the wording i hated being distracted.
"please don't let me bug you...."
"oh shut it. you can barely maintain eye contact with me if there's a hot guy on the tv in the next room."
"i'm really worried about this!"
"i told you, i can cover rent for a couple of months. just take your time and find something if you don't think the publisher's going to foot the next advance payment."
"i feel sick to my stomach...."
"i'm sorry i insinuated you'd have to take your clothes off to cover the rent. it was a joke."
"no! not that... i feel sick thinking that all this time i put into the book was for nothing."
"you've been able to sell everything you've penned thus far. so what if they don't like this draft? they're just dicking you around to try and squeeze some money out of you. did you talk to your agent like i said?"
"he's on vacation until next week."
"you didn't leave 10 messages on his voice mail freaking out did you?"
"Just three."
"not bad!" i turned back to my laptop and clicked around some more hoping he'd get the hint and vacate.
"what're you working on?"
"an ad to solicit men to let me do sexual things to their feet."
stunned he sat there looking back at my glib expression.
"seriously?"
"yep. i've just had feet on the brain. i want to get a guy to let me wash his feet, then manicure and file his nails. then go to town on them."
"i... see? i didn't know you were into that."
"THAT. That... that? you make it sound like some sort of pooping fetish."
"it's not common!"
"right. it's not doggy style in front of a mirror, must be perverse."
"see, you get so fucking defensive when someone doesn't immediately get your point of view."
"probably because i have a fairly straight forward view on things and it annoys me when someone that's smart and hip gets caught up in what's acceptable vanilla sex and what's taboo."
"really don't need this."
"you can either sit there and help me edit this or you can make a pot of tea and we can sit out on the balcony for a bit."
"maybe i should write out a craigs list post?"
"or we can take the streetcar down to the strip club and get you on stage for amateur night."
"wow! you had that ready to go didn't you?"
"fuck kid, even if i weighed another 60 pounds more than you, i'd be stripping full time. not my fault if i have an eye for talent."
"i just couldn't...."
"$3000 first prize, you know."
"jesus!"
"jesus ain't got nothing to do with it. you think me giving a toe job is bad...."
"what would i have to do?"
"take it off. and i mean, it ALL comes off. last kid i saw win got his junk shaved on stage and got blown for a solid couple of minutes. THAT'S entertainment."
"no! no way i could do that."
"guess you're making tea then huh?"
"maybe i could help with the ad instead."
"suit yourself." [ahem] "M4M 34 y/o looking for nice man feet to worship and suck...."
"forget it. i'm making the tea."
"no wait, i'm not done!" i raised my voice for him to hear in the kitchen. "let me pamper your feet and caress them with my tongue for hours on end."
"ok i get it!"
"...i'm ok with oral or hj's, not looking for sex just your big fee..."
"LA LA LA CAN'T HEAR YOU! TEA PRODUCTION IN PROGRESS!!"
"you're a baby. what the hell do you do in bed? just clean each other like kittens and pass out after some stoic dick kisses?"
"why the fuck do i even talk to you?"
"because all your little friends are vapid and even you need some teasing to remind you that you're smarter than your twinky pack but you're a big fish in a little pond. i'm here to remind you about the ocean out there."
"good GOD! and you're stoned too! what was all this talk about you not smoking weed for a couple of weeks?"
"I said nothing about opium."
"OPIUM! no, like, for real..."
"ya for real. just smoked some before you got in."
"maybe it's better for you to just get stoned."
"no, a promise is a promise. i said no weed and i'm sticking to it."
he popped out from around the corner to look at me. "Can i have some?"
"god no! you can't pay rent, you're sure as shit not getting opium."
"honestly! again! do you think i need that?!"
"what? the opium or comments about rent?"
"fuck this, i'm going to chuck this whole kettle on you."
"go for it. i'll just put up another craigs list ad for someone to come be my sexy nurse and change my cock bandages."

