[cw: needles/injections but not for anything bad/sad!]

*

What a tumultuous fucking day this was. Absolutely awful at first. Humiliating, really. Of course Lou's too good for me. I KNEW that, I just-- ugh. The worst of it all was that I could tell how much he wanted me; I saw the way his eyes took me in, I knew just how fucking well the smell of my leather complemented the oil I already knew he liked, and he couldn't help but get close enough to breathe it in because of course he couldn't help himself. That was the fucking point. And he just told me he knew what I wanted from him, and ~as my lawyer~ he felt it was ~necessary~ to stop me from making a mistake neither of us could take back.

Nothing I said or did changed his mind, just made him dig his heels in further, and I certainly didn't want to beg for him like I'd begged for Ben-- it was his office, I couldn't get dramatic even if I wanted to, and it wouldn’t have worked with him regardless. And I didn't want to lose what he'd already given me. Ugh, it was hard not to tip into that sort of desperation I felt with Greg all the way back then, though. And it wasn't even LIKE that, it's not like he was leaving me to fend for myself or anything, but it didn't matter at the time; at the time that's all it felt like. So I was still a fucking idiot before I gave up. Told him that I learned so much of what I actually wanted because of him, that he already knew how I could make him feel, that I wanted to give him everything I knew he wanted, that I knew that I could now if he let me-- and it didn’t matter, so I knew nothing would. I just zipped myself back into me again, turned to walk away from him. "You've gone through and lost a lot this year, Julian. I know how lonely it can feel to be grieving like this. If you want... numbers, for anything, or anyone, I can provide them for you."

I wanted to turn back around and say fuck you (like, give me a fucking break), but he’d made me feel enough like a child already. Just left without saying a word. Got to a payphone. Took a bump. Called Jack. It was only a few days before I would've accepted a call from him, anyway. And he was happy to hear me, of course, and delighted to see me. As soon as he could he pulled me into a tight embrace, rocked, kissed me on the lips, nuzzled his face into the side of my neck, told me I looked "SO hot" and smelled "SO fucking good" (don't I smell so fucking good??-- I wanted to say). I couldn’t feel fully good about any of that at the time, which feels awful to write now. I was still in something of a daze from everything that happened before it and that still colored things up to a point. It felt like a bad dream I was still trying to wake up from.

--He noticed that I had my own motorcycle in the garage, so I told him he was part of what inspired me to learn how to ride and he loved that. I said I still felt a bit silly doing so, that I was enough of an obvious fruit to look like I'd ride a motorcycle side-saddle, but the feeling of being surrounded by everything, not in a bubble like a car, everything just IMMEDIATE, was so fascinating, so invigorating. So then of course I had to pose on his bike side-saddle for him at his request, then leaned against mine like a car show model, and he gave me some appreciative whistles. Everything with Lou and how awful it was had made me want to write over it immediately with sex, but Jack had missed me for more than just that, and even that fact alone made me more patient than I thought I'd be, and whatever impatience remained wasn't an irritable one. He made things too interesting at first to be irritable for any reason in any case.

Jack has to inject testosterone weekly likely for the rest of his life, but it doesn't bother him. It took awhile for him to get used to sticking a needle into himself, but-- and I do love this part-- where he sticks it became part of the joy of it for him. "The doc who writes my scrips can’t know I'm gay, but they still give me something I have to stick in my ass." HA! He brought all this up because our visit happened to fall on the day he had to take his shot. He asked me if I was squeamish with needles. I had no idea, frankly; I'd never seen anyone do it to themselves, in positive or negative or neutral contexts. I never had to give any sort of injections to Mom (and watching nurses putting in IVs and things like that is different). And getting shots never bothered me past a certain age, but then again, I also never look at the needle going in (I like the feeling of getting pierced, but I also don't see the needle going in there, either). There was some curiosity there, but I didn't want Jack himself to feel like a curiosity, and that's what I told him. He said he wouldn't, that he was going to offer me the choice to watch before I said anything, he just wanted to make sure I wasn't going to pass out or anything.

