*

I remember writing last year that my life was islands in a void-- now the void between the islands isn't always empty, but sometimes full of terror. I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I take a little shot. I'm on stage. I do a line. I'm fucking Nate. I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I take a shot. I'm fucking someone else, or various someones, somewhere. Have another drink. I'm in bed, curled up tight, on the verge of a panic attack. I'm scraping lines into my back. I want to feel someone fucking smack me so hard it reverberates throughout my entire being like it's the fucking hand of god. One hand's scraping and the other's jacking off. I cum. I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I'm on stage. Etc. It can be difficult to orient myself at times. I just try to be ready as I can be for whatever. Not every day is as bad as the last, at least. But no day is good, exactly. Everything always feels one step away from disaster.

I don't trust Walter at all, obviously. He did something to set me off that time a couple weeks back and I still don't know what and I might never know and I hate that but then again I’m not sure I’d actually want to know. There’s a dread there even thinking about it, a black pit. --That fucker Jeffrey probably knows what he did, too, and he's just not telling me for some stupid Jeffrey reason. I have Juan and Eoin, at least. He's even more worried about me than he was at the beginning of all this, understandably so, and I have admitted to him that I know I'm in bad shape, that I'm just trying to make it to the end of the initially agreed upon dates. Him and Juan are a large part of what keeps me looking good for everyone else[109]. I don't trust many people to see me the way they have-- if I'm always on the verge of a panic attack, they're the only ones who've seen me when that dam bursts (even if more often than not it’s for a reality check so I don’t have a full-blown panic attack, still)-- and even that's something I know I'll need to apologize to them for before I go.

Nathan's the other thing keeping me somewhat sane, of course. --Well. Maybe not sane. But a far more enjoyable, irresistible crazy, and I need SOMEthing so I don't go truly-crazy. Who knew that a guy so used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it would be so damn fun to teach some manners to (even just hearing “please” out of him is amusingly/arousingly rewarding, if only because it makes him SO pouty)? And not only that, but I even got to tie his wrists together, most recently. Over his head. With my belt. GOD he looks even more divine that way than I thought he would, and that's saying something (just his shoulders and upper arms and pits alone, UGH I'm so damn glad he's not ticklish there).

We'd already had our post-show bumps of our respective ups and we were making out, clawing at each other, grinding against and into each other, and I was so into it all and so high that I didn't even think to dance around the issue. It turned me the fuck on thinking of him tied up and I told him so. "Just wanna have yer way with me, huh? Can't say I blame ya!" And one of his silly guffaws. --But no, I didn't necessarily want anything rough (only if he wanted it). I wanted to make him feel so good he'd go near-crazy, and keep him right on that brink for as long as I wanted. And I asked him if he trusted me. He paused, shook his head with a little laugh. "I do, man. ...I really do. But I know you don't trust me a fuckin' bit. --Don't get me wrong!!! I wanna fuck. But I wish I knew what the fuck to do about the rest of it." Likewise. "--Huh??" And I agreed that I knew I had to figure something out. I just wasn't there yet. I also admitted that he was already helping quite a bit, even if I was still a "bitch" for it. He paused, laid back, lifted his arms over his head, grinned up at me. "Have at it, dude."

And "having at it" in my case meant playing with his body ‘til his cock was dripping (I wasn’t far behind, honestly) and it was so perfect, he was so perfect-- one of those moments so delightfully ecstatic I could barely breathe. I'd been careful earlier with what I called him, to him-- hot or sexy, not beautiful, DEFINITELY not gorgeous or divine. But at that moment I couldn't help but stroke his face and tell him how beautiful he looked there, how he was– broad chest swelling with breath, nipples hard, lips hung open, his hair everywhere damp with sweat, muscles clenching, hands and arms occasionally struggling in futility against the belt keeping them helpless, his eyes caught in that perfect place between frustration-pleasure-pain-longing...