2 white pit bulls

"nah nah, it's insane. you have to experience it for one day and then you'll really get the breadth of the cuckoos nest they have festering."
"how can one restaurant chain have such a disparity between locations?!"
"i know! i told antony he should do a paper on it for his MBA. it'd be off the hook to do a deep dive analysis of what the fuck is happening. no matter, even the few shifts a week i pick up there are entertaining. like, i know i get to leave and come back here so it's more like a safari."
"you have GOT to be fucking kidding me. this place?" george gestrured wildly towards the restaurant we were sneaking in a joint behind.
i sipped on the smoke for a rapid succession of tokes before launching into my best Fargo impression. "Oh-a yeuah."
"don't even believe you for a minute. you're just trying to get me to cover your shift if you have to work there, aren't you?"
"oh jesus boy, you're so PARANOID!" i knew that gave him a pang of hurt hinting that he could be anything like his newly minted ex boyfriend. who got the boot for being an unrepentant coke head paranoid basket case. which i shouldn't have brought up. let alone mock george for being paranoid... and i really shouldn't have kept saying to myself before my shift "make sure you don't bring up coke, paranoia or money with george tonight" since i know i fixate and can't NOT blurt it out when i'm saying it over and over again. it's like a baby stroller careening out into traffic in slow-mo. my brain is screaming, "aahnoooooo!!" trying to reach for my id kicking me to say something stupid. too late. i had already absently asked george if he wanted to split an 8 ball with me this weekend. and i REALLY didn't mean ask him for that $50 he owed me. i don't even fucking need the money! but boom. this'll be a good conversation! idiot.
and now this. george was looking at me stunned and i put the joint into his mouth.
"i'm sorry."
"did you tell yourself not to say it?"
"yeah."
"did you practice all the way en route to work?"
my head drooped. "oh yeah." sometimes it's a relief when close friends have a working knowledge of your mental illnesses.
"well...." he took great long hauls on the joint and made it clear that i wasn't going to be getting it passed back. "i understand that you tried and failed." he pulled his glasses off the top of his head and tapped them back up the bridge of his nose as he leaned in to me. "TWO WHITE PIT BULLS!!!"
i threw up my hands and let out a hearty italian scream of "OH!"
while it's great when friends know what's poppin' with you on the sanity front, it can be a disadvantage. especially when they're privy to phrases that make me obsess on them for hours, sometimes days. over and over again when i'm walking alone... listen to music, trying to take an order at work. it's nothing terrible, but i will repeat it over and over again. eventually it just fades away, but until then, it's enmeshed in my consciousness.
"well thanks for that, george. you're a fucking saint. you know that?"
"honestly! you hear yourself speak!!"
"hey puppy cakes, you think i can fucking help it?"
"no, well yeah well... fuck it. we better get back in there. you should drop the visine."
way a head of him i was already plopping it in and wiping my eyes down. i had to wait behind him as he put his drops in with him bent over forward. for some reason he'd never been able to you know, DROP them in his eyes from above.
i waited until he was mid fuss to put visine into his other eye and jostled him from behind. "COME ON NOOBINZ! we're going to be late."
"agh! FUCK! really?"
i put my hand up to make a crack about having a lack of impulse control due to brain damage when i actually stopped myself. better add that to the list of shit i shouldn't bring up. wait, i shouldn't put it on a list. or.... like a list but don't think of the list?
"come on you god damned man child! keep this up and you're not coming out to baseball this week."
"oh no! you know how much a forced endeavor that requires me to be outside and do something sporty makes me horny!"
"you shouldn't have signed up as a sub in if you didn't want to play."
i hustled him back into the kitchen to make sure we didn't catch hell for taking a long break.
"YOU! YOU signed me up and told me about it after! you're the one who needs to get a god damned fag hag to do all this shit with."
"you're perfectly aware of how annoying i find straight women. we have an agreement that you cover off all the shit that's missing in my life outside of fucking, dating and clothes selection."
"again, that little arrangement thing was drafted without my consent or knowledge. i'm not going to really buy into it until you get my lawyer a copy to review. look sharp, people already think you're some little polish mail order husband of mine so don't bicker with me."
he spun around to lay into me but thought better of it when he saw my apron being tied on. usually that's when the serious face came out and the guy you talked to on break wafted away leaving a much more severe and unfriendly character.
i strode to my section and mumbled under my breath, "two white pit bulls." shit. this is going to be quite the night on the line.

trick or twink

Trick or twink.

"That's disgusting! Don't call them tricks!"
Enjoying my roost behind my sunglasses i threw back my wine and gave a grunt.
"Don't humph like some silver back gorillia at me!"
"It's distressing to think that you're so far into denial that we're arguing about this. you bring home TRICKS. Tricks are what you pick up at the bar and have a threesome with. Twinks are who you go out on a date with. Get it?"

Gidi was a horrific pouter. Puffing of air, ugly scowl and flipping his head around until someone noticed how furious he was. I am a button pusher. i love how people react when i throw down with them. being introverted and a good listener affords me an enormous reference book of anecdotes, personal history and an instinctual ability to hiss the most cruel insults.