So he walked me through the whole process in a casual, step-by-step way. Once it got to the actual needle-sticking part, I was ready to flinch like I think most people probably would, but it really is like getting pierced-- the needle just stays in awhile longer. Maybe starting to hang around the more SM side of things also just increased my tolerance for seeing weird shit. But yes, he basically stabbed himself with it, with barely even a twitch of an eye, and the idea of regularly stabbing yourself like that to the point of it being casual struck a bit of a relatable, pleasurable chord with me (getting to see his ass while he did it was a nice bonus). Of course, his stabbing's for a far nicer reason than my slicing, just like his scars represent far nicer things than mine.

Sex with him was as nice as I hoped it would be; the Lou bullshit and seeing Jack do his shot both gave it an extra charge for me, though we didn't do anything out of the ordinary for us that first time. Re-learning what's become quite a pleasant routine. There was a different kind of rush this time in feeling the excitement I know he feels for me, in knowing how much he wanted me and how unafraid he is of that want. As erotic as Lou (and Ben's)'s age was, Jack's youthfulness-- and the eagerness that comes along with it-- was even more of a relief than I expected. It’s a boldness I almost envy (like his belting songs off-key, his jumpy dancing… reckless like Nate, but then again, not really like Nate).

So we enjoyed each other, he went to the bathroom to clean himself up, then I had my turn to do that and another bump and things took a turn for the complicated again. Jack dashed into the bathroom right as I snorted; apologized and said he forgot his testosterone vial by the sink before he saw what I was doing (and it was there, he wasn't lying). He saw me snort, I saw him see me, and we both looked at each other like deer caught in headlights. He eventually broke the silence with an awkward (awful) joke. "So, you, uh... like to sniff a lot of things, then, huh?" UGH.

I told him that this was one of the reasons why we couldn't be anything beyond what we already were. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised that a famous singer does coke." Speed. And I didn't want to answer any questions about it. All he had to know was that I used regularly and didn't plan on stopping anytime soon. That I was sorry if it bothered him, and I couldn't be too upset if he wanted to end things over it, but stopping wasn't realistic. I'm crazy and my life fucking sucks. Regular people see a happy confident guy on stage or on television because that's what I need them to see. Maybe he saw that, too. And the only reason I can be that, or be everything I am with him, is because of speed. Is it bad for me? Is it fucking pathetic? Duh. But I have an album to release and promote and a tour to execute. There's no time for me to collapse into uselessness.

I wanted him to get the hell out at that point despite wanting to be around him so much in the beginning, but didn't have the balls to say so or make him. He got closer to me, told me I didn't scare him. I told him he hadn't seen anything yet. He took another step toward me. "You think you didn't seem fucked up before this? I saw what you did to your legs. You don't get out of the fucking valley being like us without getting at least a little bit fucked up." He slid up against me then. I didn’t push him away. "And you’re SO fucked up." He said that like a flirt, into my ear, with a little laugh. He was kissing my neck and I was letting him. I said his name once to try and convince him to stop. Another time to try and convince myself. The last time was a sigh, an exhale, into his mouth.

We didn't just kiss again, he didn't just blow me again[79]-- we landed back in my bed again, too. I was fully high by then, single-minded and voracious, able to fuck him strong in various positions like we hadn't fucked each other just half an hour before (and I let him know exactly why it was that was the case), ~taking charge~ the way Lou was too much of a fucking coward to actually take when it was being offered on a silver platter to him-- Jack wanted it, Jack got it, Jack was begging me for more of it. I had him raw, knew he'd want it, knew he'd go wild for it and he did-- I was teasing him with it and he was already clawing at my back, I was fucking him and he was biting my neck and shoulders, asking for me deeper and deeper, harder and harder (both of us ravenous for our own reasons), I was giving it to him, smacking him, clawing at him in turn; I told him when I was close and he told me to cum inside him and I didn't hesitate at all this time giving it to him. He came so soon after, came because of it, and his orgasm was like a possession, eyes wide then squinted shut, speechless, sounds strangled in his throat, back arched, hips pressed into mine as much as possible, legs hooked around me keeping me inside him, nails digging into my skin. I pulled out of him once he allowed me to and we collapsed next to each other, panting, staring at each other in blissed out disbelief.

