Rhythm of Love
by Amibigious the Second
A/N: This is the third story I've changed after uploading. Maybe I shouldn't have such an itchy upload finger. Oh well. Anyway, my amazing husband proofread this for me with some helpful suggestions.
Darkness pierced by flashing lights. A beat pumping in the background, dulled only by the thin layer of wall. The room smells like the long forgotten cigarette, and layers of sweat. The boy tastes like Chinese food with the just the slightest hint of alcohol fresh on his breath. It reminds me of another moment, in a different half of my life, with a different person. The diversity lies in the fact that the kid doesn't care that we're crammed into some foxhole of a room behind my DJ booth, and I don't care that I'm still on the clock. I have sixteen pre-mixed songs lined up, all with heavy bass and wicked percussion. The club managers can do without me physically watching the dance floor for the few minutes that I have to relive my glory days.
The best part about being single is that there isn't going to be any arguing about sanitation, or whether or not this room is a metaphor for our love - there is no "love" between us. This kid is begging with body language to be fucked long and hard, not romanced. I want to say I love it, but truthfully, it's surreal. This boy looks so much like the shadow from my past, that seeing him wanting something so dirty makes me feel - how would you say it? Weird. No, complete. It makes me feel complete, but still empty. It is everything I ever wanted, just from somebody else.
Here, in a nightclub, in the middle of London, England, is a kid I've never met before. Yet, everything about him is so damn familiar: his cologne has the same his jeans are the same fit; skin is the same pale white; round glasses that sit on the same part of the nose; hair is a different cut, but only just slightly so. A hat on his head fixes that nicely. I eye the straw stetson on the table, hoping the kid would read my face and go for it. His lips are thinner, his eyes rounder, his face longer, and cheeks higher - but in the right light, at the right angle, it is close enough. It is close enough that when I saw him standing across the dance floor earlier, I thought I'd seen a ghost. I knew then that I had to have this kid - I had to.
It was just like back then, at prom. I looked across a dance floor, illuminated by plastic lights on string. I was wearing a tuxedo with a fluffy collar, trying to be ironically outdated. He was wearing shorts and a blazer, and a bowtie. I remember his damned bowtie; it was green. I made him wear that bowtie all night, even when it was the last thing he had on. Back before I was a parent, and my lover, my Jake, a grandparent. It was back when I actually thought I could love someone. Back when my heart still played a rhythm, rather than sit coldly somewhere between my ribs.
The kid is so soft to the touch. It's like butterfly kisses against my fingers as I run my hands over his hip. I consider taking off my gloves, to feel him against my palms. He's the first person in a long time who I can see spending an entire night just touching each other, in, like, a non-sexual way. I can't help but be bitter at myself for wanting to give so much of my body to this child I don't know. What's gotten over me? The desire inside is like a burning star in my chest - in my groin. It is frightening, and carnal. I want to throw him to the ground and fuck him so hard we break it. I want to taste every inch of him, inside and out. Like that song says, I want to go crazy on him.
Instead of any of that, I play it safe and reach around to the small of his back. I slide my hand into his pants. He jumps a bit, startled. He doesn't have much when it comes to the butt, but damn if I don't want to slam it anyway. I move all the way down, listening to his quickening breath. He's getting so excited at so little. How fucking cute is that? I curl my index finger into him, feeling the tightness. He gasps and his muscles clench. He hasn't been touched like this in a while, I think. I would say at all, but I'm not foolish enough to entertain the idea of him being a virgin; the guy talks like a freak.
Speaking of which…
"I thee we're thkipping foreplay," he whispers, caressing my arms. I can see him admiring the tightness of my sleeves, biting his lip subconsciously. Oh, he's already undressed me in my head, I can tell. My silence holds as I lift the kid's shirt up with my free hand, and toss it aside. The kid smiles at me, so full of confidence. He is lean and defined, but not tight like me - his little stomach has a pooch that I find to be strangely erotic. He may be old enough for college, but his height and physique definitely spring to mind the days of high-school. How is it fair that somebody gets to look sixteen forever? Like Zac Efron and Michael J Fox.
Actually, this kid looks a lot like a fifteen year old. God, I hope he's legal.
