Getting my victim to pardon me
The heat has been turned off in the building for some reason. There are only two of us. The rest of the apartments are empty and the doors swing wide open. Broken panes of glass everywhere. Sometimes I walk around in the empty apartments, the refrigerator doors swinging wide, the smell of gas from forgotten stoves breathing to themselves in bare kitchens, ugly lino.
A hot boy used to live downstairs. He had girls over all the time, pretty girls that I imagined he would fuck at night and in the morning I would watch them dash out in high heels and negligee as their cars got towed from out front. I would fantasize about this boy, thin as a rail and trash-faced, addicted to camel lights and ice beer, and wish he wanted me. Now he's gone and his apartment is empty. I wandered around in it just now, sniffing, trying to get a sense of him. He's been gone for months of course. The bathroom, the bedroom, swept clean of everything except a few dead skin cells, I imagine, on the windowsill.
The Christmas break has come and gone and Cute T hasn't called, which makes me sad and yet defiant. We met about a year ago--I threw a Christmas party and some boys brought him. He was cute and curly-haired, thin and indie. He was also moving to New York City in a few weeks, but we went out on a date anyway, to a trashy gay bar, and got drunk, and I, feeling giddy, told him I didn't care if he was moving--I liked him and I was going to keep liking him. Thus began about a month of intense passion...fucking all weekend, napping in bed to wake and fuck again, dinners, movies, more fucking, making out. He is so fucking cute I am getting aroused just imaginging being inside him again. He is also sweet and tender and one of those boys you want to spend all your money and time and cum making happy.
Part of the success of things for me was that he was moving. I know that doesn't make any sense, but we wouldn't have worked out had he stuck around. If we had had all the time in the world, we would have squandered it, grown bored, moved on. With only a few weeks, we crammed it all into a tight ball between us, like some critical mass of neutrons that burned our bellies.
He moved to NYC and I visited him and he would come back to town unannounced. His family lives in a small town about an hour away so Cute T would fly into the larger metropolis and call me. "Hey, it's me. I'm on the train heading into the city. Can I crash with you for a few days until my flight leaves?" I never knew when his calls were coming and he was always only an hour or two from my doorstop. It was sexy and exciting. We'd have a few more days to fuck and cuddle and whisper. And then he'd be gone.
Cute T always wanted more, and I was content with what we had. Finally he caught wind of my truth--that I didn't think we would have worked out had we stayed together. It was something I kept from him, calculatingly. Why spoil it with a kernel of truth he didn't need to know? Witholding your projection of a possible future that never came to pass isn't dishonest. He wrote me saying he just wanted to be loved the way he wanted to be loved. At first I was sad, and then I became angry--don't I want to be loved the way I want to be loved? And if Cute T could do that, wouldn't my thoughts have changed? I said as much to him, and that was the end.
So these past few days between Christmas and New Year's, wandering around my freezing apartment in slippers, wondering if Cute T would call (but knowing deep down that he won't ever call again), I can't help but think of another passage from Genet...
A hot boy used to live downstairs. He had girls over all the time, pretty girls that I imagined he would fuck at night and in the morning I would watch them dash out in high heels and negligee as their cars got towed from out front. I would fantasize about this boy, thin as a rail and trash-faced, addicted to camel lights and ice beer, and wish he wanted me. Now he's gone and his apartment is empty. I wandered around in it just now, sniffing, trying to get a sense of him. He's been gone for months of course. The bathroom, the bedroom, swept clean of everything except a few dead skin cells, I imagine, on the windowsill.
The Christmas break has come and gone and Cute T hasn't called, which makes me sad and yet defiant. We met about a year ago--I threw a Christmas party and some boys brought him. He was cute and curly-haired, thin and indie. He was also moving to New York City in a few weeks, but we went out on a date anyway, to a trashy gay bar, and got drunk, and I, feeling giddy, told him I didn't care if he was moving--I liked him and I was going to keep liking him. Thus began about a month of intense passion...fucking all weekend, napping in bed to wake and fuck again, dinners, movies, more fucking, making out. He is so fucking cute I am getting aroused just imaginging being inside him again. He is also sweet and tender and one of those boys you want to spend all your money and time and cum making happy.
Part of the success of things for me was that he was moving. I know that doesn't make any sense, but we wouldn't have worked out had he stuck around. If we had had all the time in the world, we would have squandered it, grown bored, moved on. With only a few weeks, we crammed it all into a tight ball between us, like some critical mass of neutrons that burned our bellies.
He moved to NYC and I visited him and he would come back to town unannounced. His family lives in a small town about an hour away so Cute T would fly into the larger metropolis and call me. "Hey, it's me. I'm on the train heading into the city. Can I crash with you for a few days until my flight leaves?" I never knew when his calls were coming and he was always only an hour or two from my doorstop. It was sexy and exciting. We'd have a few more days to fuck and cuddle and whisper. And then he'd be gone.
Cute T always wanted more, and I was content with what we had. Finally he caught wind of my truth--that I didn't think we would have worked out had we stayed together. It was something I kept from him, calculatingly. Why spoil it with a kernel of truth he didn't need to know? Witholding your projection of a possible future that never came to pass isn't dishonest. He wrote me saying he just wanted to be loved the way he wanted to be loved. At first I was sad, and then I became angry--don't I want to be loved the way I want to be loved? And if Cute T could do that, wouldn't my thoughts have changed? I said as much to him, and that was the end.
So these past few days between Christmas and New Year's, wandering around my freezing apartment in slippers, wondering if Cute T would call (but knowing deep down that he won't ever call again), I can't help but think of another passage from Genet...
Here am I this morning, after a long night of caressing my beloved couple, torn from my sleep by the noise of the bolt being drawn by the guard who comes to collect the garbage. I get up and stagger to the latrine, still entangled in my strange dream, in which I succeeded in getting my victim to pardon me.Of course that's how I felt this morning, waking with a slight hangover. Wishing Cute T was in bed with me and thinking for a brief moment that I might see him again. This time last year we were lying in bed together, watching the snow outside, making love over and over again.
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