The time i spend with you is merely collecting, not an actual friendship or social interaction. when i was younger i was so depressed and torn up that the time i put into listening to people was never matched. And, really, give me a break. I observe and collect because i'm mentally ill, not because i realistically feel anyone can match that. The ephiphany came to me and I was awash in The Clear. I'm cluttered with sounds, noises, thoughts and demands from my brain. They're always there but I do have eeirie times where it all halts and suddenly it happens. The first time it hit me was when i was very little and I had been trapped in weekly ritual of being savaged by my aunts boyfriend. i might as well have short circuted. I was so agreeable. I was so eager to please and being ripped apart was such a contradiction. But I did what you wanted and you're still punishing me? I was mute and stunned. This went on for a few more rounds with me being a perfect fuck doll that didn't move and also didn't put up a fight.

all the voices in my head that kept me going stopped arguing in these incidents and began screaming. they all sounded different... but in terror they made a sweeping agreement to cry out at the same time. i couldn't believe he didn't hear them all... he had to have heard them shriek and beat the bone on my forehead. there's no way i was the only person who heard it.

each time it was over, i was picked up by my arm and chucked into the shower. he'd leave me in there and i was trained to know i had to wait a bit. inside the tub i felt so out of it... the screaming was calming down... only a few of the voices cried out to me asking what happened while the more stubborn ones left to regroup.

he must have flushed a toilet downstairs and the water went so cold it made me gasp. there it was so clear and focused. no chatter only understanding. instead of my machine gun fire of thoughts and anxiety i was calm.

you need to get dried off and go downstairs. you need to go downstairs and you need to take out the biggest knife in the butcher block and throw yourself into the wall with it pointed to your heart.

up i went and felt as casual as anyone would walking through their house. i took an extra towel to dry off my hair and made my way into the kitchen. the tv was on. i'm sure it must be tiring to rape children, might as well take it easy and catch what's on the tv.

pulling out the big cutting knife i felt it wobble in my small hand as i turned it around. The Calm was still there. a pat on the back telling me i pulled out the right one and it was time to get things finished.

he caught me walking out of the kitchen and calmly asked where i was going with the knife.

"i'm going to kill myself, it's ok."

The Calm stood behind me and i felt like there was a hand on my shoulder squeezing me. be careful....

"No... just give me the knife, ok?"

"it's going to fix things. I don't want to give it to you."

He looked terrified. A dead kid in the house where he was supposed to be babysitting? A dead kid that no doubt would have lead to an investigation and review on why a 10 year old had a blown out asshole and a knife run through him.

But I realized in all my inane chatter with him I had his number. Standing there i felt a tiny river of warm blood run down my leg like a streak of piss. the knife handle felt much lighter and The Calm showed me what it's actual intent was. And I smiled.

"you're in trouble, roger."

"listen, nathan... put the knife down."

"no. I don't think I will. I hurt all over and I don't think your daughter will let you see her kids any more if I tell her what you did to me."

"what?" he couldn't understand what was prompting me.

The Calm hooked a transparent arm around me from behind. A little squeeze. you're doing such a good job.

I was doing a good job, dammit. I saw how much ground I was gaining, how terrified he was that the passive little fatso was turning mean and downright evil.
"Roger you need to understand something... You can't do That anymore to me. Never again. Do you understand?"
"i... I... I do. please put the knife down. your aunts will be home from bingo soon."
"I know."
the dead bolt clapped open. Did The Calm know they'd be home any time now?
i ripped the knife down my left arm in one sweeping cut and let the knife clatter to the floor as I immediately felt faint from the instant steam of blood. down I toppled as my aunts screamed at the mess i made. Roger wasn't around much any more after that.

The Calm wasn't something i could command on a whim, but I was greatful that I found it. The incident let me know just how brutally smart I am manipulating people. I could have just called the police. I could have told a teacher... but no, the only thing Roger didn't rape and fuck was his daughter and grandchildren. The horror in his eyes told me I got to the quick of the issue in the most brutal of methods. It's never left me but served me well thus far. from something so terrible i gained my greatest super power. hurray for me.

"hi, friend!"

