Why Are You Lie This?

Sadjams: Making do in the Rustbelt

Ch. 3

Ryan and Ian [Once in a blue moon]

Why Are You Like This?

(CW: Impact play, intermediate psychological dominance, hints of primal, esoteric references)

Sometimes I wonder. I don't know for sure what you and I have. I try to be honest about the facts, even the hard ones, but sometimes it just isn't clear how things add up, or what divides us. We have obvious differences, I'm just not sure what the product is.

My friendly gas station kitsch buddy. Riding along like a funny keychain, the kind that's missing a bit. Where's the line between fondness and pity?

We hang out here and there. You bring over games and cheap beer that I wouldn't buy for myself, but I drink and play with you nonetheless, welcoming the novelty and appreciating the thought. I feed you my health conscious depression food and make friendly noises at you. If that's not friendship, what is?

Sometimes, at the thin end of the night, where the miserable push themselves past twilight, past business hours and responsible bedtimes, past caring to look at the clock as anything but a bad joke, and then the cats-cradles of confused expectations we hem ourselves in with become a bad dream of being awake; when the recycling bin is mostly beer cans and points don't matter anymore, and literally anything is funny. When we're people instead of civilians or consumers, we play, slap, grope, and make out like blind things.

Once you dropped by late.

I theorized it might be nice to see you, but I hadn't been happy to see anyone or anything for the last day or two. When I opened the door you were stood up there on the open porch-balcony with your grin, your bag, and your case of cans. I just stared at you

"Sup?" You shrugged, after a few long moments, and I nodded you in. Who knows how you describe me, but you've seen me in my Moods.

I had too bad a case of deathly seriousness to play. I set the food down on the ottoman, but I left the tv off, and just turned down the seething instrumental metal a few notches. You dug into the loaded nachos like you hadn't had a meat and a vegetable in the same dish for a while, which is why I dumped those particular ingredients on a plate. The most caring asshole on the block; get me my fucking medal. I marched chips and refried beans smothered in store-brand-organic salsa over my tongue one at a time, like a man who means to drink long and still have their stomach in the morning.

When the food is mostly gone, down to picking at the last bites, and I'm popping the top on two micro brews that we're having for dessert now, I ask you about your day for a second time. Like for serious.

It's like cupping the ass of your brain, and I don't think you're aware of the smile that creeps across your chapped pink lips. While putting on some weirder, throbbier album, something with Kenneth Anger clips for video, I prod you for details. I squeeze gently at your explanations until you start to seep and peel back to reveal a little more genuine perspective.

We're just talking about work, mostly yours - I'm not in the mood to talk about myself, since I am currently a twighlit pit of spikes - but it starts coming down to how you think things in the world work, and what the fuck makes you think that? I want to tear the trousers off your sense of reality, to strip the certainty off of your standard issue understanding, and make it smart a little. I mean, it's great that you're considering things from that coworker's perspective, but has it occurred to you that, considering all reasonable explanations, they might be, for all practical purposes, a sadistic asshole scarred from childhood? It's not pretty, and your benefit of doubt is sweet, a true virtue, but maybe they were born that way. More likely something happened. Do you think people are born bad or just get fucked up a day at a time? How's that for hitting close to home?

My glands are exhausted from overthinking these things for years, and here I am mercilessly squeezing yours like a stress ball. Lifting you gently to stand you on strange philosophical precipices that you're by and large unfamiliar with, at least this up close and personal.

We get into economics and social psychology. I drain part of my third beer, set it on a coaster, then slink on all fours like a lazy, vicious thing, across the couch, slowly, up your sprawled legs, to sit on sort of your midriff, between your belly and your junk. You just kind of let me. My intent gaze, locked on your face, detects your vacillation between shock and thrill. On closer inspection you still smell like dollar store shower and look scrubbed. You smile. But I am not a dancer here to amuse you;

You are pinned.

I ask you hard questions, about what you really believe about people, and yourself, question objectivity - putting it on the rack and one notch at the time cranking up the discomfort. We take a bypass into epistemology, the universal solvent. I don't tell you what it is because I'm not on tenure here. I just pry loose a few tacks from Taking for Granted Your Interpretation of Your Sensory Feedback. I put one of the tacks in my pocket to keep as a souvenir. Unnerved and foundations prodded, we get personal again.

I take your hand in mine as we talk, gentle, firm, squeezing your fingers, thumbing lightly on your palm, massaging muscles on the back of your hand that may never have occurred to you as articulate or individual, nerve endings you'd forgotten about ages ago, all these little parts.

I want to do things to you. Do you want me to do things to you?

(Secretly, you are a god, I tell you. Your magic word is Stop.)

I jerk you by the shirt, up to stand with me. A brutal, hard kiss. You tense under the threat of my teeth, but slip your thin hard arms around me ever so lightly. I never mind, release your shirt and pop your belt buckle, button, and slowly tear open the fly of your Weekend Jeans while you suck in a gasp and start to breathe in short pants, tight as an E string.

