Something in the Water

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.

"What's in Mexico?" the cogs turned.

"I don't know, but there has to be something...more." the word sent a shiver down my spine. My palms began sweating, my eyes stung and my heart beat faster. If this was what healing felt like, then I finally know why I'd avoided it for so long.

"When are you leaving?" I could hear the scepticism in her voice. I hadn't convinced her enough.

"Tomorrow; I wasn't going to say anything because this is meant to be a solo expedition, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it in case nothing comes from it." the more I said it, the more I believed it, and the more I was convinced the trip would do me some good. The waves lapping against my feet grew warmer, more welcoming almost.

"Well I mean, if that's what you want. I just want what's best for you, okay honey?" and that's how I ended up in Puerto Vallarta in Mexico.

The sun was out, the resort stunning and the ocean a magnificent cacophony of turquoise, rich blues and stunning greens. To be honest, I had no idea what I was doing, but I was due some vacation leave and I guess I needed a break,

"I know a week isn't enough, lord knows you were head over heels in love with that fool, but you need to start living. You can't let your life pass you by, as young as you are. If you won't do this for me, then do it for you. Be happy, fight for your happiness." was the last thing my sister had whispered to me before wishing me a safe and happy trip.

She was right; I needed to start fighting for myself. The ache was still there, the wound was still unseen, but I was finally doing something.

I let the breeze take hold of me, the sun wash over me while my skin warmed, my toes dug into the sand and the warm waters moved over my ankles. My shoulder length hair moved with each passing breeze and with my eyes closed, I allowed my mind to drift and my heart to beat, willing the pain away.

"What are you doing?" the unexpected voice of a little boy who must have appeared from thin air broke my trance with a start.

"Woah, uhm..." I muttered noncommittally, still very startled by the appearance of an unaccompanied little person with large grey eyes, platinum blond hair and little swim trunks. He looked at me expectantly.

"Were you praying? My daddy says you have to keep your eyes closed when you pray, is that what you were doing?" the questions, although innocent, tugged at something deeper within I hadn't expected.

"Well, not so much, little guy. I was...just standing." I said, looking around for a panicked adult.

"Oh, that's weird. But okay, I like the water too. I don't get to swim a lot, but when I do, I swim all day. Not after I eat, but I swim so much I get wrinkly." he smiled excitedly as children often do and looked out into the ocean with me. I turned back to the water and stared at it alongside him, silently hoping for someone to come running, searching for a missing little person.

"Yeah, I like the water too." I finally said. Not long after, I felt little hands wrap themselves around my own and as strange as the sensation was at first, a piece of me grew warmer at the innocent touch.

"Where are your parents?" I asked, still holding his hand, still staring at the ocean and enjoying the view.

"My dad is asleep, he has a headache so he didn't want to go outside today, and..."

"Ethan!" I turned abruptly, along with the little boy to see a very tall man with shoulders the size of basketballs, and arms the size of both my thighs, running towards us.

"What have I told you about leaving the resort without a grown-up? I was worried sick about you, don't ever do that to me again, okay?" The large man, who was topless, had a hairy chest that was muscular enough to know that he kept in shape, but wasn't obsessed with exercising. His body was...warm. That would be the best way to describe him, 6 feet 2 inches of warmth. His grey eyes were just as bright as young Ethan's, his hair just as platinum and he had a smile that rivalled the sun.

He was perfect, beautiful...and married. The very bright silver wedding band glistened threateningly on his left hand.

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I just wanted to be by the water, I was with a grown-up, here see..." Ethan contested by pointing towards me. It was then that our eyes locked, I must have glazed over because having him look at me, finally look and see me, did things to my body I wasn't prepared for. My dopey stare was met with his untrusting sneer, and like cold water on a boner, my mind cleared up and his disdain filled my nostrils until I could choke on the uncomfortable tension.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came. I felt like prey, and not in a good way. His eyes darkened and I prepared myself for the strike.