It's like he told me, once upon a time, when I was in my own head and so deathly afraid of people seeing me (when I was someone I can barely recognize)-- don't think, just lose yourself in the feeling. So much is hell but I've been more and more successful in getting him to lose himself in all I give him. He's stayed longer and longer with me afterwards, too; not leaving quickly and sheepishly anymore to try and erase what his body knows by diving into what he's used to. I undid my belt from his wrists, kissed those wrists like I'd kiss Jack's before, held his body in my arms, stroked his hair and held his eyes with mine, and he (much to my sudden relief) allowed himself to accept a more tender kind of pleasure from me. I keep wanting to ask him to spend the night with me, but I keep running up against my own silly nerves, the increasingly small chance of rejection. It's still all such a delicate balance, and will continue to be, but I think he's ready for that much now, at least.

"I never thought you’d be the type of guy who'd be into this stuff.", he said afterwords. Meaning sexual dominance, sadomasochism, etc-- things I'm being increasingly open about with him. “I always figured you were probably gay. Just not THIS kind of gay.” And I asked, well, what kind of gay are you, then? Which flustered him, but that was the point. On stage I'm still all bright colors, forced smiles, carnival barking, love songs. I'm still, apparently, believably Jules Riley. But he should really know better than to believe in anything I am on stage by this point, and I told him so. I did have to concede that the leather is in fact a more newfound interest-- but everything else had been knocking around my head in some fashion for quite some time. It just took me awhile to put it all together. I told him that he seemed to be enjoying himself, too, and he blushed and grumbled about it a little, then-- "Man, I learned early on that when you get that crazy look in your eye, I wanna be around for whatever you're cookin’ up. Even just to see what happens." And you've stuck around. "Yeah, yeah. I dunno how the fuck to even explain it, though. ...I guess it's just, like... sex, plus the kind of adrenaline rush I get from like, highway races or something."

Highway race. Not bike crash. It still made my heart skip a beat. I'm close. Not quite there yet. But close (and of course this wasn't a bike crash, the heaviest thing I did to him there was bite his nipples. More wind-chafe than crash). --Anyway, I told him that he could go out and get that feeling from women. Plenty of 'em probably would LOVE to have him tied up. "Yeah, I dunno, that’s… that’s just different. I dunno. It’s like, you just-- you know me, dude." I couldn't help but kiss him then. Maybe he gets it more than I thought. Or at least, he's more open to getting it than I thought he would be. I don't really know what to do with that. I WANTED it, wanted it so badly, and still do, and I might be getting it and it's almost making me panic again. What the hell is wrong with me. Too much, that's what.

*

More thoughts-- good ones, not too crazy, probably, hopefully, maybe--

It's been interesting, the longer all this goes, seeing or experiencing how other men style their erotic-sadistic dominance, integrating what I like from the things I see or experience, carving my own style of it for myself thru practice, understanding-through-doing what works, what I like, why I like it. That kind of experimentation-- for anything, not just sex-- used to set my nerves on end. All I could think of was the inevitability of my own failure and the humiliation that would follow. I don't know why it's different, now. Nothing much left to lose, I guess. No one around to provide the humiliation I'd be expecting (I ALWAYS make DAMN fucking sure the hotel room door is locked, for example).

Anyway-- some people, whether they're erotic “sadists” or real ones, prefer the feeling of making someone already small even smaller until they're as close to nothing as they can get[110]. Or they want to desexualize them as much as they can, lock their cocks up in cages and all that, to make them solely a tool for their own pleasure. --Lorenzo loved them (and me) weak. As weak as possible. Inert. He didn't want to hear a sound, look into anyone's eyes, or give anyone anything they wanted, even after he was satisfied with them(/us). That's a real sadist.

I, on the other hand... if we’re talking in terms of fantasy, the more masculine, strong and ~virile~ they are, the better. I learned early on that's what I wanted, but I know the "why" more and more as time goes on. I'm not interested in shooting fish in a barrel or fucking warm cadavers. I want men that are proud of their bodies, that look like they're used to using their strength and machismo to get what they want, that are used to submitting to men as big as they are, and I want them tied or bound up and obedient. Not inert, not weak. Very much awake. There’s something of a need to prove I’m worthy of dominating them, there’s a challenge involved, but that’s what I’m looking for. We both need to be good enough for each other. We both get off on being good enough for each other, but also on expecting the other to be good enough for us, knowing the other gets off on being good enough. Jack taught me how intoxicating that dynamic can be, even in one-off scenarios.