"This is foreplay," I drawl. My finger wriggles inside him, feeling around until he whimpers - there's the spot. I press it, massage it, and watch as the bulge in his pants becomes more defined. Oh, darling... He reaches to the table beside me and grabs the straw cowboy hat that had been sitting there. I wonder if he realizes how excited that makes me. He slides it onto his head, giving me a damn sexy little grin.
"You're from Texthas, huh?" He asks, with that cute little lisp of his. It's subtle, but still there. I think it's sweet that he's trying to small talk while I'm fingering him. That's a very Jake thing to do.
"So what? You're Canadian," I point out, tugging on the corner of his hat. I draw it over his eyes, so all I see is his smile. Fuck, it's a crooked Jake smile. I swallow back the saliva pooling in my mouth, and kiss his grin. I want it to disappear forever. I move from his lips to kiss his neck. In between moans of pleasure, he says: "I have an excuthe; I'm in thcool,"
"Who says I'm not?" I tease. I move my free hand to the back of his neck. I massage circles on his nape. He closes his eyes, and I wonder if there's someone else he's thinking of, too. Somebody I remind him of. His father? His fuckbuddy from five years ago? Shit, I'd even settle to be his big brother, role-playing some forbidden passion.
"I suppothe you could be in thcool," the kid concedes, with a shrug. "Maybe not for the firtht time."
Crap. I stop working on him - tongue and finger. It's hard to concentrate on pleasure when my age has become the elephant in the room. I feel the unspoken words, heavy in the air, accusing me: what's an old man like me doing scouting for kids like him? Or working at a club? I am forty. Forty. Fuck. I try not to read too much into it, and assume that the kid was only talking to have something to do with his mouth - oral fixation. Sometimes people are like that - if it ain't sucking a dick or a tongue, it's moving at the speed of light.
Do I really need to say who else I've known that was like that? Who couldn't shut up, even when it would have been in his best interests? It's uncanny, this fucking kid. This goddamn fucking kid. Jake incarnate.
My thumb goes in his mouth, so I can still play with his hair. I press against his tongue, and he sweetly sucks on my finger. I try to continue making out, but I can feel the sexual tension dwindling between us. It's not quite as overpowering; the aroma in the air stinking of anxiety, rather than passion. A crisp British accent in the background is telling me that I'm too old to be pounding the punanni pavement with some kiddiwink. I can see the look of disapproval, shot at me from over the rims of some square ass glasses. I wish I could make him shut up. I wish he wouldn't haunt me in times like this, when my finger is up in somebody's ass and they're starting to simulate a blowjob on my hand. He would probably think it was funnier this way, the asshole.
I think the kid notices the simmering heat. I curse at myself, not blaming the kid at all. He's a stupid fuck for bringing up my age, but I guess I'm a stupid fuck for pretending it isn't a concern. I mean, shit; I could have E.D. What good would I be to him if I'm limp the whole time? Or what if it creeped him out that he is the same age as my son? Did he know I even had a son? Is that something he'd guess by how many lines wreck the corners of my eyes?
Fuck. Shit. Damn. I've got to get this under control. Come on, Bro, the little guy's still hot and bothered. Time to get your head back in the game. He's all sexy for you, and you're all sexy for him. Let's just keep from talking, is all.
"Well, the truth is, I'm a senpai, come across seas to teach little Canadian shota's how to ride like a cowboy. Or, as it may be, ride a cowboy," I say, with a grin. I hope it looks wolfish.
The kid snorts. "Don't thtart that weea-"
Nope. Not gonna listen. I grab him around his waist and sling him over my shoulder, cutting him off mid-sentence. He spews forth a stream of profanities that would make any sailor blush. I chuckle at his distress. The kid weighs barely anything at all as I carry him over to the moldy couch, and toss him down. I'm not rough, but I think a spring digs into his back; his face scrunches for a minute. I wish I had someplace better, but I have precious few moments to get myself hard again, before I lose my mojo for the night.
It fucking sucks being forty years old. Forty. How did I live for so long?