walking into the apartment, i thought for a moment that a cult had offed itself in the living room. sprawled figures in the most mild form of rest twitched and groaned... the couch was loaded to capacity... and my antique mirror from Ireland had become an impromptu mission control centre laying on it's back.
stepping between some legs i reached down for it to take a close look. no scratches other than what it already came with. good. and amusingly enough, there was about $80 of magic still sitting on it. not one to waste i took out my wallet to find a card to scrape it up. i left no more than 3 toots in the baggie that was crumped on top of the mirror and deftly scooped up the bulk of it into my empty dime bag. a refill! how convenient.
i looked around as the baggy snapped shut in my fingers. this was pure devastation and destruction all 'round. you know it's bad when no one wakes up as the coke gets stolen. even in my most blank of blackouts i would have roused and gone bonkers. something tells me these kids don't need any more.
down the hall my bedroom door was open and i felt the twitching start. oh no. oh god. oh please no... tell me there weren't dirty-pawed twinkies running through my room. i pulled my gordie howe hockey stick off the wall mount as I got closer to the and used it to thud the door fully open. Brad was passed out length-wise on my bed in what could only be described as a failed effort to put clothing on before he blacked out. he got a shirt on and that was about it. a big part of me wanted to take a picture. a bigger part of me wanted to spear his ass with the hockey stick and haul him off the bed like a strip of bacon. but i loved that stick and i couldn't live with myself knowing it'd always smell tangy. it'd be like fingering someone with a religious relic. might not bother some people but i couldn't live with myself.
but i did want to sleep... and the thought of having to wake up in a couple hours to a full house of rumblings didn't appeal to me much. i wondered if i had enough money to go to a hotel... then remembered that i spent it all partying for 4 days in a row. to be fair, it was work-related so i wasn't being frivolous.
hopping on the bed i realized my options were to push Brad off and potentially give him a concussion hitting the floor or attempting to share the bed with him. Both were sketchy. after a solid two days up raging and partying i was on that silky cusp of being calm or weeping like a lost child.
I grabbed a towel off the floor and tucked it around brad's bare ass before dragging his legs around to gain more real estate on the bed. thank god i have a king sized bed.
turning him around i tried to remember how you prop someone up so they don't choke on puke. i fussed for a few seconds before giving up and settling down onto the mattress.
finally, life emits from within. a groan. brad lifted his head up for a moment and it thudded back down. gone as fast as it arrived.
i propped up the hockey stick beside my bed and began rooting around in my drawer. lube, a different kid of lube, that lube for jerking off, the other lube so you can whack off for a long time... poppers? that's where that bottle went. that buttplug i really like... a vibrator... condoms. probably expired. boys that i lure in here usually bring their own anyway. more lube?? good god, for someone who gets laid once a month this sure is a drawer of hope springs eternal. note to self: don't buy more lube until the current stock is depleted.
pills! surely to god i have something in here. ativan? come on. there has to be some. i had successfully run up 4 separate prescriptions for it so there has to be a bottle kicking around. or my sleeping meds? no where to be seen. ugh. there's the anti depressants i never started taking. that's useless. advil... no too far gone for that. perkasets? huhhhhhhhhhhhh no. not with all the liquor and lack of food in me. i was on the verge of having a screaming fit ripping the drawer out and smashing it against the wall. what kind of horror movie plot would that be? "old fag monster attacks!"
wait. THERE YOU ARE! rascal. smarty pants me stuck the rainbow of sleepy/tweeking out meds into a tiny case. all in one super smart spot. fuck i amaze myself sometimes.
One ativan and pray that the glass of water beside my bed isn't too terribly old.
ahhhhh. there. now i just have to sit here patiently for 30 minutes for it to filter me down into sleep.
i dug my phone out and started clicking through it as Brad rolled over.
"huhwuh? why are you in my bed?"
"sorry, are you playing the part of me in the matinee production of "We're a Fucking Disaster"?"
"what?"
"you're in my room turkey."
"do i have pants on?"
"that would be a negatory. you have a towel tho. forgive me for not checking to see if it's jizz-free."
"what?! I don't feel good... what time is it?"
"11am. I just got in from Vegas a couple of hours ago."
"whu... what? you said you wouldn't be back until Monday!"
"no i go back to work on Monday. I come home Sunday so i can sleep."
"is everyone gone?"
"no i'd say everyone is actually still here. they're all passed out in the living room. you might have broken the record for most people in the apartment."
"how many are out there?"
"18... 20?"
he tried to sit up and failed miserably.
"no... oh god where did they all come from?"
"you don't even KNOW who they are?!" i hauled my leg up and hoofed brad off the bed with a mighty whomp.
he screamed a little as he rolled out of the towel and onto the unforgiving laminate flooring.
"get the FUCK out there and get them OUT of the apartment! if you know them they can stay. and get some fucking panties on. jesus."
"well they're in my room!"
"you want panties?" now i was mad. "i'll give you some fucking panties!" i snatched up the hockey stick and fished a decidedly dirty pair of boxers off the floor and snapped it across the bed.
"put them on and get the god damn twinkies out. daddy is tired and does not NEED THIS!"
he looked understandably disgusted at the option of putting my shorts on but it was better than standing up naked in front of me.
"shut that door behind you. I'm setting my alarm for 6pm so we can talk later."
he was flopping around trying to cover his dick up in boxers that were easily 3 sizes too big for him.
"you always have parties!"
"yeah the difference is you don't wake up to god damn fucking Jonestown after it's over! less talk, more twinky removal. LET'S GO!" i was tempted to crack the stick on the wall to show i mean business, but no, Gordie... I can't do that to Gord.