Absolute fucking rollercoaster of a day. Ended up... good? In total? Or at least, ended well enough to make up for the godawful beginning? I was certainly underestimating Jack, I have to admit that. It's hard to know what I want, sometimes. I feel drawn to so much. I've lost so much and it feels like I'm drowning, just grasping at anything. But WOW he was amazing. And I do like him. He's good at making me nervous but he's still so funny, so sweet, so easy to talk to-- I've learned quite a bit from him already. I'm not sure what to do about using around him, going forward. Part of me wants to snort some off his ass and smack it (and bite it and fuck the daylights out of him some more), the other half of me wants to be even more cautious than I already was. He IS a welder-- tradies are always doing ups (maybe not around blowtorches tho... hmm). It shouldn't be THAT out of place. Maybe just go with casual-but-discreet (ha)?

I suppose I am envious of that sort of boldness and recklessness after all. I wasn’t afforded much opportunity for it at Jack’s age, when it makes the most sense, when you’re most likely to get away with it and get it out of your system. Nathan’s only been able to get away with it for so long because Walter’s isolated him from the consequences (and to what end?).

PS: Before we got up and cleaned ourselves off, Jack rolled over to me and asked me if there was a masculine way to be submissive. And I said, well, yes. You're masculine and you're submissive. There you go. There you are. It's not really that complicated, no matter what anybody tries to attach to it. --That seemed to be a satisfactory answer. ... I tried not to think about it too much and I'm still trying not to, but it was difficult not to think about it then and just as difficult now. ...Feeling the scratch marks Jack gave me is so much sexier than feeling any sort of scrape or cut that I give myself. Nicer than the marks other people give me, too. Not that that's surprising-- they're strangers, Jack's someone I know-- just a nice little thing. I wonder how he feels about the ones I left on his chest... fuck. I don't know if I want to go all the way with this. He got so attached so quickly as is, hoped for so much so quickly, and would this just make that worse? But at the same time, I'm hard. I hate that I'm hard. Ugh.

*

UGH Jack nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack, to the point that-- well. The day started out with not being able to find my speed. I was about to turn the entire fucking house upside down but I NEVER misplace shit like that, I fucking NEED it; I tore apart my bedroom and bathroom before it dawned on me and I stood stock still for ten seconds, so many different emotions washing over me-- none of them nice at that time, of course, and all layered over with a "no fucking way"-- before I was out the door, determined to pay him a visit of my own for once.

I didn't take in a single detail of his apartment when he opened his door. Everything was impulse and desperate anger. I grabbed him by the collar, kicked the door shut, pinned him against the first flat surface we came up against, asked him where the fuck my speed was. A small part of me saw the fear in his eyes, felt it in his body, but the rest of me didn't give a shit; I hadn't had as much as a bump all day and the three cups of coffee I had to keep me functional were a laughable excuse of a substitute for cutting into the migraine that had already set in. As soon as he told me where it was I shoved him away from me, told him to go get it, and he scrambled to do so. Snatched it from his hand, went to his bathroom, locked the door, did a line. Walked back out after the urge to punch the shit out of him dissipated. I thought the anger would completely disappear but I saw the fear in his eyes again and it came surging back. Got up in his face and asked what the fuck his problem was; did he think this was fucking cute? Or ~noble~? Like this’d magically make me quit? Or was he curious but too much of a coward to just ask for some? Did he just think I was being dramatic when I said I needed it to function? Did he think he was closer to really ~getting~ me now? --etc, the questions rattling faster out of my mouth as the speed was kicking in.

