Hey Everyone
It's been a while.
I've had a rough go at it for a while now; the life of an unemployed graduate who's battle depression and loneliness is a tough one, but I'm pulling through and getting better by the day.
Writing is a cathartic experience for me, and I must admit that finding inspiration that goes beyond the first page has been difficult, but here I am and here is a story I felt compelled to write after only a day of typing and editing.
It won't be perfect, the sex won't be the dirty kind that's in every second paragraph, but I hope it's beauty inspires you to go out there and live your lives to the fullest.
The characters are of my own making and if you're offended by the idea of male on male sex, then I suggest you turn the other direction, but find it in your heart to know that love is what we are called to do and love is what we will give, no matter the genders, orientations, ages or races.
Sending you all love
XX MalevolentBard
*****
I stare at the water now. I take long, lonely walks that invariably lead to the rocky beach shore and I just stand there, numb and yet so filled up with thoughts and feelings and things I want to say and scream out into the world that I can't make sense of it all, nor do I know how to express it, so I just stand there and stare at the moving tides.
Most of the time I stand there and wait for the tears to come; for a scar to form, a sceptic wound to manifest so I can see, scent or sense the origins of the deep ache I've carried with me for two years now.
The timeline's not lost on me; it's been two years since the enigmatic Robert left me for 'more'. What 'more' is, I don't know, but apparently I didn't have it, so on the eve of my twenty third birthday, I walked in on a very flustered Robert, bags in tow, caught in the act of fleeing from a life we spent ten years building.
"I wrote you a letter." was the first thing he'd said to break through the impasse, the stare-off, the high-noon shoot-out where only one would survive...I wasn't the survivor in this duel. I stared at his bags, at the faintly guilty look on his perfect face (just because he was an ass, didn't make his face any less perfect), and the words, the ones I wanted to use, the ones with the questions and the pleas and the accusations, those ones, they never came.
He towered uncomfortably, all 6 feet 3 inches of him itching to escape. His emerald eyes glancing fitfully at the door, his honey blond curls damp against his forehead and his muscular body, his temple, almost shrinking before me.
"I didn't want to do it this way, but...I feel like things aren't changing; we're not moving forward, nor are we moving backward, we're stuck and I can't...I don't do stuck. I need more." I didn't know if he was pleading, I was stuck on the fact that he was actually leaving. We hadn't had a fight, we'd made love just that morning, it was as beautiful and as fulfilling as it had always been. I'd finally done some of the things he'd begged me to do in bed. I was uncomfortable, but satisfied in his joy and enjoyment.
So I was stuck, confused. His words wouldn't register until he'd left, until he'd taken his scent with him, until his very existence had been wiped clean from the shelves, walls and rooms of our quaint condo. All of which disappeared within hours of his departure; I never quite realised how minimally he'd infused himself in my life...our life, until I'd witnessed how easily he'd been able to gather all his belongings and his impact and vanish as though he'd never lived there.
"What are you doing, where are you going?" I was never the sharpest tool in the shed, but I was definitely the shiniest. It's something he'd taken to saying around mutual friends from when we were kids. I was quiet, careful by nature, deliberate in the things I did and the words I used and part of that caution was often misconstrued as a lag in intellect. It's not that it took me a minute to catch onto things, it's that it took me a minute to believe what I was seeing; I already know what's going on at first glance.
"I can't do this, I won't. I'm sorry, Andrew." and then he was gone. No goodbye, no explanation, just a guilty look, a vague admittance of defeat and he was gone. He'd shot his shot, the sun was past noon and I was on the ground, bleeding out with an equally vague letter that just said
"I can't do this, I need more. I'm sorry."
So I stare at the water now. Two years after the love of my life left me, in a town he forced me to move to because it's where he felt most inspired to paint and where some of his family were. I had no family nearby, I had no friends who stuck around after he left, and I had no clue why I kept living like this.
My uncluttered thoughts were rudely interrupted by the blaring phone in my pocket.
"Hello?" I managed between shivers; summer's increasingly giving way to a bitter autumn.
"Bring a month's worth of clothes when you get here for Matty's birthday, you're staying with us." it's my sister, bless her intrusive heart.
