Chapter 17 – Chapter 17

That night, I tried to sort it all out, but I couldn't. When I was with him, I was not the me that I knew. I was a Libertine, but — with him — I wanted to be chaste, or at least limited to him. I was self-centered, but I fretted over him. I was self-interested, but — with him — I was selfless.

That night, I didn't sleep. Instead, I did something I never did: I empathized. I put myself in JJ's place, imagining what he must be feeling and thinking, how vulnerable he must be feeling.

Our long runs had been windows, one for him to see into me and one for me to see into him:

Romantically, he was a naïf. He had kissed only one girl, and — until he met me — he had kissed her only with his mouth closed.

He had bedded only one girl, and in only one position.

He had not bedded her on his wedding night (he'd gotten a bad hand job), the next day or night (another bad hand job), or the next day. She had been afraid, and it had taken her 48 hours to relent and open her legs to him.

She had not enjoyed the relent. He had hurt her when he entered, and he had gone at her too hard when he was close.

She had cried.

She had then withheld.

While she no longer withheld (they had become committed to the marital bed), she didn't enjoy doing what wives must do. He received it as often as he sought it, but he didn't often seek it, respectful of her boundaries.

They had not done much else sexually. He had tried to go down on her once, but she had stopped him with "that's gross."

He had never been blown, much less rimmed or licked and sucked in every cranny and nook so he learned what he liked and what he didn't, what he loved and what he didn't, and what he absolutely had to have.

He had never been desired or wanted, only accepted.

He had also never desired or wanted. He took; he didn't give.

Before me, he had never kissed a boy.

Before me, he had never noticed a boy.

Before me, his path had been set. He would father and husband and live a life like the life that Atticus Finch had lived, admired and respected, everything in its place, nothing out of order.

Only, I had moved things. I had disrupted the order.

When he was around me, he forgot all that he was intended to be. He kissed me until his mouth was raw. He stayed with me while his family waited. He stared into my shorts, when everything that he was insisted that he look away.

As I had before, I thought I knew what I needed to do. I just didn't know if I had the strength to do it.

*****

I was still rolling my path around in the back of my mouth when I noticed a small envelope that had been slipped under may apartment door. I don't know how or when; I had been up all night, only feet from the door.

I knew who it was from. When I opened it, I recognized his clipped, tight script:

I can't have conversations like we had yesterday. I'm afraid I won't be able to say what I want to say if I have to say it.

So….

I created an email account that cannot be traced. The address is Packers4ever@[deleted].

Do the same, using whatever you want @[deleted] as your address. Here's how. [deleted].

We'll converse in writing. I'm better in writing, as I think I've proved.

He undid my decision on what I needed to do. Instead of leaving him be, I did what he directed. As soon as I accessed the account, I found an email waiting, him to me:

I'm sorry, but I just can't stand before you and deny you anything. On Tuesday, when I looked into your eyes, I crumbled. If you had pressed the issue, well, I just don't know….

You didn't press. You could have, but you didn't. Thank you for that. When you relented, I knew the breadth and depth of your affection for me.

So, I want to start fast….

We know so much about each other, but not enough.

Tell me about you and I'll tell you about me. In case that sentence doesn't resonate, it's "show me yours and I'll show you mine," only on my turf, not yours.

Me to him:

I'm discreetly and secretly excited about this new form. I think it may free us both.

In the spirit of freedom, I'll fill in some of the cracks and crevices you don't know about me….

I was born a poor black child…. NOT.

I actually was born a privileged white child. I remain he. Except….

I stepped off the privileged white child carousel when I accepted that I like dick.

Correction: I love dick.

Blah blah blah, you knew that already.

You also know this:

I hated you before I met you.

I hated you when I met you.

I didn't want to know you. But, to know you is to not hate you.

To know you is to love you.

I'm not who I was before you.

Him to me:

I'm certainly not who I was before you.

Me to him:

Unfair! You can't just quote me back to me.

Him to me, changing the tone:

I am adrift. Before I met you, I had never…

Noticed another man. I really hadn't. There is no point in my life that I recall seeing another man and thinking "he's cute" or "he's handsome." No. Point. So, I have searched and searched for an answer as to what this is/why you. My searches have left me unsatisfied, as they all suggest my feelings for you are a reckoning for who I have been all along. I don't accept that. It's not the general men; it's the specific you.

Wanted another man. I really didn't. I don't really understand what sex between two men looks like, as I've never imagined it.

Since I met you, I have not…

Noticed another human. Yes, I've sublimated my desire for you into desire for my wife, but — every time I have entered her since I met you — I have been entering you. Every time I have kissed her, I have been kissing you.

Wanted another human. I want you. Only you.

Me to him:

Thank you for your honesty. Before I met you…

I had never been in love.

I had never given myself to another, not physically, but emotionally. I have given you more than I have given everyone else combined.

I want you, too. Only you.

Unlike you, I have always noticed other men. Actually, it started when I was a boy and noticed that I noticed boys and men. I was born in 1985, so I was seven or eight when Calvin Klein noticed Marky Mark. I loved that campaign. I couldn't take my eyes off that campaign. I knew I shouldn't, but I wanted the walls of my room covered with his bare torso, his crisp white boxer briefs, his bulge. I actually asked for the posters for my birthday. I didn't get them. I did get, however, a talk from my father, who explained to me that boys don't put up posters of other boys.