--And he just kept shaking his head, muttering little "no"s or "I'm sorry"s and the urge to hit something came back as strong as the anger did; I got him back against the wall, and-- I felt and heard his breath catch in a familiar way, something beyond and different from fear, something I’d only heard from him while we were fucking, something that threw me off so much it made the anger switch to disbelief. It was like he tripped a needed circuit breaker in my head. I let go of him, told him to sit down on his couch (old-looking, frayed, a faded sea green). Details flooded me then-- how damn tiny the kitchenette was (if you opened the oven door all the way it'd hit the refrigerator door; I saw the metal skid mark along the fridge that proved it), how the entire apartment was essentially just two rooms and a bath, the main one chaotically decorated in what was likely the most homoerotic Bruce Springsteen pictures he could find interspersed with Lou Reed, Robby, Iggy Pop, Bowie, Xeroxed art prints, porn, posters and flyers for various semi-recent events. Barely any wall visible. Old TV in the corner opposite the couch. Stacked plastic milk crates serving as a bookcase of sorts. He was doing better than I was doing at his age, but it was still a stark reminder of how different our worlds currently were. I really could make things a lot better for him, if he wants.

Anyway-- I told him, once we were both sat down, that there were easier ways to get my attention, and nicer ways to ask to get pinned to walls and counters, than stealing my things. He was still shaken-- I was, too, in my own way; guilty about my own outburst, still not quite sure how I wanted to deal with him, trying to level out the needed but still sudden spike of energy I gave myself into something far more pleasant for the both of us than anger. Part of me was excited that he liked being pinned to things like that, obviously, or I wouldn't have mentioned it, even though it was obviously not the time or place, and even mentioning it made me feel like an idiot immediately as it left my mouth.

But I was high enough then that I'd already nearly forgotten I was angry and was almost entirely onto horny. I could see Jack was still shaking like a leaf, though, and that was enough to cut through anything irrational. I apologized for getting as angry as I did with him, that withdrawal had me on a hair trigger, but I was still baffled by all this. And he said he wasn't even thinking, that it was a spur of the moment compulsion, that it was stupid, he was stupid-- to which I said he wasn't stupid, and I wanted to add "which makes this decision all-the-more stupid", but I said that I used to shoplift for necessities and shit to pawn when I was his age and I still did it for the fuck of it from time to time-- but that was from a store. Not a guy I've been fucking. I asked him if this was going to happen again, and he shook his head. I said I'd prefer to hear an answer, that I had to know he meant it. He said that he wouldn't-- and that "some stupid fucking part" of him wanted to know what I'd be like when I was angry. "Not for fucking sex or anything-- just-- fuck. I needed to know if I was going to get fucking hit for any other reason. So I picked a big reason, ok? A-a-and you have it back, and I know I was stupid, and--."

UGH it was such a fucking shitty thing for him to do but for such a strangely understandable reason. That is, it's understandable when you've also been beaten enough that you come to expect it. You want to know the exact parameters you’re working under and sometimes you have to force them in order to know. But I hate the thought of being treated the way I had to treat Lorenzo. It disgusts me. I never want to give anyone cause to do so (and had I already?? He didn't say). In theory I could’ve stopped myself before I knocked on his door to ~take some deep breaths~ or whatever, but I was on autopilot already and it was just a nasty fucking autopilot. Which in itself is uncomfortable to think about-- like, how to snap out of something like that? Will it happen again? How often, how easily?

But then I think, after all that: it was something that he made happen on purpose?? It was something he made happen on PURPOSE. In such an over the top way. Like he literally stole my fucking speed just to see what I would do?? I kept wanting to feel full sympathy for him, but then that little detail kept making me resist it. Like whatever, you went over the top, so you can’t be too upset if I go a little overboard in response, can you? So I said, well, now you know what I do when someone steals something that I paid good money for that I need to get through the day without feeling like death warmed over. Was it scary enough for you? Did you get your money's worth?

