He's banging his head on the wall again.
I hate it when he does that. What he wants is the same,
whether he's slamming his head back or absently knocking
it against the plaster. Against the wall he painted
blue this summer, back when he smiled. It's the common
wall
between the bathroom and the bedroom, and I can hear
him from our bed.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The novice musician in him makes the rhythm clear.
I hate
it when he does that. When his private hells drive him
so mad he numbs. Once, back when
I thought my presence
would help, he told me that he could not even
feel my hands rubbing his. Looked at me with glass-doll
eyes and smiled.
Told me he appreciated the gesture, all the
same.
The thumping stops. I turn over and try to
sleep. He's very quiet in between, and sits
very still
on the little
triangular tiles of the bathroom floor; I've
watched him for hours from the doorway. I'm
almost asleep.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Sometimes I wonder what thought he needs
to drive out.
Later, much later, he
crawls between the sheets like an exhausted dog,
belly to
the mattress,
face hidden
by long
locks of tangled hair. I touch
him, and he opens for me. He shudders
all over
and crawls
to the
center of
the bed,
wrapping his hands around the headboard's
slats. Two fingers dipped in lube
and a cheap condom
later, I'm
inside, and
his head hangs between his arms,
hidden.
I hate it when he does that, when he's so still and quiet
he's not even there, and it makes me pound into him harder.
I draw his hips backward until his arms are taut, fingers
tight on the headboard, and I fuck him that way, thrusting
up as I pull him down, and I watch.
It doesn't come.
It doesn't come, and I fuck him harder.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
He moans, reaching for it. He can't quite get it.
I tangle
my fingers in his sweaty hair, tugging backward. "You
let me take it," I growl, "you let me fuck it
out of you."
He voices an openmouthed sound on the
path to what he needs. Encouraged, I slam into him harder,
and he yelps, and jerks,
and comes -- I feel it all through his body, an electrical
shock throwing his thoughts off their tracks. I'm carried
along by his need and its satisfaction, groaning as I
spend myself inside him.
He lies down then, limbs slack.
I hold him. I'm thankful for his calm. I'm happy I caused
it.
But I don't kid myself. In a few days, I'll hear it
coming from the bathroom again.
I hate it when he does
that.
© 2004 Kal Cobalt - Contributor's
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