Gorillaz - Rhinestone Eyes

1/2 a pack of smokes every day, sometimes more. too much weed: always. buffered by alcohol, assorted recreational drugs and a passion for red meat made me a thick boy. thick and out of shape. but no matter what the state of my body was, present me with a chance to brawl and i will bound into action. it was a thrill to get torqued up and go nuts. something that i didn't get to enjoy often but i was panting softly and warm with my own self-worth as a fighter.

naturally, the first night that Brad allowed himself to go slumming and take me to the bar with him this shit happens. i was a good boy, hanging back and only chatting when engaged. never stepping on his dick if a hot guy wandered past. strictly decoration.

i made sure i was muzzled down with a 1/4 bag of blow. where the average cat can't shut up when they're on it, the same doesn't happen with me. in real time, i never shut up. ever. but flip that up my nose and all i can do is nod and listen. one night when i split an 8 ball with my ex we counted 128 words that i said over the course of 8 hours. i know that it's an easy fix when i don't want to open my trap and embarrass myself.
i slugged back a bottle of water and walked to the bathroom. everything flipping in and out of the lights. arms up dancing, arms around bodies... my arms pushing back my shoulders to give them some purpose instead of diddling the baggie in my jean pocket. i wonder if my eyeliner looks ok still?
springy steps with a small turn up of my lips. happy to get high and happy to be drowning in steamy dance floor funk. oh my wonderful urban life! look! there's a boy grabbing another guys dick! and there's that bartender i submitted a demo tape for! [he couldn't get it up on command]

i caught the look at two boys standing by the hall to the can. as always i assumed it was disgust seeing my fat body walk around with an unheard of confidence. or at least their understanding was that the ugly didn't have any confidence. nothing to me. i was so close that no one would hold my attention for long.

girls washroom is for taking a piss. boys is for fucking and drugging. never mix those things up in a gay bar.