I wanted to end things at that point, but I'd wanted to end things the day he walked in on me snorting speed, and I'd wanted to end things the day he got me to cum in his mouth. Every time I try we end up fucking instead, or it's never a conclusive end. This verse same as the first. He said he was sorry, and I said I could tell he was sorry, and I knew he felt stupid-- I just didn't know how I could trust him anymore, regardless. He leaned forward, whispered out a little "please" and cupped my face, kissed me-- he tipped his hand too far when he brought it down to my dick so early. Oh, sweetheart, I know exactly what you're doing (because I used to be the QUEEN of what he’s doing). And I told him that I knew what he was doing, that he didn't have to do it and he was being sloppy with it anyway-- that it was something I’d noticed before, but he did a wonderful job at it earlier, and I always like rewarding good work. Never sloppiness. And regardless, I only wanted to end things for the day; I still felt too physically-awful to fuck anyhow. He asked when he'd see me again-- the weekend, I said. Enough to cool down a little, but not completely chill out. Part of me still wants to know if he wants to be pinned to things a lot more nicely, and I'd also like to teach him how to be even better at what he does, and that's the stupid part of me that didn't end things, and he can feel smug about that all he likes.

PS: Managed to get to work after all that. Even did actual work, even though my headache never fully dissipated. Unlike Nathan, who's back to showing up in such a mess that he can barely do a useful thing. I’d ask what his fucking problem is but I know it’d be throwing stones in a glass house. Jeff’s frustrated with the both of us in his own way, but oh well (tho in my case it’s more that he doesn’t understand that all the responsibilities I’ve had to pick up entail quite a few extra phone calls, some of which might happen to fall during other kinds of work. Like, what do you want me to do, ignore them? We're already behind and I have enough piled up as it is! Ugh).

*

I hate that reading can still be so difficult for me. I went through so much to learn how to do it better, and I'd been so ashamed of myself before then for how unnatural it was for me; finally getting something of a handle of it, enough to write well, enough to really start doing well at school work instead of desperate cheating and guessing, was such a relief. So many people thought I was slow, and I was terrified that I was, and I know my family must have been worried sick about it too, and not having to worry at all about that anymore was also a huge load off my shoulders.

But it's still terrible when I'm stressed, or when there's too much I'm already doing. Letters just become meaningless squiggles again (at least here, my squiggles always have some meaning). I'll write something down and someone else'll come across it and all the d's and b's are backwards and the p's are upside down. And ugh, I have so much fucking paperwork to do, and I'd been putting it off because I KNEW it would be awful, I knew it would all look like literal nonsense to me, and I still don't want to be around Lou if I can help it, I still feel like SUCH an idiot about that whole mess and I still have no idea what to do about it.

So I needed to ask Jeff for help. Reading. And he already resents that I have to do all the legal and business work on top of everything else, but I can't help it, and he was there, and I needed to get it done. So I had to be quite straightforward with it (and hope he dislikes Walter enough that he never tells him about it). I'm having a hard time reading today, too much is going on, what does that say? And that? And that? And of fucking COURSE he turned to me and asked if I could read ~at all~ and I wanted to punch him. But I explained it all, and how stress makes things worse, and I knew it probably meant I was some type of slow or broken somewhere, but I had ways to work around it and they usually worked, and that's why he hadn't ever had to worry about it 'til now. "...I think that's called dyslexia, or something?" Well alright, Doctor Genius, thank you, now we're going to forget this ever happened. "I mean, you might need help again, right?" We'll get there when we get there, okay?

And that was that. Ughhhh I hope he doesn't say anything about it to anyone. I have enough wrong with me.

*

I know part of why Jack was so amazing today was because he still wanted to make up for stealing my speed, but that couldn't really be avoided-- any time we fucked after that, in any way, would have been affected by it. So I was careful. It didn't get very heavy, for the type of sex it was. I knew what I wanted, but I was careful, and he ended up very much knowing what he wanted himself, which felt even better (the last time had me hoping he would, but I worried I was reading too much into things, or something). But ugh, the one guy who's not a stranger I can convince to sub for me and he's only been a guy for four years... well, we all have to start somewhere, I suppose, now don't we (including him!). And I don't want to make it sound as though I'm disappointed in him-- very much not! He was gorgeous even walking in my door to start, in wonderfully ass-hugging jeans and a thin-strapped, loose white tanktop already half-soaked in sweat. I told him he didn’t have to try THAT hard for me, but I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t appreciate it. He laughed while he walked in, said “YOU’RE saying not to try so hard?”