It's not about emasculation. It's not even necessarily a revenge-fantasy. I want them to feel good-- hell, a lot more than good. I want them to feel so much from and because of me that nothing else matters but sustaining it, increasing it, getting it back if I take it away. I just want that good to be properly earned, and I want it to be barbed-- and they want it to be barbed to their liking and preferences. I don't make them any less masculine, and on the flip-side, I’m not necessarily too much more masculine than usual (I learned my lesson early on)-- hell, I’m even “bitchy”. That masculinity isn't necessary at all for me to do what I do for us, and theirs is useless for what we're doing together (at least, the way they'd be used to using it), and that's what I'm teaching them (and what I had to learn myself, in order for any of this to work). When we cum and I release them, that's as close to inert as they get. Happily exhausted in my arms while I stroke their hair, kiss their scratches and welts and rope indentations and whatever other marks I made for them. Admiring them together. Another successful lesson, another good boy.

Nathan already gives me so many of those feelings even if we've only touched the surface of what I'd love to do with him (and it's terribly easy at this point to imagine the rest...). It's like he said-- I know him. I know him so damn well. I know him in more ways than Walter or Greg or Rory or Jeff or any poor woman ever can. We have parts of each other none of them could ever have. We're ours already (an idea I either hate or love, depending on my mood, and right now, well). --GOD it'd be so beautiful to be able to rub all this in Walt's face... maybe we don't need to kill him after all. Not so directly, anyway. Maybe all we have to do is stand in front of him, holding each other, and tell him he's no longer needed. I'm eloping with your "son"[111], you can't stop us, and there's nothing you can do about it-- the way Mom was able to run away from Granddad for awhile with my father. But a success, this time. She always did want me to succeed where he failed, didn't she?

All Nathan and I need is each other. No one and nothing else matters. I get that now. I think he himself *ALMOST* knows that. He just can't let go of Walter yet (I can't imagine he really gives that much of a damn about Jeff). I'm not sure what that'll take– I know being fully honest with my thoughts and suspicions about Walter at this stage would still only backfire on me (trusting me sexually is different from trusting me about Walt, regardless of what he tells me)– but trying isn't meaningless. I mean, it's the only way I get out of this alive.

*

A good test to know if Nathan would really want me to have him all night, instead of just hoping for it-- I'd been initiating our little get-togethers since the beginning. It's a nice routine I established for us, something I wanted him to get used to and expect. I break that routine and he doesn't do anything about it or ask me about it later, I'd know things are farther behind than I'd hoped for. If he asks later or better yet, comes looking for me, on the other hand...

I didn't make myself too hard to find-- I didn't want to be unfair, and I wasn't-- just having a drink at the venue's bar after the bulk of fans shoved off. And, sooner or later, so was he. He asked me if I'd gotten bored with him already and I told him I thought he'd be relieved at the prospect-- but that no, I wasn't bored with him (imagine!), that in fact, I'd gone out to have a drink and think for awhile about what I wanted to do with him that night-- for the whole night. That if that was something he was interested in, he'd have to finish his drink and take a drive with me elsewhere to talk about the particulars. There was a bit of tension while we sat there, him taking only slightly larger than usual sips of beer and talking business or music or industry gossip or whatever else-- but eventually, we did both end up back at my hotel room, and he told me that he thought he'd be relieved, too: at just being able to go wherever he wanted, party with whoever. To not have to think about what I might've thought up for him that time. He thought about it anyway. “And I didn’t wanna miss ya. Me n’ Jeff get the feeling lately like if someone doesn’t tie you down you’ll float off n’ we just won’t see you again”. A sweet enough thought, but I wasn't looking for sweet. At least, not at that point. Not yet. And anyway, I was going to be the one tying anyone down anywhere.