Of course, life proved my father false. Throughout middle and high school, I and my friends routinely bedecked our walls with images of athletes and rockers. You may not be able to post Marky Mark in his underwear, but you could post Michael Jordan dunking over some poor sap or Kurt Cobain staring vacantly at you or Keanu Reeves and a bus.

I thought Kurt Cobain was sexy, so I pretended to like Nirvana and covered my walls with him. When I first started doing what all boys do, I was on my back and imagining Kurt between my legs, sliding in and out of me. When that image was exhausted, I switched to Keanu Reeves, the protagonist different, the position and the movement the same.

I didn't know boys didn't imagine such things until I asked my best friend what he imagined when he starting doing what all boys do. He described a woman on her back, him doing to her what Kurt and Keanu were doing to me. When he asked me back, I knew to lie and to keep lying.

PS It's my favorite position, me on my back. And, I know you're imagining it right now.

Him to me:

Thank you for sharing more of your backstory with me. I'd share more of mine, but I think I've shared it all.

It's an unexceptional backstory. I am and always have been a piece of Wonder Bread. Or Colonial. I don't know which. I just know that, once upon a time, the world was divided between Colonial and Wonder, Colgate and Crest, Coke and Pepsi, the former more traditional, that latter more progressive. The former were the Celtics. The latter were the Lakers.

I digress.

I still can't believe I allowed you to mack on me, way back when. I'm glad I did, but I can't believe I did. I don't go on adventures. But, I had never seen on anyone's face what I saw on yours. It was wanton.

That may be the first time I ever typed that word. I don't know its origin, but I wonder if it was "want on" and "want on" and "want on" until it became "wanton." I doubt it, but that's how I will hence think of it. Because, that is what I saw…. pure… unadulterated want.

That want is like a drug, inchoate and then overwhelming.

Once you've wanted, you can't not want.

I want on and want on and want on.

I was imagining it. I still am, although I'm not sure I understand the logistics. It seems like it would be awkward, to say the least.

Do me a favor: Tell me how you wound up there. On your back.

Me to him:

If I could make you believe that which is not true, I'd tell you….

You are wearing a tie, like you were the first time I kissed you. I run it through my fore and middle fingers, pulling your mouth to mine, like I did the first time I kissed you.

Our mouths and then our tongues touch.

As we kiss, I loosen the knot in your tie, pulling it free as I pull your tongue into my mouth.

As we kiss, I unbutton your shirt, starting at the top. As I work my way down, I get frustrated and, our mouths still together, pull at the shirt, the last few buttons popping off.

I pull back so I can take you in. You're a wonder.

I return to you, pushing you back so that you are on your haunches.

I kiss your forehead and then your eyelids. I kiss your nose and then I lick it, up one side and down the other. Your mouth seeks mine out, but I avoid it. I lick across your lips.

I tell you I want to tie you up. You ask why, and I tell you so that you have to do what you want to do, your mind incapable of standing athwart your will.

You allow me to do what I want. I tie your hands above your head, close so I can turn you this way and that. I kiss you as I tie a single column knot around your wrists.

"I'm not going to tie your ankles," I whisper. "But only if you promise not to try to kick me."

"I promise," you whisper back.

You're lying, but you don't know it. You have no idea what's coming.

I kiss and lick your neck. I suck at your jugular, work my way up to your ear, nibble and suck it, and then flip to the other side.

"Do you want me to blindfold you?" I ask.

"No," you whimper. "I want to be able to watch."

I bury my face in your left armpit. You smell like a man. I love how you smell. I look up and down your side and through your armpit and then repeat and repeat and repeat. You squirm like a child in church.

I flip to the other side. I repeat and you squirm.

I kneel between your legs. I massage your thighs, getting closer and closer with each circle until I feel you under my palm.

Oh my God, for the first time ever, I feel you. I almost black out.

I don't. Instead, I unbuckle your belt and unbutton, unzip, and violently remove your pants.

I put my mouth on you through your boxers. You cry out.

I slowly pull your boxers down. I'm mesmerized by what I reveal, the curve of you down because of the way you wear it, the weight of you significant enough that you hang when you're hard.

Kneeling between your legs, I pull your left foot to my face. I lick between and suck each toe. I gnaw on the ball and then the arch.

You try to kick my face. Not on purpose, but because you can't not try.

I turn to the other foot. I repeat what I had done to other foot. You try to kick me again. Not on purpose, but because you can't not try.

I lick up your leg. You hold your breath as my breath caresses your scrotum.

You expect me to take you erection into my mouth. I don't. Instead, I use my hands behind your knees to reveal what I'm really after.

You gasp when you realize where I'm heading. Involuntarily, you try to conceal the target. You can't.

My tongue traces down your perineum and around your opening. You tense and try to turn and twist away from me. You can't.

My tongue finds you. My hands hold you. I lick and lick and lick as my hands hold you.

You cry out.

You tense and tense and tense and I lick and lick and lick and… then… you… relax.