But the leather was for a reason! And I was quick in showing him the reason. I'll never have an idea what domming Lou would have felt like or I don't know if I'll ever find out how domming Nathan might feel, but domming Jack was like teaching an eager student (very thankful for all the practice I've already had now, even if the original purpose for it fell through). Obviously nothing truly cruel. Strict, a little mean in fun ways, but not unfair. --We were sat down on the foot of my bed, and I (still nervous, which may have been silly, but the last couple attempts had been so embarrassing...) said I'd noticed lately that he'd been enjoying things more on the rough side. A blush crawled up from his neck almost immediately, which shed quite a few of my nerves. So I said that I happened to, as well, more and more these days. That I had a decent amount of one-off experience, but I wanted to try something a little more sustained, and I had a feeling he’d like that, too-- would he? All he could do was nod, at first, but he eventually stammered out a yes. He was getting redder and redder as I went on and I was getting more excited the more I knew he wanted what I did, that I was actually pulling it off; the both of us trying our best to stay as level as we could.

After all the various negotiations, I asked him if he'd like to try what he wanted to do the last time, but try better for me. So he was on his knees, arms behind his back, licking my cock thru my pants, sucking me once I allowed him to, trying to turn me on enough to fuck his mouth. This was more difficult for me to prolong than I thought it would be-- Jack can be clumsy with the sweet-talking, but he has a way around cocksucking that’s just as much about loving it as it is about experience. A funny thing with him, too, that I keep having to remember-- typically-denigrating turns of phrase are equally complimentary for him in ways that wouldn't be the case for typical male submissives. The little grin he made around my cock when I told him he sucked dick like a (fuckin’) faggot… ha. Anyway, all that more broadly became him having to turn me on enough to give him the rest of what he wanted (I did figure out how to pace myself), and what he wanted, he'd said at the beginning (still blushing, nervous), was to be “used” by me– not used like something disposable, but like a reliable well-appreciated tool, something treated with a certain kind of respect even if the using itself is rough and long. And he was such a good boy, and he loved getting called that (I suppose not surprising it'd have an extra touch for him in particular), which made him an even better boy. He still had to work for it all, of course, but I wasn't unfair, and he wanted the work regardless (part of why he was a good boy, after all).

Ugh, he was sexier than he's ever fucking been (and successful sadomasochism, even the light stuff, with someone you know is SO much sexier than it is with strangers). I bound his arms behind his back with my belt before fucking his ass and he got to the place I'd once dreamed of bringing Kyle and then beyond it, of being fully lost in and surrendered to it all, lost in me and all I was doing to him, which meant I was lost in him as well, fucking him and gripping him hard, smacking him, licking and sucking and biting his skin, getting more turned on the longer it lasted and the sweatier he got (and he’d already started off sweaty!), raking my nails down his back, clawing at him with each surge of feeling; and he’d ask me to claw him deeper, bite him harder or for longer, hit him, choke him, and after a certain point he didn’t need to remind me anymore, I was past reminding or any other sort of hesitation, riding every surge of feeling without thinking of holding a single thing back 'til he told me to, and then I finished with him on his back, feeling it come on the more I felt his legs shake and tremble around me; I made him look me in the eyes and ask for it and I came inside him with the third please-Sir (that fucking look he does…) and he came soon after, so hot and loud… it wasn't domming Nathan. Whatever that could ever look like would look and feel different from this, but this was still wonderful, and Jack is, too, in his own way. God, Nathan really did make me a fucking freak, though. At least Jack likes me like that.

