(David)

Part 8 Part 2

And then I'm alone on Saturday. 
I'm not good at being alone. 
And there's this one guy I'm thinking of, one very hot guy (with a huge dick, which I have very mixed, mostly worried feelings about) that I'd been talking to in addition to the hot asshole YouTuber (3 days on grindr, I got around). And I wonder "I wonder if he's on". I'll just check. 
And then I'm back, I didn't actually finish deleting the pictures, I didn't delete the backups (I just forgot) and I need to feel good, I need to feel like someone could want to fuck me. 
I put up some kind of a description, something about "a pasty white kid with the confidence of a taller man with a bigger dick" (Oh look, humor) and I start going. The pickings are slimmer. And big dicked dude isn't on at all. Not that that keeps me from just "looking around". 


And then I message this Very Hot Guy.

He doesn't reply. Yet. 


I'm messaging this guy who seemed nice enough (tame, is a better word), but has slowly started to feel dirtier and more suspicious. I keep going (I didn't know it then, but I was punishing myself. I was Angry With Me and also allured by this latest, dirty thing). I was feeling good though (SOMEONE wanted to fuck me), so I go back to the Very Hot Guy I messaged earlier, and say something like "does desperate and a little needy do anything for you? Because that's about all I have left tonight".
And a little while later, he comes back. "Humor always works"
In. The. Bag. 

We start talking, and, oh my god. He can keep up with me. We're talking, joking, fucking bantering back and forth, and he's actually funny. I'm laughing out loud, I'm trying to text as fast as I can to finish jokes before he comes back with another. I feel giddy and delighted and zippy, alive and just— happy, to be talking to and to be listening to this guy.
This is David.

We chat for an hour, about how hot Chris Evans is, about how this guy wears sunglasses in all his pics because he has no eyes and wears a paper bag during sex (I say the crinkling sound is my fetish), about how he was a jock in highschool (and highschool theater me pops a boner) about how I aced all MY AP tests (he got a 2 on ONE but I won't let that go, no sir), about me picking out a nickname for him (gramps, after he says "this is embarrassing" his dick turns in after 10, which turns out not to be strictly true, holla), and about a bunch of other rapidly moving stuff I've completely lost track of. But most of it's about how delighted we are to actually have met someone worth talking to, who can carry an actual conversation, how funny and delightful we are. 

A while before, I'd picked out a name I could use on grindr of it came up. A name I decided I could go by while I did this, while I lied to people and tried to outrun my conscience and damage myself. I picked Jackson. Or, sometimes "I go by Jax". I thought it sounded cool. I felt like something about it captured something about me, hooked in somewhere so I could be sure I remembered it.

He makes a move, tells me his name is David. And I say, "Jackson". 
I lie. 

He asks me why I'm on grindr ("and now the grindr question," I've stolen that line since). I don't remember what I said. 
That really bugs me now. What did I tell him? Did I just say sex? Did I say I wasn't sure? Did I say the truth, that it was just a bad idea I let go to my head? I think I made a joke, but I also actually answered. I just don't remember with what.
But he liked it.

And then he's out of condoms, and I say we'll just stop at a store, it'll be romantic. But then, lo and behold he found one! ("It's a Christmas miracle!" He says, "I'm Jewish", I say). It only occurs to me now to doubt his sincerity and wonder if he really was out, or if that was just an excuse he decided to dispense with.

And we decide (we, actually, we), that we've got to meet. But it's late (like 1:00 already) and I'm leaving for Portland the next afternoon until Tuesday. And then I come up with a brilliant idea.
How about I come over now, spend the night, and then in the morning we fuck like rabbits (exact words. I spent a minute trying to come up with something that fucks more originally than rabbits, but nothing came to mind).
And I fully acknowledge how weird that is. But,
He's in. 
And he also thinks it's weird but, holy shit,
He's in.
Holy Shit. He's coming to pick me up and I scramble, packing an overnight bag (holy shit, I never thought I'd do that), brushing my teeth, fishing out cardamom pods (For fresh and fragrant breath! Hey, spit boy liked it) and throwing on pants. 
I tell him to meet me a couple blocks from my house, because I'm not telling him my real address. Jackson doesn't like people to know too much about him before he sucks their dick.