i walked in and heard a thud of someone being pressed up against a stall in use. joyous rapture! there was an empty stall with a buffer between the sweet love that was on the verge of spurting out.
a scooch on the tiles made me turn around. a friendly blond parasite had followed me in with another little bud. i was thrilled that brad would tolerate being in such tight quarters with me, save the addition of a friend.
piling into the stall i made the tag along take the tight spot and i was afforded the luxurious wall with no toilet paper dispenser on the side. key out, dip and whiff.
"it's good..."
nodding vigorously.
"hey are you ok?"
"he's fine. he can't talk when he's on it."
"really?! I can't shut up!"
eyebrow up and nodding.
he looked to brad, "seriously, he won't talk?"
"ugh. you can talk to him he just won't reply unless it's really important."
"oh... my turn!"
doling out the medicine to the babies i had a final one for myself. i pointed to the door to herald our departure.
sniffing and schwacking noises of raped sinuses trumpeting our arrival to the hall. the tag along was giggling and walked a head to go grab another drink at the bar. brad and i checked our phones and walked in tandem. i was in the middle of deciding who i was going to respond to when i saw brad fall behind. i looked back and he had turned around to talk to someone. or at least i thought it was talk. a tanned hand gripped his forearm and applied noticeable pressure. he yanked brad in and said something harsh.
i swell in those moments. saturated in my muscle memory of being beaten or seeing violence looming in a patient when i used to work at a mental hospital. it's that big moment where everything in me expands and i'm king fucking kong coming onto the scene. moving quickly back to brad a hand grabbed my by the shoulder and hauled me roughly.
"where are YOU going? this doesn't concern you."
turning around i looked up at some Slavic cheeks and a mean stare. well, sorry punk-ass. daddy says not tonight.
gripping his wrist i turned the screws on and pinched it. it's a tidal wave of agony to experience. and that's why i was so good at it. the eyes tell everything. and it radioed loudly that it hurt. yanked him down to my face and pushed my fingers down even harder. he was full of panic that he was in over his head and his backup was busy. which reminded me, time to save the baby.
goon trapped in one hand i dragged him over to the other scene.
"let him go. brad..." head gesture of c'mon.
"MAYBE YOU SHOULD LET US TALK!"
"maybe i break his arm?" i hauled up goon two's arm for a look-see and he groaned.
the associate was now squeaking and panting. "let... let... let me go! it's going to break!"
"no, long way off. brad. now."
we were having a standoff. two arms snapped in a rage trap and neither of us willing to let go. normally i'm an eloquent bastard in these situations. talking around someone to diffuse a bomb or being so smarmy that the attention was focused on me. my powder muzzle wouldn't slip off and i couldn't say a word.
"who's this?! who's this guy?!"
"it's my..." his head tipped backwards in reaction to the grip. "my roommate."
"so this roommate and you just like taking off to fuck in the bathroom?"
"no that's not what... we..." deep sucking breath and i know he was in pain.
the hand goes off goon two and i rushed at goon one. this time i went for the throat and plugged my palm over his adams apple and dug an index finger and thumb under his jaw. apply pressure and be ready for hands to grapple your arms. no matter, it just makes me grip harder.
he made a glucking noise and didn't know what to do next. that's when i got the punch to the back of the head. Goon two had made a recovery and pegged me in the back of the head. stunned i let go to turn around and duck a fist and swoop my knee up to blast his crotch. threat down, turn around. in that short time the unnamed goon had started laying punches out but Brad had finally kicked into gear and was fighting back. trying to go back to help i realized we were all getting herded out by security as we clawed and flailed around. who says fags can't fight?
my tenure at Ironwood Bar gave me the luxury of never getting turfed out. they assumed it was me being picked on and i threw my hands up in a silent "woo!" as the goons were pitched down the stairs in a whirl of white shirts and well-made jeans.
Brad was shaking and standing behind me as i turned to a bouncer to try and stammer out some sort of sentence.
Down the stairs the monsters were woozy but coming back to life.
"YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT! I'LL KILL YOU! YOU DON'T CROSS ME! I KNOW WHERE YOU TWO LIVE, I'LL KILL YOU AND I'LL KILL THAT STUPID DOG I ALWAYS SEE YOU WITH!"
boom.
no, you can call me fat. you can call me a piece of shit. because i am, in fact, a fat piece of shit. but you don't tell me you're going to murder my godchild Maude. not ever.
after the fact, my friend Jason who was out having a smoke recounted my epic fury. there were only 4 steps to the sidewalk but i leaped up like a berserker Wolverine and jumped on them with my fist up. A collective "oh!" came from the smoking section and i dropped my fist into whatever face i could get a hold of. all i remember is being pulled off by three bouncers as the goons were laid out, woozy and winded from 215 pounds taking a flying jump onto them. they took off before i could tell someone to grab them. slobbering in tongues i was delirious with anger and didn't care when i was dropped from waist height onto the neighboring stoop.
typical wimp, after it's all done is when i start to cry. or at least i would have if the coke wasn't still burning through me. i wanted to yell but nothing would come out. just take a minute. catch your breath.
noise noise out of my view and Brad was chucked out and told to not come back. i kept looking up as his shoes padded over to me.
eyes looking down from the sky. "good god, are you all right?"
nodding.
"i've never seen you go off like that."
"i've never seen you get roughed up like that without kicking up a stink."
he plopped down and checked out his hands. blood and rips and smears. we were both biohazzards.
remind me to never go to the bar with you again.
too bad i couldn't actually say it.
out of breath and thinking about puking i laid on the stairs waiting for Brad to say something.
brad slumped over up and patted at his already swollen lip. he didn't look too bad. nothing an icepack couldn't fix. then he dipped his head down low in reflection to sigh.
chills, horror, sickness...
an enormous hank of his hair had gotten yanked out in our small fisticuffs exchange.
there it was. the dimensions of a fist spread out... bare skin with patchy outcroppings of hair in between. something that would be simply impossible to hide.
"oh.... no."
"oh no what? hey, what the hell is wrong with you? you're so pale."
slowly pulling myself up i leaned over to him and put a firm hand on top of his head to turn it sidways. My shakey hands reached up and touched the skant patch of ripped out hair. i was shocked he couldn't feel it throbbing, must be riding high on the chemical joy of brawling.
"wh... what?" his hand darted up to feel. now i really wanted to get sick. that kind of rage has a texture... a feel... and it was pouring out of him.
"brad, wait."
up and steadying for a moment. we were a little punch drunk at this point.
"Brad...i..."
i'm sure the night air zipped over the bald spot making it tangible. he was striding out like john wayne down the street, no doubt trying to catch up with the goons. great, this isn't settled. i was thankful that i didn't have a bloody nose at least.

"m as in mancy!"