Absently I appreciate from the depths of my stormy mood, your navy shorts, with the tips of some red slash design, while I slide my thumbs under the band, in latitude from the wiry fuzz of your trail, back around the tender flesh of your hips. I flatter myself, imagining you wore your good skivvies hoping I might see you in them.

I lean into your feather light, ever so cautious embrace, then crush you against me, just to get the feel of your body, like taking the impression of a key. Like I might take something from you. Or plant something. You're not built, but you're muscled a little, and well proportioned, as corpses out in these corn fields go. No kiss this time, no bite even, but I push my sharp jaw up across your neck, pressing sharp chin behind your ear, just enough to force your head to bend under my will, to give your animal spine that feeling of dangerous exposure. Nature is cruel and we are fleeting, weak things.

I feel very awake, and my senses are very hungry and fraught. I take in the subtle shift and tremble of your frame, it's interconnected muscles, your anticipatory tension. The very real throb between your waking crotch and my firming bone. Like I'm trying to memorize you, some interesting rock formation, or a novel dish.

Before it can even register, I've set you out of my arms and into free fall for a moment - landing jarringly, but not too rough, thanks to one hand where I grip the hem of your jeans, the other steady on your shoulder, over the ottoman. I lean over you, running my bared teeth across the back of your ear, letting my weight settle partially across your upper back.

"Why the fuck are you so down on yourself?" I ask you accusingly as I creep my fingers gently through your hair, slowly gripping and releasing. "Hm..?" I lean my weight to one side, forearm like a bar across the back of your shoulders, hips pinning yours, one leg across the backs of your calves.

"You're cute. And nice." I insinuate, tracing lazy rococo with the nail of one finger, drawing fiery sigils across your heightened awareness. Even if you recognized Theban, I doubt you would make out the ancient blessings over the sheer fire on your thirsty, lonely skin.

Letting you meditate on that assertion, I caress and needle and fondle your lower back, hips, ass, while you start to breathe heavy and moan.

"You pretend to be optimistic, you try so hard for everyone, but it's only on the outside, isn't it? You forgive everyone else, but never yourself."

For punctuation, I jerk down on your shorts.

"You talk like you're a sick fuck, like no one else is a sick fuck." I hiss, barely raking the tender flesh of your bare ass with my fingertips. I don't see your cock twitch against the furniture while you whimper, but I know.

"You think you're crazy? Yeah, maybe." I sneer, and let you sit with that a while, caressing and squeezing one ass cheek, then the other, simply taking my time, taking advantage, letting you let me do whatever I want. Your hands curl and uncurl as you cling to the ottoman with your elbows and moan. Otherwise you don't dare move.

Then I give your far cheek a light, playful pop, and announce "That doesn't mean you don't deserve to be happy."

For a response, you just gasp and lift your rear. I ease off your calves for a better angle, and watch you carefully.

"Don't you agree?" I wait as long as it takes for you to figure out this one isn't rhetorical.

It takes a minute. But the noise you make is pretty noncommittal. This isn't satisfactory at all. I'll tell you so. I stroke back and forth under the space where your tail would be if we hadn't been stupid enough to leave the trees. You just sigh and perk your ass further. Thus invited, I proceed. One man's sodomy might be another man's consecration. Can we consecrate you to your own uses? Would you stop being a total doormat to scum? Can we consecrate you as a holy snack for this gnashing bloodthirsty world that tears us apart one grain, each second, another chunk, one car crash at a time?

Leaning back in slowly, letting my hot breath tease your neck, your ear, then moan,"Have you been good?"

Your lips stumble as I ease away until you mumble "I try."

"No," I announce, matter of fact, "You need to do BETTER." Giving you a solid pop on the last word, not too much follow through for all the surprise. I rub the shock off your soft round cheeks, hardly blush yet. Another slap, a little firmer, and another, other cheek. More rubbing, a caress of both cheeks, then across your taint. On the second pass you whimper and arch your asshole skyward like god could help you now.

But no. God left you to this awful, bitter devil, and it is going to do right by you.

I lean just enough to, with eerie precision, drop from my lips the summoned spittle directly onto that pucker. That particular gasp is rewarding. I begin to suspect you want my prick buried there. This lesson first though.

My fingers snake into your hair and take a hard grip as I snarl, commanding "Don't (Tap) listen (slap) to your fucking (Tap) step dad (SPank)."

A short rub.

"Go (tap) to the (tap) fucking (tap) doctor (slAP)."

This chaser rub comes with a little more squeezing, more taint play, a little flick of your scrotum.

"You deserve (slap) to be a healthy (bap) and happy (Slap), faggot (smack).

You sob, then moan, then sob, then moan, still pushing your ass up for me. While I work you over the stool, strange faces with strong emotions in glaring colors flash across the television screen as strange drums groan. Symbols are held aloft, warp, are cast out of frame. An opening appears. The film is a pickled dream inside our food-driven hallucinations that spin within some greater vista of madness.