"I'm glad to hear from you too, and no I can't..." I answered as calmly as I could. My sister was the spirited mother hen type, who smothered first and asked questions later.
"Yes you can; I've watched you waste away for the better part of two years over some low life, good for nothing, scumbag, who whored his way through two states during eight years of your relationship, and I'm done doing nothing. You're coming to Matty's party, you're going to get drunk with me and the other overwhelmed parents, and we're going to make sure that you're good to go and better than ever." She meant well, she really did, and half of what she said was true.
Robert challenged monogamy, or he was challenged by it, either way he spent eight years of our relationship "fulfilling a very biological obligation." by sleeping with as many men that would have him. The first incident was two years into our relationship, when I walked into his home, knocked on his bedroom door only for him to scream "Get the hell out, Andy!"
I guess I'd made up my mind right there and then; he was the tall, muscular jock who was popular and not out because being 15 and gay was tough on one's social prospects, and I was the slim, waif-like kid with the weird purple grey hair, the pale blue eyes and the ghostly white skin that wasn't anywhere near popular, and I should have been glad that I had this Adonis even looking in my direction. So I stood outside, I waited for him, I heard them climax, I waited some more, I watched him kiss a thoroughly pleased cheerleader from school goodbye, I listened while he explained that he was doing it to protect us, and I stayed because I was already madly in love with him.
The girls continued, and through college the boys came, I sometimes walked in on him, I cried, he apologised and promised it would never happen again, and he was right; I never walked in on him again, he was better at hiding his cheating from me, but I loved him and so I stayed.
I always knew when he'd cheated; he'd come to me, he'd smell cleaner from a shower and he'd grab me tenderly, lay me on the bed, strip me as though I was a jewel made of glass before he'd stand over me while he stared deep in my eyes, and would take off each item of his clothes before he was gloriously naked, and he'd kneel between my legs. There was something about that man's hands; they were strong and yet beautiful and they did things to my body that made me question the existence of witchcraft.
All powerful and masculine, he'd gently caress the sides of my body, never taking his eyes off of me, he'd look contrite, apologetic, pained and it would make sense. This was his apology; Robert was sick, a man with a disease that rendered him incapable of remaining faithful.
So instead of fighting him, I watched as he kissed every inch of my body, I watched as he made every effort to make me feel good, to apologise not with his words, but with his body for the things he'd just done. A tear would escape out the corner of his eye and he would devour my flower, loosening me up for his mammoth 9 inch flesh, the pulsing length drooling at the sight of my quivering body, before sheathing himself and sliding achingly inside. My body opened up to him in ways I never knew were possible.
His breath travelled across my skin and into my lungs like smoke, his sweat glistened over his incredibly muscled ridges, dripping over me, igniting a fire across my skin as with each pump he dug deeper into my soul. He possessed me in ways I thought only existed in poetry. His tongue tasted of menthol, his mouth washed clean of the taste of whomever he'd taken before me; he was here now, he was mine now. He fucked whoever he wanted, but he made love to me.
He'd patiently pull my climax from me until every fibre of my being was alight and until my chest was slick with my spent approval, before he ravaged me like an animal let loose. He'd stare deep into my eyes, begging for me to understand, demanding I submit, drilling into me his dominance and with a roar, he'd cum and his entire body would shake and shimmer. It was beautiful to watch, and painful to experience, both physically and emotionally. I loved him though, so I stayed.
"I can't, Jules, I..." I had to come up with something, anything to get out of what would be a very frustrating visit and smother-fest from a very well-meaning sister. I needed to be on my own, I needed to do something, be something other than this pitiful wreck. I needed to start moving. The waves lapped at my feet, the water cold and sobering.
"I won't take no for an answer, it's not like you have anywhere to be." she insisted. I don't know if it was the water, or the idea of handing my healing over to someone other than myself; but I spoke confidently for the first time in a while.
"I do, actually." the words made no sense to me, but I'd spoken them, they had life and consequences now.
"We could binge..uhm, you do?" her voice sounding just as confused as I felt. I bit the bullet, reaching for something, anything...the water.
"Yes, I planned a trip, for a week, to Mexico." The words had once again left without so much as a quantifying thought or plan, but they'd been said.