In any case, I untied his wrists, lay down with him, stroked his face and asked him if I gave him what he wanted. He nodded with a smile in response, and then asked if he gave me what *I* wanted. Silly thing-- of course the answer was yes. I asked him if he wanted me to keep giving it to him, and the way he said "please" after that... fuck, he's already gotten better at it. So of course I have to reward that, and I will. He told me, eventually, that he'd wanted something like this from me from almost the beginning, but he had no idea how to get it or how to get ME to get it. "I wanted to be worthy of you and I had no idea how, and then I wondered if I just never could be, 'cause I don't have EVERYTHING you want. And I dunno if I'll ever be able to get some things, and if I do, it still won't be the same, and you'll still know it, and I can't do shit about it. ...That's also a part of what made me feel and act stupid, I think. ...What did you say back in Bakersfield? That it was the best I could hope to get." UGH he can be an idiot but such an understandable type of idiot. But I suppose we were drawn to each other for a reason.

The more I think about his side of things, though, the more I understand why he'd be drawn to this. He wants to be fucked by a "normal" man (for lack of a succinct term-- I don’t feel the need to put up much of a straight-acting front with him; I don’t think it’s too presumptuous of me to assume he’d get it[80]) that understands him as a man, and to feel even more like a man in the aftermath. He wants to be pinned and choked and hit and have the arousal from it feel good, feel right, instead of incongruous and frightening. He wants to trust me to transform it all into something erotic. Being as successful at it as I was this time was thrilling. I want, so badly, to get as close to perfect at it all as I can get before I have to leave. For him, and also just... generally.

PS: I did ask him-- and I did tell him that I hoped it wasn't too much-- if he would grow out his hair some for me. Just enough to be able to grab it. There's enough time before the tour for that to happen.

PPS: Have taken the next few weeks of Lou dinners off. Thankfully he gets it, and "I'm busy" is still an honest excuse.

*

Ben,

Our first “date” was you n’ me against the side of a cargo container, me on my knees, you fucking my mouth. It started that way-- you thrusting strong, your hand gripped around my hair (both carefully, despite your strength-- you were always a sweetheart, ugh)-- but by the end your hips would just make the occasional tilt up n’ forwards, you were stroking my hair instead of pulling it… I still had all of your cock in my mouth more often than not, but you’d given all control over to me. God, I had so much power over you in that moment-- I’d earned it from you, I’d proven myself to you-- and I barely knew it at the time (certainly not the full erotic potential of it).

You’ve caught me in a strange mood where thinking of you, thinking of that day, is more pleasant than anything. I suppose I’ve learned a lot from you. I couldn’t do what I’m doing now without having someone like you there to do it to me first. And I guess the beginning is easy, isn’t it? All the possibility, none of the resulting reality. But anyway, that exact moment still turns me on to think about. There was a time when things like that were enough for both of us. Something changed somewhere and what worked before stopped working. But it wasn’t for lack of trying (or did you think all the ~pill bottles strewn about my house~ were there for fun?). And now I have to write letters to you I can never send like you’re Ricky or Mom; you made me have to talk to and about you like you’re already dead. And yes, Mom did die, and you weren’t there. But you know what? I know you probably wouldn’t have been there for me even if you didn’t leave me.

Fuck you.

PS: I’m fucking a gorgeous boy who knows I do drugs and doesn’t care, what a concept, you fucking chainsmoking hypocrite.

*

[79]SO well, even better than that time against the tree partially because there were no nerves on my part but also because he was so into it, ugh I wanted to grip his head and fuck his mouth– I did what was essentially the gentle version of that at first; he moaned and nodded his head around me and it went on that way, doing it a little harder, him wanting even harder, kneeling even lower and wider on the floor and-- fuck, I wasn't thinking after that and I didn't care.

[80]We’re something familiar to, but not quite the same as, each other. Like Cryssie and I, but from the opposite direction (Jack and I arrived at the same place; Cryssie and I started from the same place)– sometimes I wonder if she hoped I was the same as her. I know she was disappointed in me about a lot, and I’m not sure how much of it was under my control. I know some of it was. --I should tell him about Cryssie. Maybe. If I can handle it emotionally.