This Is How It Ends

The abruptness with which two year dissolves into vapor is shattering.

This is how it ends, I thought. Part of me marvels at the shocking swiftness.

Your sleep-warm body clinging to mine, naked forms entwined for a final time, a parody of countless lusty romps and tender, precious episodes.

A nanosecond before irrevocable words were spoken, I witness for the last time that light of adoration in your eyes, eyes unaware of a future that will never be following my next utterance.

That light is no more.

Faulty recriminations are not thought as of yet, it’s too soon after I’ve shattered an ever more illusory happiness. For now it’s your pain in waves, my ocean of regret, and underlying it all, the naked fear of a contented lifetime being discarded.

This is how it ends. It ends with me looking into your anguished eyes, too wide and panicked as if by a body blow that has stolen needed breath. To avoid those eyes, I bury my face in your shoulder, smelling your spicy tang, slightly sour after a long flight and not enough sleep.

Over and over, you whisper, “I love you but I love you but I love you,” your hot breath steaming my cheek as your tears drip from your chin to my shoulder, weakening my resolve like acid reducing an already frayed rope, strand by strand. My mind cowers, then ducks and runs for the cover of memory.

Images of our last time together, before we knew it would be our last time. Your roommate was gone, a rare treat, and we celebrated by fucking ourselves raw. Like a picture book, the sequences unfold page by page.

You were splayed out lasciviously on your queen bed, watching my hand trail down the dusky skin of your stomach.

“Close your eyes,” I told you. As always, you obeyed.

I grasped my engorged cock in one had, allowing myself a brief frisson of pleasure as I squeeze the bulbous, angry-looking head. Watching the way your long eyelashes seem to cover your cheek, I slip the black leather band around the base of my cock and wrap it around my scrotum before carefully snapping it in place. A glance at your full length wall mirror showed me the swollen veins and bulging scrotum, smooth and clearly visible from across the room.

I allow you to open your eyes and am rewarded with an almost childish gasp of glee as you see my tumescence rocking inches from your face, every ridge of skin, every tongue bump clearly delineated by the constricting band.

You devour me instantly. You close the six-inch gap with a lunge and grip from below with your hand, your mouth as always trying in futility to fit my entirety into your tiny space. I watch you suck, saliva roiling around my penis like the jets of a Jacuzzi, before I backed away.

You moan when you see the teasing light in my eyes, your nimble fingers darting between your parted thighs as you move your bawdy gaze slowly downward in anticipation.

I do my best not to disappoint. My cock steels as I slowly, purposefully, handled myself for your pleasure, groaning softly in harmony with your low keen of need.

I grip the head tightly, my strong fist framing clearly the transparent drool oozing from the yawning slit. Your keening now a throaty growl as you lock your eyes with mine, pleading without words.

Reading your look, I scoop the pre-cum onto my index finger and stretch it toward you, pulling it away just before your greedy lips can latch on to it. I grin and paint my own lips with the slick fluid.

Before you can offer a complaint, I step forward and lower my weight onto you, pinning you to the bed and pressing my wet lips against yours.

Your puffy, sugary lips curl into a smile of triumph as your heels dig into my asscheeks and you pull me into your core with a primal wail.

The urge to ram into you is almost tactile, but with a lengthy exhalation, I draw back and almost totally out, and then smoothly glide back in with excruciating slowness. Your insides are a steamy veldt, lush and fertile as I continue my long, teasing strokes. When your shuddering begins, I swiftly pull out and lift your slight frame over my shoulder. I carry you the short trip to the living room while you curse and laugh and bite my shoulder.

I perform a quick assessment, dismissing the old couch as too staid and the flimsy wooden rocker as too dangerous. I spy the cream-colored ottoman resting unassumingly at the foot of the easy chair. Perfect.

I deposit you, shrieking, on all fours atop the sturdy footrest and lightly touch my hand to the small of your back, indicating my desire for you to lower your upper body and raise your luscious ass high in the air.

You comply, and instantly I can slice diamonds.

This time there’s no holding back, no quarter asked or given, just hard, deep fucking punctuated by guttural noises, slapping body parts and loud groans from us both when every fourth stroke or so nudges the cone of your cervix.

Sweat forms, pools and runs from the small of your back as you spasm through a pair of spirited orgasms. When you collapse, I pull out and you lie splayed over the ottoman, the side of your face against the damp fabric. I rise on shaky legs and stand astraddle your body. I use my hand and finish the way I began, my cum shooting from my twitching cock and landing on your back with audible splats.

Breathing heavily, I look at the ottoman’s sturdy legs and think how good you’ll look chained to them next time –

The final two words shake me from my reverie and reunite me with the present, where in a dark room you and I continue playing out a scene as old as time.

I tell you that nothing can change my mind, that my need to be alone is greater than my need to be with you. I am cruel, gentle, patient and a liar.

What I can’t tell you, is that while all that is true, I am also jealous. Jealous of your ability to love another human being the way you love me, with all you possess in your heart and soul, rather than the tender, sometimes nearly avuncular way I love you.

I can’t tell you that I’m going off seeking that love, taking what you’ve taught me and wastefully jettisoning the rest. I need someone to take my breath away. You need someone to restore yours.

It takes me another 20 minutes to gently free myself from your desperate clutch, but my mind has already left. I make it to your door, the looming portal away from all I’ve known for more than the past 700 days. I know if I turn around, I’ll see you clasping my old t-shirt to your clenched face, your eyes still alight with dim hope as I grasp the door knob.

But I don’t turn. Instead I walk out of the bedroom door and dress, then step through your kitchen and out the apartment into an icy March rain.