"You're in big trouble, young man. Come on, let's go. What do we always say about strangers?" he swiftly turned his back on me and dragged young Ethan away from the shore as if the seas were infested with child eating predators...which they were, but...I surely wasn't one of them.

I wasn't even worth the acknowledgment, apparently. I felt pathetic; vilified and disregarded, like I meant nothing and wasn't worth the energy.

I heard young Ethan mumble something akin to an apology before turning toward me with a pained, teary eyed look before waving goodbye. I waved back, touched by his gesture, and even more so by his affection for someone he didn't even know. I stood there, staring as little Ethan and big Ethan (I didn't know the father's name) disappeared amongst the crowd and further up the beach.

"You haven't changed one bit." That voice, the rumble that never failed to light a match within me. The sound that once sparked hope, joy and reverence, and that had broken my heart and left it to wither away without so much as a goodbye.

I turned slowly, dreading the sight, not wanting to confirm my fears, but needing to see it with my own eyes. There he stood, still as handsome as ever, still as muscular as I remembered and a vision in a half buttoned up white linen shirt and beige shorts that hugged his thighs and behind in all the right places.

His eyes were a bright green, his hair full and golden, his tight smile the only sign of his uncertainty and his hands in his pockets. He considered me cautiously, almost as a man would a wounded animal; and I was wounded.

"Robert?" my voice was small, my vision now blurry, and my palms sweaty.

"In the flesh." he chuckled nervously.

"Robert?" the question now tinged with a faint spell of anger and my hands now shaking while my lungs fought for air.

"Andy, I... if I could turn back..." he began, his arms now reaching out to me, his eyes pleading and his smile gone. I took a step back; feeling stronger for it, but weaker for glancing at his powerful thighs and hands and feeling myself stir at the sight.

"You left." I finally managed. His steps halted, his hands fell and his eyes stared into my own. He said nothing.

"You left, the day before my birthday, in the middle of the night, with all your stuff, and no explanation but 'more'." I spoke more to myself than him, more for my own benefit, for my own understanding than his own. I let the words work their way through my mind, let them sink in, allowed them to expand and contract before speaking again.

"I did nothing but give myself to you, sacrifice for you, cry for you and I allowed you to trample all over my self-esteem and you packed your things, left a vague note, told me I'm not enough and you left." He had the decency to look contrite. I took a step closer, feeling emboldened by my rage, something I'd buried long ago, something I didn't think I deserved to feel.

"I supported you, loved you, stayed with you while you slept with anything with a pulse, including all of my friends, then you leave me...for more. Well, did you find it, did you find more, did it fill the spaces I couldn't, did it make you feel fulfilled?" I hadn't noticed my voice rising, or the tears that had began travelling down the side of my face. All I knew was that I had things to say and I needed to say them right there and then.

"Andrew, I'm..." he began, but I couldn't allow him to have this moment; it wasn't his, this wasn't where he got to feel justified, where he got to be reasonable and where his truth is shared. This was where I got to speak and I got to scream and cry and I got to be angry.

"Don't! Don't you dare tell me you're sorry! Sorry won't give me back the ten years we were together, sorry won't magically fix my broken heart, sorry won't stop me from hating myself for sticking around, for taking the abuse, for loving you while you disrespected me every single day and sorry won't give me back the two years I spent trying to hide from the world because I allowed you to break me. Sorry won't make it any easier to accept that I stayed, I allowed it, I condoned it...sorry won't take away the fact that I tried killing myself because I could no longer live with myself for being such a fucken idiot. So don't you dare say sorry, keep your sorry and fuck it over like you did me." I didn't know I'd slapped him until I had, until the burn crept up the palm of my hand and through my arm and I'd turned on my heel and walked briskly up to my room at the resort.

It wasn't until I was behind a locked door that my body shook violently as the ache throbbed furiously and the tears came unbidden while I curled into a pitiful ball, as the sobs took over. I hadn't cried that hard before, not for anything, not for him. It hadn't made sense, I'd held out on allowing my feelings to come to the fore because I still didn't get it; I thought it was a joke, it was temporary, he'd be back, something was wrong, this wasn't how my life was.