So I swung things back in the right direction. Slipped near-fully into my dominant character, into *that* Jules (and I was in ALL my leather... of course, I also made sure of that). Asked him if he thought about anything in particular we'd already done that he liked the most (I knew the answer already). His cheeks turned pink, he looked away, but he couldn't keep himself from touching his neck. I kissed him there, ran the tip of my tongue up it as gentle as his fingers had touched it, and he melted into me for a moment. --I do get why he likes being choked. It's another bike crash feeling (a lot fucking safer than a bike crash if you know what you're doing, too, again...). And I finally told him that, even though I knew he wouldn't get it at first. But it was what I wanted. More than anything. To tie him up and fuck him like a bike crash-- to fuck him BETTER than a fucking bike crash. I wanted to give him every bit of pain and pleasure and anticipation and an even better aftermath than he could ever dream of, I wanted to get the timing just fucking right, I wanted to make him feel better than any stupid daredevil bullshit he could even THINK of doing in my place.

I said all that and he cocked his head, gave me a quizzical little grin, said "'R'You WORRIED about me, Raj?" UGH. And, well, yes, but it was obviously about quite a bit more than that. It's the best feeling he ever felt and I wanted to do it one fucking better. And I wanted to keep trying until I did. And I asked him if he would let me try. "...This is really kinda heavy for ya, huh." Oh, he had no idea. "Well, it's been great bein' yer test subject so far!"

So we had far more official negotiations for the first time, even though it clearly amused Nathan quite a bit to do so. Was still too nervous to ask him to call me Sir, but him having to "yes, Jules" me was still wonderful. ...Fuck, of course he looks incredible tied up. REALLY tied up. I knew he would, I’ve dreamed about it this whole time, but the real thing’s even better. He did a damn good job sucking my dick, too (enough to get some himself!). And, I mean, I got to fucking WHIP HIM (well, with a crop-- whip would've been too loud. He wanted me to do it with my mic cord, but I have NO idea how much damage that could do and that was already packed away elsewhere regardless, so had to decline that, too). And he told me exactly when the feeling was right to get another strike. We got a rhythm going. We were working together in a whole new way.

He was nervous about it all in the first half of things, but it was the nervousness of a new experience-- an intense new experience, at that. But he got what he wanted most, and every time I gave it to him, he was a little more open and open to new sensation, a little more lost in it, and the more lost in it he got the more lost in him I got. I got to use every single fucking bit of him, every part of him was mine, he was strung up for me and I was playing him. And fuck, I thought I made him fucking leak before… I was fingering him and dragging my nails down his chest and biting his thighs and he was biting back moans, throbbing, dripping like a fucking candle, mumbling little “What the fuck, Raj”’s and etc, trying his best not to thrash around, not always succeeding.

...Riding him again, which I wanted to do (very much), did require taking my pants off, which I’d been avoiding when I could (I’d just unbutton/unzip my pants). It was like blowing him, though-- I was so excited for it all, so turned on myself, that it was a little too easy to lose myself in it and in him (at least he was lost in his own pleasures enough by then to not care about what my legs look like, yet). I rode him bare and fucked him bare; I wanted to feel all of him, wanted him to feel all of me, know exactly what he’s getting, know how much I want him. That and every bite mark, every scratch scrape welt and bruise I made on his body said how much I wanted him to be mine, how much I wanted to give him anything and everything, showed the intensity of the feeling and did so more than any ephemeral kiss or caress could have.

I told him in the aftermath of it all this time, after I untied him and had him in my arms (kissing his rope indentations, stroking his beautiful hair and various other marks), about how much I wished the hotels we got had mirrored walls more often (there still weren't any, this time)-- how much I wanted to show him just how beautiful he was after I fucked him, and especially this time. "Always gotta be about the drama, huh?" Oh, always.