progressive drum and bass thudded in the background as i picked away at some leftover bits of cucumber i had sliced up. this was my wall of productivity... all factors such as alienating music, mincy snack foods and the desire to avoid distractions was powerful. i was in that zone and it was safe to say i wouldn't be coming out for a few hours. fuck i love coming into the office on the weekend. it's not like i got up early to come in. late afternoon, a dead zone that afforded me to turn on music and clutter up a space much larger than what i normally can during the week.
i was multitasking a bunch of windows and pondered if it would be too late to fire the catering company i had signed up with. i didn't even give a shit-ass that it was tacky, they had done nothing but piss me off and i felt like it would be a safe win to clean house and get someone on board who was hungry. someone who would be on point knowing that my shifty face had jettisoned the competition.
no... i probably shouldn't fire them. they do a ton of contract work for pasha and it would make his life miserable. chaffs my ass to know that a friend of his would sandbag a lucrative contract.
next. next. next. it's quite a lot to wrangle all these events and opportunities but for once in my life i was passionate about it. passionate about pornography. go figure. i had no ethical apprehensions about working for a massive porno site. i managed to find a place that could balance my common sense passion for business with the sex industry. i can't believe i didn't think of looking into this sooner. typical, i find a job that i'm thrilled about and i can't talk about it with my family. it's not that i'm ashamed of it per se, just more ashamed that i went from lucrative desk jobs that one can brag about to abstract explanations about what i do for a living. i don't have a problem with smut, but a lot of people do. and that's ok! i get it! but i find myself straddling the line between stone cold lying to someone and flat out saying i moderate 30+ posting boards on porn sites. "oh i make sure there's no lame content or something that's under age. you know. the usual." like people know what the use' is in the porn industry.
for a long time my identity had been wrapped up in my job. i was a secretary for years after university. the sick thing? i was really good at it and enjoyed it. a fucking fag secretary, doling out post-it note messages to VP's... running down a list of appointments and meetings while absently adjusting a tie. they didn't even realize how chokingly GAY it all was and neither did i. i maned a reception desk on an floor full of executives. mostly out of office, always flitting around silently and never bugging me save for one an hour at most. i sat there like an advisor on display. resolute that i wasn't as prized as the men i tended to, but more powerful than other secretaries in the building.
i never lorded over any one. in fact i became the back up bitch for the front desk reception because i was so gosh dahn patient with people on the phone. and for this kind gesture i was seen as The One to consult to. i was king shit of the secretaries but certainly wouldn't talk down to anyone. the man who can talk to the downtrodden. etc.
thriving and making a name for myself [although the president of the company only called me Josh instead of Nathan. whatever.] i felt proud. but there was a nasty pull in my mind. i hesitated when describing what i did. i did communications, presentations, held my own during planning sessions and could be trusted with shit that was more expansive than my britches. sure i could try and layer in all that but when it comes down to it, i was the secretary and there's no point jazzing it up with anything more than that. i got hung up on conversations that i should be doing something more. well more what? i don't have any business training, i'm at a grade 7 level of math... and? can someone tell me what i'm supposed to do when i grow up? because apparently i can't be left to my own decision tree on this shit. i aim too low.
i pushed on... i jammed my foot in the door for project work. then more specialized projects. i was the bottom bitch because i didn't have any designations or schooling around what i was toiling over and it was an acknowledgment of my role in the corporate hamster cage. i didn't like it. to be a whiny, spoiled brat: i didn't like it. i did well at it. i made a ton of money but my heart was so far gone i ceased to remember a morning when i didn't wake up horrified. an existential weight on my chest screaming questions and demanding to know why i was doing something that sucked the life out of me.
because it's a good job! because you don't have to tell people you're the fucking secretary! because you're supposed to hate your job and why resist the feeling? it'll always be there. you're always going to hate your job.
i managed to drag myself into work for months with this hazy anger floating around my head. there was more money given to me. there were always praises. short of fresh cedar shavings to line the bottom of my cage, what more could i ask for?
in whispered conversations with coworkers i talked about leaving. i was hissed at and shut down. you don't walk away from a job like this. not after your resume was so greatly beefed up as the result of being here.
turning to friends outside of work i was shot down again. all jabbed angry fingers into my shoulder. snarly reminders that they had been trying to make a break into my employer. appalled that i would even think about walking away from a holy grail scenario.
after all that, there was nothing left to do but turn inwards. heaping stern lectures on myself that i couldn't possibly do any better, and simply, i'd never be happy anywhere else so what's the problem? wouldn't someone rather take the money than a lesser job that i'll hate just as much?
and every morning i woke up. and it took a little longer to sit up. i felt like a stain laying under the blankets. thinking that if i looked up at the ceiling just a little bit longer i'd get some sort of an answer. not surprisingly, there's not a hell of a whole lot that can be divined from white paint and a solitary light fixture.
i was beefing up on anti anxiety medications to keep a float. i nervously smoked alone to buy myself 15 minutes away from my desk. the time outside made my legs shake contemplating walking back inside and i noticed i stopped eating lunch entirely. which, when you're a hog like me, is a sign that some thing's REALLY off.