I wait on the corner, drop him a pin because he has a bad sense of direction (and my heart skips, because ME TOO and it feels like fate). And I wait, and wait, trying to keep my conscience from fucking this up and- it's really easy. I'm excited, I'm having fun. And this confuses me, how positive this experience has been, how fun, how just plain delightful and... Clean, but I put that thought away, it's letting too much conscience in.
(I'm still not really sure what to do with it. Maybe it's still letting to much conscience in).
And he pulls up to the curb. And I go up to the car and he's texting and I'm confused why he's messaging me, I'm right here. And I tap on the window and he unlocks the door and I get inside.
And he looks really guarded.
He looks like he regrets this. 
I didn't notice it then, I was too busy noticing me, being nervous about what I was thinking and doing, about how the energy had completely gone out of me when he looked at me with that jolt of confused disappointment. 
I'd thrown on a hoody before going to the corner, he'd told me not to try and look cute, it didn't matter, and I'd felt cool and libertine and devil may care, throwing on something comfortable. Now I felt garish, ungainly, stupid, a haunting from middle school, when I'd worn my mom's old jacket every single day, zipped all the way to the top. Fucking weirdo.
He drove and we... Chatted. Lightly, dispassionately, like he picked me up to take me to work. "What do you do?" "How was your weekend?" (I'm getting ready to get fucked for the second time and trying to sell "exciting and interesting", thanks).

We park, I scramble very ungracefully out of his car, follow him (like the new intern, like an ugly duckling, like a kid who has just realized they have no idea what they're doing and is way out of their depth) up to his apartment. He offers me water or wine in that same dispassionate voice ("This is just how I sound" he mentions right after I get in the car. I'm still working out if I believe him. He was gayer sounding than I thought he'd be, barely nasal, with a flippant edge, and I'm surprised by the fact that I'm into it).
I pick water, answer his surprise with I Don't Drink, "I ran with nerds in college, we never got into it, I don't like the taste, the idea of facing reality through warped lenses really unsettles me (I don't even wear sunglasses)" all true, none of it the real reason. He doesn't look impressed, but also doesn't seem to care. 
At some point I lightly (nervously) say "I have a confession" and babble out that I'm inexperienced. He asks how inexperienced, I say one time. He's not impressed. He's not Into It, but he says something about "everyone blooms at different times". And maybe he didn't actually care. Maybe that's just me caring now. Maybe I'm assuming it was stupid and I was stupid, maybe he was into me. It was dark in the room then, and it hasn't gotten any brighter in the memory, it hadn't cleared up enough for me to See.

He goes to the bathroom and I sit on his bed (plug in my dying phone) and panic a little. 
He comes back out and I crack a joke about how that was my chance to slip into something more comfortable but I forgot my lingerie. He laughs, not a lot but still, I feel better. 
He says he usually sleeps naked and starts stripping down and, holy shit. 
His pictures were of him shirtless, but I didn't realize just how muscular, just how fucking perfect his body was (just how actually REAL it was, there are guys like this, people like this in Real Life and holy Fuck I might actually get to touch one, the hell?), and I'm stunned back into a weird, bug eyed silence. He leaves his underwear on (but I thought you said naked...?) And slips into bed. Into the bed we're going to share.
And I strip too, matching, underwear on, and I climb into another man's bed.