We washed each other, after-- he was the one who asked to join me, and I was so thrown off by the request that I accepted. Too swept up in afterglow feelings, maybe. I was completely naked in front of him for the first time since the start of the tour, and by this point he was far less shy about looking at my body. The scars were unavoidable, then. "Jesus, man....", He'd said, and ran a finger across one of Ben's scars before I could stop him. The deepest and longest one, the ugliest one, one of the first I dug into myself that day, when I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to kill myself or not. He didn't sound disgusted at all-- he sounded sad, if anything. You'd think I'd like that better than disgusted or horrified, but no. If there’s anyone I don’t want to pity me, it’s Nate.

I took a deep breath and told him, simply, that I'd been through a lot and that he knew how big my feelings could get. He said he was sorry for it, and I told him that what's done is done, that I'd rather move on than spend time on sorries for things that have nothing to do with him. "You wanna move on but you did that shit to yourself about it? That’s with you for life." Yes, and it would be anyway, whether I marked the occasion or not. It's not a weight you can escape from (outside of death, but I obviously didn't say that). You just endure it, however you can (until you can't anymore). You hopefully get better at enduring it, but life always has a way of happening in the meanwhile, doesn't it? He nodded slowly at that. I admitted to him, then, that he helps me endure it (when he's not being a pain in the ass). That his playing has ever since I heard it for the first time.

I asked him if he remembered the day we first met, way back in '73. I was with Lorenzo, helping him sell pot and acid. Low-level stuff, and really more of an excuse to hear bands play and daydream about being there myself between deals, and even all the way back then I got caught on daydreaming being next to him, hearing him up close, singing with him. So caught up in it that I couldn't help but embarrass myself later asking if he needed a singer alongside his pot. Rejected at the time, but then four years later... life's odd that way. --And Nate did remember, which made me smile. "It was just so out of the blue, man; I had no idea who the hell you were! And I guess the other dealer you were with caught up with you pretty quick after that anyway." He didn't quite recognize me when I first joined the band-- he said it was Walter who reminded him of the connection, of all things. I don't remember seeing him or selling anything to him that day at all, and he'd never mentioned seeing me in that capacity to my face. I hate not knowing exactly how much Walter knows about me, but I do appreciate that Nate's big mouth is good for a few extra tricks.

He spent the rest of the night doing bumps of coke, smoking cigarettes, sipping tequila from a bottle, noodling around on an unplugged guitar. I spent the rest of the night leaning on his shoulder while he did that, occasionally getting my own swigs of tequila. Humming along harmonies or counterpoints, sometimes (felt silly enough to sing a bit of Harf at one point, and he figured it out well enough soon enough that he could play with me, improvise off me in such lovely ways, and I couldn’t keep from kissing him while he did, because I couldn’t believe how beautiful it already sounded, how much he already just GOT IT-- god, I can't think of him seriously playing Harf with me. I can't). Nodding off, other times. Fell asleep at some point, woke up alone. I almost thought the night before was a dream, but I only ever have bad dreams, and he'd left his hair gel in the bathroom.

*

[109]I don’t want to bother Marty that way if I can help it– she has enough to worry about. I’m so proud of her and happy for her especially, even if we couldn’t accomplish nearly as much as we wanted to, even if so much of it was clawed back by Phil and Walt, even if all we have to show for things is a hollowed out compromise. But anyway, I wouldn’t want to do anything to make her job harder.

[110]And there are submissives/masochists that want that for themselves, of course, to be made nothing for awhile on their own terms, but that’s never what I’m looking for in my own masochistic fantasies/scenes/etc. Then again, and in retrospect, I suppose I’ve very rarely been fully submissive. I didn’t even give Ben that after awhile.

[111]Even entertaining that idea in quotation marks makes me a little sick. The more I've thought about it-- and I hate that it wasn't so obvious to me earlier-- the more I see a sad, middle-aged, short chubby schlub– as single as I am– who thinks he can’t get lucky the honest way, who has to create scenarios where beautiful boys have to be around him, maybe grow to trust him, where he can keep them and watch them from a distance and know they’re his, even if he can’t touch them. Pathetic.