my only moments of happiness came when i left the building and when the straight boy next door neighbor invited me over to watch the baseball game. i don't even fucking understand baseball but sure enough it became my focal point. i rushed home from work to make elaborate heterosexual-centric snack foods and scoured the liquor store for fancy beer. but not too faggy fancy. i successfully cleaved off my shitty work days simmering on the couch with Will and a fascinatingly huge television. i would repeat things he said to me in the form of a question. i began doing some initial leg work on the team who was playing to string together a cohesive dialog and deflect from the fact that the first time we met i was wearing only boxers and a bandanna tied around my neck. it's not my fault i had to run out and break up the cat fighting with the neighborhood badass tom.
it worked for us and i didn't even mind when he wiggled down the couch one night and put his head in my lap. literally i had hit the point where baseball went from abstract running around to something i could get involved in. i let him lay his head down and moved my hand to play with his hair. we didn't acknowledge anything and instead yelled at the tv in unison if there was a bad call.
long story short we would up making to the half way point in games before fucking around on the couch for the remainder of the game... and it became needlessly complicated when he complained that i was using him for sex since i showed no interest in calling him up for a date. i had completely blocked out any responsibility to another human... and had utterly spaced on the fact that i had been doling out impromptu blow job workshops on some straight boy who was curious and decided to test things out on the neighbor fag. when he confronted me after we had wanked off and i'm not ashamed to say i had held him tight to look over his shoulder at a smashing home run that wrapped up the game.
"listen, what are we doing here? are you just using me for sex?"
well this isn't sex sex. this is just mucking about.
and let's get real: i was using him for the tv hooked to cable hooked to the MLB package channel that played while i got to sit on a really comfortable couch. compound that with the recent spate of getting some heavy petting sessions i had successfully found a zen spot. i blurred out the crushing hatred of work by running home in the evenings to go home & change before leaving again. i wasn't even thinking about anything that was crashing down around me, just memorizing batting orders and guiding the back of the neighbor boys head down my cock.
poor bill was sitting at the end of the couch going flush waiting for me to reply.
"bill, i'm... i'm so sorry. i should never have made you feel like you were being used. i should... [oooooo nice catch] go."
he followed me to the door and tried to think of something to say. he caught my wrist before i turned out the door and i yanked it away. i felt disgusting for using some poor boy as my xanax replacement and couldn't look him in the eye.
"wait... i didn't mean to make you upset i just wanted to talk about if you... and i could..."
yanking my wrist away i waived my hand to stop him and walked out. i've never coped well with confrontations.
i went home to an empty house and sat down on my bed to collect my thoughts. my phone buzzed off and it was Bill. "oh god, go away..."
"listen bill...."
"just let me come up."
"whatever."
i hung up and waited to hear him pop over. maybe there'd be some american beauty shit and he was coming over to shoot me? always thinking two miserable steps a head.
"nathan?"
"upstairs."
he wasn't crying but looked pale and upset. "can we not call this anything and i just come in here and lay in bed with you for a while?"
"bill, you're a cute boy. you don't need to be hanging out with me for a cuddle."
he looked so dejected and i rolled my eyes and pointed to the bed. he rolled in and folded up neatly into my shoulder. he felt... ugh. warm. i relaxed a little and felt him loosen up as well. this was nice. i think i had spent close to 3 years with my head up my ass with my job. i figured i was so mental trying to keep afloat that i couldn't even imagine inviting someone into my mindspace.
and there i was. this soft straight boy who had lovingly taught me that RBI's had nothing to do with ribs or that there were reasons behind changing the pitcher other than he was an asshole. beyond my better judgment and stern efforts to be unattractive i had caught something in a snare. even if it was just a temporary pit stop it felt warm. and nice. and made me recall something.... that i was allowed to feel happy and it was something i owed to myself. not me being happy about my own fucked up wants, but making other people happy and doing some good instead of being this mental leech on people.
i'll skip all the flooding thoughts and feelings i got holding this pudgy straight boy who had a taste for the cock close to me. his shirt smelled so nice and delicious. and there you have it. i felt so happy and content that it flooded my logic.
i spent another month ramping up the drive to quit and start looking for something else. after all my previous conversations with friends about how miserable i was, there wasn't much need to tell anyone before i left. i gave my notice and let people try to send me email forwards to my work email and see it get bounced back.
just to keep people guessing i took a job in a coffee shop and enthralled ex coworkers who came in with a large smile that they had never seen streaked across my face and gripped my midsection to jiggle and emphasize what weight had fallen off me with no real change in diet.
i schlepped coffee, came home to feed Bill and make out or just read a book while he chewed on the articles in Men's Health. it was grounding and i couldn't believe all the sights and sounds that were available with my head popped out of my ass.
after all that miserable time spent doing something that didn't make me happy i really believe that's when i opened my fucking eyes to see what was out there and that it was a hell of a whole lot more appealing to Pasha to hire a friend who was mentally stable vs one who needed a pill for each major meal of the day to ensure no one died in my presence.
as squeamish as i get about my current job and what it means to other people, i do feel smug that i managed to nail down a career that provides me with rent payment but no urgent desire to die every morning before i commute to the office. what a wonderful shift.