And he turns and we have pillow talk, before-sex pillow talk. He asks me where I'm from, I say it's complicated, talk about moving, about being born in the UK (I say England, but I was born in Scotland. I don't want to share anything that I hold sacred, I want to be Jackson, try and keep Alex's life pure, so I lie, I take this moment and smother out the truth.)
He tells me about moving too, skipping up and down the western seaboard.
We talk about coming out, and being gay, or he does, I listen, not interjecting, not sure what story I would spin.
He talks about "finding his own truth", not being ashamed anymore of what he wants or how often and moving on. 
And there's a little burn of jealously in me as I listen to that, to him talk about these morals he can configure and tune and control (master of his own fate, captain of his soul) of his easy (-er than mine, maybe, but at the time I just think easy) sexuality.
And he asks me why I waited so long. I bumble out something about being in a small town, a small conservative town, focusing on school (all true, all true) and then suddenly realizing there were guys out there. 
And the conversation lulls, we talk about... Something, maybe, I don't remember (or more accurately, I remember what he said, just not if it was now or later or earlier). But he's lying (relaxed, resplendent, at ease, a powerful body languid) in bed next to me, and I don't want to talk anymore.
I try to start something, try to make myself make a move, but I just fucking can't, and he's looking at me. Finally I swear, collapse, hide my head (like a fucking schoolgirl, with a giggle, goddamn shoot me) and when I pop back up I ask "wanna make out?" (Shoot me).
And he says
"Sure"
And we do. And our lips meet, and our arms, and he feels amazing. Hard mounds and round shapes (look at that) And smooth skin that moves and flexes and teases lightly down my body under the covers. And it's so weird, so alien and bizarre and what am I doing and how, exactly, do I keep doing it but I think I love it. 
And at some point (pretty early on, I think, probably) I look up at him and say "I thought you slept naked".
And he strips off his underwear and I throw back the covers and, damn. 
I'm really not sure how much I should or want to say, but, his dick is incredible. And I slide down the bed and, fuck, I think I really like sucking dick (sorry dad, sorry, sorry sorry).
He's clean and relaxed, and his hands are tracing ghosts up and down my triceps and the edges of my hair, and, 
It's all so light and easy. I didn't like it the first time, but, now,
Is it just because it's the second time? Is it because, actually, I'm attracted to this guy? Is it because I'm making myself like it (might as well?). I wasn't, really, comfortable with how good I felt, how good about myself (a little (lot) clumsy, but earnest and taking it like a champ) I felt. Or maybe I was ok with it then. I'm not now. 
And this goes on for a bit, we trade places and I shudder like an earthquake when he traces down my stomach. And I can't stop telling him how hot he is. Literally can't stop, I'm besotted, astounded, at times genuinely confused, because I like everything about this package and I don't get it. I compliment, I complain, I exclaim. At one point I apologize because I can’t shut up about it. He chuckles and tells me it's fine but I still feel like I'm annoying him. Am I?

I'm sucking his dick, loving it, looking him in the eye like a good little whore and I hear him growl "I do kinda wanna fuck you now" and my everything (heart, stomach, cock) twitch. 
We'd talked about this. He was a bottom  
(self described "vers-bottom" with a glitter emoji, god, I still like him), and I... Was, am? Kind of one too. But neither of us was "prepped" (I had only a dim notion of what this meant) and we'd made the vague, I think unspoken agreement that this meant there would be no anal. 

I tell him he can (look at me go, still not thinking about what that actually means, just saying it because it's definitely the next line in the sexy script), but, I haven't prepped. But I could take a minute to soap up my ass (that's all Spit-In-My-Mouth had asked for, is that... Normal? Porn has not prepared me for this). David says no no, douching is prepping. But isn't that unhealthy? No, not if you just use water instead of something crazy (not quite, David). I hesitate. I don't give a shit (lol), but my dick won't be up there and He seems pretty insistent on it. He says I'll want to be confident the first time I take a dick, better prepare first. And he completely misunderstood me, but I don't correct him, for some reason (I think we mentioned something vague about tomorrow?). I just go back down to my new favorite play thing.

And then I ask him if I can try eating his ass (SORRY dad). And he's surprised, a little, but
he says yes ("I'm sugared down there, so it'll be easy").

And I get down and. This isn't quite as fun, but, I think I'm Into This.

I flip him over (taking charge) and a couple minutes later, "You're a natural at this". My mother would be so proud. (I actually am).


