Email: cliodhna@snet.net

It's late, or early depending on which side of midnight you're used to seeing, and here I sit watching you sleep. You're pale, granted the smoke probably isn't helping much--weed does tend to cloud my vision--but Christ, you're pale. Alabaster. I'm quite sure the artist in you would prefer the term 'alabaster'. Whatever. A rose by any other name ...

It's taking far too long for the buzz to hit and ease this feeling.

I can't help but wonder when I'm going to get over *this* particular self-destructive habit, number who-the-fuck-knows on the endless list of self-destructive habits, of waking half paralyzed from fear. It seems so easy to tell myself that all I have to do is get beyond it, just lean over and touch you and, even in sleep, you'll reach for me. You've done it so many times before. Then I can relax because I know we're both safe. Sounds easy enough until I actually have to do it.

Those nights are bad enough; it's the ones where I'm not really awake but I think I am. You don't turn or reach; you lay there while your pillow dissolves into this growing pool of blood. It swirls into your hair, covering your eyes and face. I'm one breath away from insanity because you're so far out of my reach, and I can't help you because I can't move. I'm forced to lie there watching the color draw you down until you're simply ... gone ... and all I can do is gag on the bitter aftertaste of adrenaline while screaming your name. The vision is so real ... nothing else I know as fact matters until suddenly you're there, murmuring nonsense in my hair, grounding me with your touch, whispering pleas to open my eyes. By the time the last of the image is gone all I can do is look at you and offer useless words. My apologies are pitiful at best; you already know how I feel.

Things are better now, relatively speaking. I know you don't believe me; it's probably best to hedge your bets where I'm concerned anyway. I know you know I still wake up, tonight being a
prime example, but that fearful sense of urgency has diminished to the point where I don't scream; I just wake up cold and shaking. Although not completely gone, it's enough that it's lessened.

Some nights I need a little more reassurance than others ... like tonight. Tonight was bad; the whole thing left me nauseous and shivering. I'm trying my damnedest to keep the remains of dinner down but I may lose that battle very soon, and if one more so-called well-meaning person brings up the fact that I've lost weight I'll snap. A hot shower would feel good but would require more effort than it's worth. Feeling the way I did my choices were either beat myself up emotionally or retreat into the blue haze for a while.

Getting pleasantly stoned seemed the better option since the emotional beatings don't accomplish much anymore, other than leave me feeling pretty worthless. We both know my opinions concerning self-pity so I'm trying to avoid that.

You'll be pleased to know that the weed is finally working.

I've resorted to playing a game with myself to pass the time while waiting for the real buzz to kick in; I pick a body part of yours to critique. You'd fucking love it. Too bad you're asleep or I'd tell you. Come to think of it, no I wouldn't. Christ, if I did that there'd be no end to the discussion ... on your part. I can almost hear you asking me detailed questions.

And exactly where *would* I start? Get your mind out of the gutter, it's not where you think.

One time it was your mouth. When you're sound asleep your lips part, I guess everyone's do but I've only studied yours. They're soft, some would say lush. They look good when they're wet, even better when they're wet and sliding up and down my dick. You weren't lying when you repeated your "I like dick" speech to me; you are good at it.

You kiss pretty well, too. Very well. You have these deep, search-every-part-of-my-mouth kisses where you pour yourself into me. Your whole body moves with it. Once I came close to asking where you learned but I was afraid you would've actually told me, and I'm not sure you would've said I was the one who taught you. It was best to leave well enough alone. Sometimes you just use your lips--no tongue, not until we're really into it--and you work them over my mouth, just nipping, then drag them down my throat to my collarbone. That move does it to me every time.

And your smile ... I've given that more than a passing thought. I defy anyone to look at you when you have one of those mega-watt ones going and *not* smile in return. It's fucking contagious,
worse than a yawn, I know because I've tried to fight it. I'm sure I have scars on the inside of my mouth from biting so hard. Now I just give in. It's easier.

Another night it was the sound of your voice--although I doubt your voice qualifies as a body part. Whisper soft on the office phone, explaining in graphic detail the various things you'll do to me when we're finally alone. Those days are excruciatingly long. That soft, languid way you say my name when you're almost asleep and have just one more thing to tell me, because you *always* have just one more thing to tell me. The whine you get when something isn't going your way, and, according to you, it's *my* fault. The quiet, flat tone you have when the whole world is crashing in and you're about to give up the battle.

Then there's the way you practically hiss at me when you're really pissed, like that time I was ragging on you about your dad, he'd said something callous--I'm sure it was related to me somehow. I asked you how many times were you going to let him wipe his feet on you, when were you going to realize he was just an asshole and not worth your time or love? You choked out that he was your father and you'd give him at least as many chances as you'd given me.

Well, you were right but it still hurt like hell.

My favorite is this raspy kind of desperate quality your voice takes on when you're horny and so close to shooting. That's the one I work hard to hear. It bores right through me making a straight
line from my ears to my dick. My stomach does this thing, a cross between a flip and a shiver, then my balls tighten. Pure pleasure. Right after that sound, no matter what position we're in, you have to see my eyes, even if it's just for a split second, before you let go. The first few times I didn't know what the hell you were doing, twisting around like that, it wasn't long before I figured
it out. You need that connection, like I need that thing with our fingers. I'm not sure if it keeps you grounded or what, whatever the reason I'm used to it. It works for us.