You slowly give yourself over to me. I take what you give, licking and licking and licking until you cry out because you can't take one more swipe of my tongue.

I lower you.

I again lick your scrotum, taking one ball and then the other into my mouth, lolling each around, sucking each.

I lick up your shaft.

I lick the precum from your meatus.

I take your glans into my mouth.

You cry out again.

I take you down my throat as far as I can. You are the most delicious thing I have ever had in my mouth.

I fellate you until I feel you rushing toward me.

I stop you and flip you. I'm under you.

I take you in my hand and guide you to where I need you to be. You hesitate, but I insist, "Take me, JJ." I see hesitation in your eyes, so I beg you, "Please."

I take all of you into me. For the second time during our encounter, I almost black out.

You're too new to this, so you start sliding in and out of me too quickly.

"Whoa whoa whoa," I urge, as if you are a young mare and I'm breaking you in.

You slow down. Our eyes lock. You slide in and out of me. I throw my head back, and you suck on my neck. I take your head in my hands and force your mouth to mine. I love being kissed while I'm being fucked, and — as you move toward the edge of the fucking — you kiss me harder and harder.

My hands find their way to your ass. They try to force you in deeper and faster.

"Jesus," you hiss into my mouth, doing what you said you wouldn't do, in vain.

You're close to the edge. I can feel it in every pore of my body.

Your closeness pulls me close. We're going to crest together. I know it.

You speed up. You're going as fast as you can. It's not fast enough.

I lock my legs around you and my arms around you and I try to become one with you.

I release first, my semen spraying all over my stomach and chest.

You release halfway through my release, our carelessness meaning I can feel it all.

But, I can't make you believe that which is not true.

You know I could never be that disciplined.

So, that which is true is that I'd strip you down, take you in my mouth but only briefly, and then flip you over and take you inside of me. It would be needy and urgent.

It would not be satisfying. It would be eventually, but not the first time. The first time would be like teenagers taking their first trip, fast and furious.

You wouldn't believe how hard I am for you right now.

Him to me:

The evidence suggests I know precisely how hard.

Me to him:

I'm glad you liked the description.

Him to me:

You suggested things about which I had never thought, much less heard.

Eyelids?

Armpits?

Feet?

Have you no shame?

Me to him:

I am shameless.

I wish you were.

You'd find out so much about yourself, what you like and what don't like, what feels good and what doesn't.

You should be ashamed of your shame. :-0

Him to me:

I don't think it's shame. If I was as ashamed as you suggest, then I don't think I'd have let you kiss me, I'm certain I wouldn't have kissed you back, and I'm even more certain I wouldn't have looked when you pulled back the curtain. That being said….

I'm certain that I don't know what I don't know.

I'm also certain that I'm not going to find out. My wife is neither Lewis nor Clark; she will not lead an expedition through the undisturbed land that is my body.

Like I said, I don't go on adventures. Neither does she.

Me to him:

I'm happy to forge the Purchase. I'll try to follow the map I laid out word for word.

Him to me:

Caution: Serious thoughts to follow.

I think I'd like that. I really do.

Correction: I think I'd love that. I really do.

But, I'm afraid — very afraid — of the aftershocks.

I can't lose my life. I am happy in it. It fits me.

I can't lose you. I am happy with you. You fit me.

I feel incredibly selfish right now.

I've never been a selfish person.

Me to him:

I'm not certain it has to be one or the other.

I, too, feel selfish. The night before the morning your note started these exchanges, I had resolved that I needed to absent myself from your life, that I needed to remove the temptation of me and allow you to return to the safety of your normalcy, like we had tried before.

I don't know that I could have done it, but I wanted to. For you.

It's the most selfless thing I ever thought of doing.

His response did not come quickly. In fact, it took days, two of which resulted in cancelled trainings. I feared I knew why.

My fear was realized. When it came, his response was only:

I need to stop being selfish.

I did not respond.

I didn't think he was toying with me, but I felt like he was. He'd bring the water to a boil, remove it from the heat, replace it, then bring it back to a boil.

I didn't want to get scalded.

Before I reached back out to him, he reached out to me, surprising me:

I have a logistical question. If my hands were tied over my head, how did I do the things you said I did?

I also have a correction. I would not have said "Jesus."

Me to him:

As to your logistical question: Fair point. I must have at some point untied your hands.

As to your correction: What do you say, when you are so overwhelmed that you must cry out?

Him to me:

As to my logistical question: I assumed. I've only ever done it the way you wrote it, and I've always used my arms and hands for leverage.

As to my correction: I don't think I've ever been so overwhelmed that I thought of crying out. I know I've never cried out.

Me to him:

I'd make you cry out.

It took him longer than usual to respond. When he did, it was a repeat:

I need to stop being selfish.

Me to him:

So you said.

Him to me:

Easier said than done.

Me to him:

Do you want my help?

Him to me:

I don't want your help. But, I think I need it.

Me to him:

Then you'll get it.

I'm not generally dramatic or wrought, but as I typed those words, I flashed to Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You"….

If I should stay

I would only be in your way

So I'll go but I know

I'll think of you every step of the way…..