I come up for air (literally, boy is thicc) and we kiss and kinda just stop. You know how idiots ask "how do you know when lesbian sex ends?" Guess that sometimes works with the gays too. 
He asks if I know how to cuddle (weird question) and I say I'm not sure (because... It's cuddling, what do you mean) and he asks if I want to be the little spoon. Hell yeah, hot stuff.
And he wraps his arms around me, he's a furnace, but his arms are strong (and huge and firm and yes) and I Don't Mind.
I'm sleeping with a man. In his bed, the taste of his cock still rich in my mouth.
I've never done this before.

And he rubs his crotch up against the back of my leg and he giggles "I'm still hard".
And I have an idea.
I try to sleep, but I never sleep well the first night in a new place (my savanna instincts are too good, this place hasn't been vetted for dangerous predators yet). And this idea is chewing in the back of my head.
He shifts again and, fuck it.
I turn around. "You awake?"
"Yeah"
"You wanna cum on my chest?"
And I don't remember his response, really, but, he does. And I really like it.
So now I can never judge anyone.

And I say that as a joke, because, it's a great joke, but, I'm not proud of that. At all. I managed to make a guy cum (points for ya boi) but, 
But. 
I think I'm ashamed? At least embarrassed. This feels dirtier, and worse and, I liked it. I shouldn't have liked it. 

We go to sleep (he makes me be the big spoon, which is also nice), and I doze very fitfully. We come apart in the night and sleep two feet apart. I wake up at 6, and I watch him sleep. He's still huge. Like a small, smooth bear tucked into bed, and he huddles over himself, his broad back and shoulders to me, bronze and smooth and soft looking. He twitched a lot as we were falling asleep, and it awoke some sort of worry in me. It reminded me of a dog sleeping, having bad dreams.

I get on my phone and dawdle on buzzfeed and check Grindr while he sleeps. I feel bad about Grindr. That seems silly, but he's right there, and, frankly, he's better than any of the other guys on there.

He wakes up a little later, and I feel a little bad that he's up so early and got so little sleep, but I'm excited my playmate's up, and I'm very curious, because we're scheduled to (on my schedule, anyway) "fuck like rabbits in the morning".

And he's pretty groggy. We chitchat, and then (Sunday morning) I ask if he wants to wake up, and I throw back the covers and move down to his crotch. 
He says I "don't have to do that", and I say "but I want to" (I really do) —and I go to town.

And he's fucking amazing looking now that some light's getting in the room and— I ask if he's awake now ("almost", with a grin) and— I do my job and, fuck, it's working, it works. He says "You're going to make me cum" and I jerk him off and, I do.

I make a man cum twice (yes mom, I know I'm your favorite). 

And he gets up, cleans off, and—
"Well, I guess I should start the day".

And I lie, naked and hard in his bed, while he slips on his underwear and heads to the bathroom (I tell him to wait before he puts on his underwear, so I can get a look at him with my glasses on. He smirks grudgingly and obliges. It feels like he's obliging). 
He has brunch at 10 ("most people don't get there as early as me") and he has to get ready. 
It's 8 o'clock. 
I ask if I can take a shower, he says sure. I rinse myself twice, try to feel dirty (try not to feel dirty), but I just feel ungainly and clumsy. 
I come out and he's on his bed in his underwear. I get dressed, gather up my stuff and, "ok, I'll take you back" 
I don't really know what's going on.

I thought that we were going to stick around a while, try some other stuff, or, laze or talk but he's already dressed in shorts and a tank top and putting on his shoes, so I do to.

 
I get in his car and we chat, about his work, how he's moving, how he's going to take a vacation ("You're hiLARious" he says at one point. I hate that. I know I'm funny, you don't have to tell me, I know, I was tipped off when you laughed. But he never laughed, just cracked a patient smile). 
He tells me about a sex shop where I can buy a douche ("It caters to more of a leather crowd, but it's good" I look it up later and their specialty seems to be dog masks, no, no, no, no, no).