One of our best nights involved that barely-there fine blond trail of hair that begins at your navel and ends buried near the base of your dick. Fuck, neither of us got any sleep *that* night, which
would have been okay but we hadn't gotten much the night before, either. The entire week was pretty much a blur of very little sleep and plenty of sex, with some caffeine and sugar on the side.

Inching the covers away, licking the line all the way down until I got to your dick then sucking you as gently as possible--well, gently for me anyway--looking sideways at you, your eyes were pitch black in the low light and you had 'fuck me' written all over your face. Which, eventually, I did but not before your voice took on that desperate tone while your hands white-knuckled the covers. I was such a prick, I told you not to move, threatening to stop if I felt you so much as brush my arm with your fingertips--and not before you had taken a turn with me. You told me to hurry up or you'd fuck me instead. I stopped everything and laid back against the pillows ... and waited for you to take over.

That was a first for us. Played out like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. The apprehension in your eyes belied the confidence in your touch; I knew you were scared to
death, just like our first night together. It's not like you hadn't topped before--you just hadn't topped me--but we'd danced around the issue. It was time. I was finally ready.

And there we were face to face, every nerve screaming, every touch hotter than the last, the things you did with your mouth and hands had me moaning like some virgin schoolboy. I begged you to go harder, faster, then milked you for all you were worth, every last drop. For once I wore you out. Your dick felt so right inside me I never wanted to let it go.

But the next day--thank Christ it was a Friday--was rough. You had the early shift at the diner, I had a meeting to pitch God only knows what to some faceless client. We were both lucky our asses got saved. Deb took pity on you by keeping you at the counter, although when I picked you up later she did ream me out pretty well. There was no point in asking her how she knew; Deb just knows these things. Might've been the fact that you damn near fell asleep while waiting for the coffee to brew, not to mention the countless orders you fucked up. I could be wrong but I doubt it.

Much to Cynthia's delight there were two pounds of those obscenely expensive chocolates she loves so much--cheap at twice the price that day--on her desk by 3 that afternoon because she kept things together when it looked like the whole campaign was going to crumble. Surprisingly enough she was gracious about digging in, never once busted my ass, and kept my coffee cup filled without a word or look from me.

She thinks you're good for me.

Everything clicked that night. We have a lot of nights like that. Exhaustion is a small price to pay.

What else? Your neck, yeah, that was another night, the nape of your neck. I spent an hour--I was pretty stoned--thinking about how it fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. How I enjoy wrapping my fingers around the side, stroking your hairline with my thumb and watching the slight shiver you try to eat when I kiss you just under your left ear. You practically purr and then you flash that smile.

Your neck ... one of the most vulnerable parts of your body, almost delicate, but when I see how high you hold your head after everything you've been through, nothing could be stronger.

I studied your hands last week. Fine blond hairs--white in this light now that I'm looking at them--raised veins, those talented fingers that are just as comfortable curling around a pencil as they are around a glass or a bottle, or my dick ... especially my dick. The heat you can create with just a simple brush of your fingertips. You think the right one is damaged--calling it your gimp hand--but it'll heal. It *has* healed tremendously, you just have zero patience. You get so pissed with me when I force you to use it but the improvements are there. I wish I could get you to believe me. I guess I'm not as brilliant an advertiser as they claim if I can't get you to buy the truth from me. Hell, that hand gripped the covers pretty well just a few hours ago. Trust me, it's getting *much* better.

Then there are times it's just the feeling of your skin. I need to feel your skin, its warmth and texture, because sometimes, fuck, you know sometimes it's just physical with us, with me. I need
to... I just have to touch you. Slip my hand under your shirt, slide my fingers over the soft skin on your side, your ribcage, and the small of your back. I love the feel of your muscles tensing in your stomach because I know you're just waiting, hell, you're *hoping* I'll slip my hand down your waistband. Sometimes I do; most times I don't and that jacks the frustration up another notch or two.

And your taste, the distinctive taste of the skin on your collarbone, the backs of your thighs, the hollow of your hip, your balls, the head of your dick--salty and sweet. When I think about how I've kissed and tongued every conceivable part of your body, how every time it feels new, it fucking scares me to death. I've never told you that. I guess I should but it would all go to your head and you'd be intolerable to live with, not that you aren't already. At least that's what I tell everyone.

Yeah, well, *they* don't believe me either.

And, believe it or not, I do strive for some shred of subtlety while copping a feel here and there but usually I fall short. Mikey's pretty good at spotting the ruse. To his credit he never says anything, he just shoots me that patented put-upon look. He's the best kind of friend you could ask for but he just doesn't get it. I don't think he ever will. It's a physical thing; I can't keep my hands off you.

Even now it's tough. You're right here, so close, so damned tempting. Just one touch and you'll turn searching, then slide up against my body, radiating heat.

Just one touch.

Oh Christ, I've turned into a fucking romantic. Must be the weed.

Lindsay used to say I was so hardened that I wouldn't recognize love if I fell over it, much less offer it. Seems like a lifetime ago. Insulated, isolated, telling myself I was happy. I could barely love as a friend, and then only a select few. Never imagined myself as a lover, certainly never a father. That was before you, before Gus.

Just one ... touch.

"Bri?"

Another of your voices--more breath than sound, sleep-thickened, concern coloring the edges.

"Yeah."

Soft skin, fine hairs, long, knowing, searching fingers.

"Mmm ... y'ok?"

Freshly licked lips--wet, reflecting the light.

"I am now."

Search-every-part-of-my-mouth kisses.

"Y'sure?"

You're safe. I'm safe.

"Yeah, Justin, I'm sure."

And Lindz was wrong, but she already knows that.

~the end~

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