I lean down again, cover your slight weight with my own, which is only inexplicably heavier via the sheer vehemence of my temper.

"Doesn't that feel good?" I growl "Life can be so good. Even when it fucks us right in the ass. Hmm?"

As you start and quiver like a plucked note I smile to myself. Then run my fingers through your hair, creating some hypnotic patterns to make space for myself to think. There's an obvious next step here, as well as a second route.

With the hard black stone and nest of feathers that is my heart, I listen down each corridor of action for which one sounds like better poetry, listen for any reservations. This is tricky ground.

But you've known me long enough to know you won't find any strings here. You're informed in that way.

And me? Briefly it occurs to me who I'd rather be making love to. The knowledge that the feeling is unrequited is another acrid blossom on the bitter bouquet of the evening. Well, I decide, I'm just here to do the devil's work anyway. Sodom's Hospitaler, Our Brothers of Comfort.

"Want me to remind you how good it can be to get fucked in the ass? Do we need a refresher on how to relax and take it like a man, hn?" I watch you nod - nod and refuse to use the magic word (the one that makes everything stop).

"At least I'll use more lube than life does, eh?" I bark from the pith of my dark humor.

You keen and squirm and gasp for more air like you're about to go under. I quickly procure the lube from it's stash between the couch and the wall, leaving you lonely in limbo for just a while... returning to your awareness by gripping your hips, massaging a little with my thumbs before running one down from the bottom of your tailbone, delving into your crack-depths, getting good leverage to spread your cheeks wide.

You help with more back arching. From livid nerves around your bud I tease a little melody, a deft distraction while I rubber up, because I'm a neat freak, and planned parenthood taught me more good lessons than D.A.R.E. ever did (besides the really brief uniform fetish that evaporated as soon as I was old enough to pay attention to the news).

Then comes the dollop of extra thick lube as I start to tease you open, letting you work back on me, waiting for you to lock down like a hungry thing and then loosen to take more. I try to get a little more of the lube going, because there never is enough...

"What do you say when someone does something nice for you?"

"mMmmthan you..." you mumble.

"Hmm, did you say something."

"M. Thank You. Fuck," you explete.

I laugh. Good enough. Then start to work my crown against where your insides start. Over several minutes, time dissolves while I negotiate the penetration of your interior, slightly more careful with your physical tissue than your beliefs. Having wrecked your convictions, I begin to rock and thrust at the base of your spine until you pick up the rhythm of verve from me.

When you're loose enough I grip your hips and tug you back against me over and over, driving base satisfaction seven inches at a time with all the vigor of the primal will to live, persistent and sensual. I bend over, curling around you, under your chest, dragging you back against me by your shoulders and fuck the god given miracle of your prostate with raw vivacity and appetite.

As I start to sense my mortal boundaries drawing closer I slow long enough to peel you back, up with me, and nudge the ottoman a foot or so away. Sliding one firm hand languidly down your side, I grab your dominant hand and slide that over your own prick, give you a little thrust, and growl "make yourself come here," I hieronymise in tone of command.

As such you begin to stroke and pull at yourself as you ride back on the hard arch of my horn with my grip on your waist for guidance and support. After a raw, blazing while I here you choke out what might have been some words, then pearly ropes of spunk as you begin to jerk and convulse and drag on my cock. I grip you down and grunt, leaning my forehead against your back. Eventually the existential trial of your ordeal passes, leaving us both deeply flushed. You limp, myself still crux-hard inside you. While your spasms peter out I begin to withdraw in slow bits. Surely it would be easier to come away flaccid, but that way is barred to me. So I flop out, hard and messy. Spank your ass affectionately with my rod once, pet your back a while as you collapsed back over the ottoman again.

Once I toss the condom, I wipe what's left of the lube off of both of us, and lift you onto the couch with a afghan crocheted by someone else's long-lost aunt. You murmur something unintelligible.

The birds outside are louder than you are. I'm starting to ache but stay and stroke your hair until your eyes close. There is little deeper relief than when they finally do.

After a little washing up in the bathroom, I go lay in the comfort of my own hand, in my familiar bed-darkness, and stroke back up to delirium as I shiver and I buck and I curse and paw through my own desires looking for something holy and good. There is nothing I can actually touch, no mortal flower of devotion, and so when my body gives out there is only the explosion of stars in nothingness, until I rest like a corpse in the grass.

In the morning there's a cold sandwich and chips left for you, and directions to lock the knob on the way out, had to run errands, see ya later, etcetera.

I text you a couple days later to see what's up.

You're feeling a little out of it, but keeping busy. "Thanks for the nice time. "

"Yeah. It was a good round." I reply, "It's nice to do something like that once in a blue moon, isn't it?" Framing my interest, and gluing the limits shut.

"Definitely. More would be good."

I send you some links to kink education and meetups.

"There are people who do that on the reg, I guess."

"Yeah, thanks for the links."

"Sure. Keep your chin up and your ass proud, bud. Lol"