I tell him he can just drop me off anywhere on my street. He pulls over somewhere and gives me an "awkward car hug" (... The Fuck? I just sucked your dick. A side hug?) and I get out, feeling.... I don't even know. I'm shut down, closed off, too scared to open up to myself and feel rejected or filthy or, I don't even know. I close myself up like a hope chest. Saved for later, oh boy. I say some half digested thing about maybe we'll see each other later, he doesn't reply (does he think I'm rejecting him? I am, but-)

And I get out, walk back towards my house, he drives off. 
And I get to my room, lay on my bed, and feel... I still don't know. 
I need to break it off. I need to tell him the truth, or part of it at least, but I'm scared. Of what I'm not sure, but a thin snake of fear, self-loathing, revulsion, is crawling in my stomach.
I get on Grindr. There are still a million guys that want to talk to me, and I indulge a few. I indulge myself. 
I send David a message (why? You know what you're going to do, why are you doing this), something about "so sex is a journey,"—something he told me at the beginning of the night— "but next time I think I want to cum, or at least visit a couple more places" (it just occurs to me that he didn't even ask if I wanted to cum. A 5 minute blow job and the rest is me taking care of (experiencing?) him. Did he not want to deal with me? Did he think I was satisfied? (I was, I guess) Or just think I was assertive enough to make my own demands? (I wasn't)). He doesn't respond. I'm still nervous.

The first guy I had sex with messages me. He recognizes me: my cropped torso, my fucking grin. I panic a little, but we talk. He tells me to come over, and I say no. I tell him I don't trust him, that it's not going to happen. He accepts that. It feels good. It feels like closure. I hate him.

And then I realize I'm at the end of my rope. I start writing The Message. It's still saved on my phone. It's dreadful.


I sound crazy, trapped, unhinged (I was, I am). A halfway to homeless bumpkin babbling about being Christian and "the kind where you marry a nice girl" and "I'm a piece of shit, I'm sorry". I send it. 
And then I wait, I make sure he gets online. I see the little green dot come up next to his picture, see it hold there, make sure he sees it, sees the message (I think he saw it?)— and he goes back offline. And I delete the app (rinse, delete, repeat). 


I text my friend. He's sympathetic, a little alarmed (maybe a lot alarmed) and I get ready to drive to Portland with my co-worker. 

The trip is long, we talk a lot, it's actually really good, but it—he, is always on the back of my mind. What we did, what I did.  

I get into Portland. My parents pick me up, I'm staying with them. And I tell them. And they're so disappointed, and worried and scared and nervous, this wasn't supposed to happen twice. And it's a mistake, it's over, and we kind of settle it that way. 
But then later I talk to my mom, and... I have to tell her. I liked him.

I was entranced: he was sharp, he was beautiful, he could keep up with me, that felt so special, that's so rare (it's why I asked you out, on that ridiculous date, way back when) and I really, really liked talking to him. I liked him. 

 

I rarely fantasized about having a boyfriend or (it still sounds weird, it still sounds so weird) a husband. My whole life that was very clearly Off Limits, and not something I wanted anyway (I wanted a girl, with a small waist and a sharp wit and a smile and golden-hour sunlight in her hair. Obviously).

I'd tried to picture it in my head, tried to imagine living a life out with someone who could wear the same clothes as me and was taller and... A man. I could never do it. I could imagine flirting, being on a date, but, loving them? Him loving me? I couldn't figure out what it would look like. I still can't. I still keep shying back. I'm too scared.
And the person I imagined myself to be, on those dates....

 

We all have different people inside of us, different facets and personalities that make their entrances and exits depending on who else is on stage, and this character was small, and timid, and gentle, this Me With a Man. It had to leave behind my fierceness, my sharpness, the cutting edges of me. (Good?) But those edges are good for cutting more than people. This me (this Me With a Man) was weak. I was diminished in those fantasies, stooping to fit through the door of them. And I would be in Real Life too.

And I decide, "don't let the birds nest, stop fantasizing about him, put that away." Good thoughts, pure thoughts, about birds, or movies or TV or food, it's a habit, you can beat this. That lasts two days, and then I can't do it anymore.

I can't do it. I thought I was going to triumph over it and stuff it back down into the box (closet) it came out of, crush it underfoot— like Michael slaying Satan— and emerge whole, straight, triumphant, pure. 

Instead it just gets worse.