"You thon of a—"
I silence him again, but this time I use my lips. I lean over, grabbing his head with my hands as I slide over the arm of the couch to sit on it beside him. I imagine all the things I can do to this smaller, skinnier boy. I could spin him over and fuck him doggy style, so hard he can't walk for weeks. I could use the couch to leverage myself, throw him to the ground, and vertically bang his asshole until he's a blubbering mess of cum and tears. I could just go so fast he forgets every word he's ever known, except for "God." I am so hard right now, imagining all the fucked up things I want to do; my kisses are sloppy. I'm leaving slobber all over him, like I'm trying to devour his face. He bites my lip, and claws at my neck. Somehow, we're synced up. I just know he's got the same fantasies in his head. I just know he wants to be pounded into oblivion, like he doesn't have to walk anywhere again for the rest of his life.
My hands are in his hair, pulling him to me. His own find their way under my shirt and up my back. I fucking hope he scratches me to shreds; I love that. He obliges my mental request slightly, as his hands move their way back down, searching for a hemline. My shirt comes off. I scramble to make sure my sunglasses stay on, so that I don't freak him out with my stupid, unnatural eye color. He didn't notice, as he was too busy trying to release the breath that caught at the sight of my naked chest.
"Yeah, I work out every night," I say, flexing just a bit. The kid audibly swallows; guess I'm not too shabby after all, for an old man.
"You're perfect," he comments. I notice his ears kind of twitch, and I wonder if he meant to say anything at all. The idea that he let those particular words escape, that they weren't planned or meant for me to hear, fills me with such energy. I am a predator again, leering down at my prey, ready to feast.
Things can't move fast enough after that. I slide my fingers into his waistband, and making sure I've got his boxers too, I yank. I drag his jeans down and over his shoes - the kid squeals as he's suddenly quite naked. I soak in the vision of him for a minute. He squirms beneath my gaze, blushing darkly as he keeps his legs pressed together. It seems that his confidence has faltered a bit. The presence of my untamed muscles tends to do that. He has a decent sized penis, made all the better by his shorter frame; I'm certain he's sizing me up, wondering how proportionate I must be. He's going to be pleased when I show him, I think. I'm already prepared to make sure he knows how very, very much I want to use my massive body to give him unstoppable orgasms. I undo the buttons on my jeans and slide my own underwear down. The elastic bites at the base of my penis, but I don't lower them any further; in my opinion, this helps me last as long as I'm famous for. I then form a V with my hands under my crotch, letting the kid see that yes, I do have the body of a porn star.
The kid is sitting in my lap by the time I look up, wrapping his arms back around my chest and locking lips. He's still wearing his goddamn mismatched shoes, but I'm still wearing my gloves, and pants, so I guess I really can't complain. I feel him pressing me backwards, trying to get me to bottom, probably. Doesn't he know who I am? It's okay, I have ways to fix this. I place my hand on his back to steady him, and grab his thigh. In a fluid motion, I use my upper body to push him forward, and my grip on his thigh to pull him closer. His eyes widen as he's suddenly on his back, again pressing his legs together. The fuck is this kid's game? He's not trying to hide his dick, because that's still on display.
Curious.
I pull the lube from my pocket, but can't find the condom. I worry over this for all of two seconds, before I decide I don't need it. I'm clean, and we're two dudes. I don't see any telltale signs of herpes or shit either. I start to work the lube over myself, slathering the cold lotion on my member as much as will stay. I remember another boy laying there in front of me, doe-eyed and blushing as I did this same thing once upon a time.
"Bro, now wait just a diddly-dangly moment! I can't find my cond- Why are you looking at me like that? What's that for? Wait, no wait Dirk! Where are you-Ah! Egads Dirk! It's cold! Aye caramba!"
I remember the feeling of my sweetheart as I had slid two fingers into him. How he'd squirmed when I found his prostrate, and blushed when I'd told him how beautiful he was. When he kept screaming those insanely outdated phr- The kid suddenly grabs my hair, yanking my head back and me out of my memories. I'm startled into the realization that the kid is not my old flame, no matter how much he reminds me of Jake. He's his own person, with his own needs and personality, and apparently, he likes control. He's not going to just take me, like a receptacle for my sperm - not like Jake, who'd just lay there, letting me do all the damn work. He's going to fight for dominance the whole way through.
I can dig it.
His tongue is electric as he finds my sugar spot, nibbling and sucking on my skin. He's physically pushing me into a sitting position, so I oblige him. I know what's coming next, and goddamn, it excites me. I've never done that "sitting on top of each other, staring each other in the eyes" position before. It demands so much emotional connection to your partner, something I'm not too keen on anymore. But fuck him if he thinks I'm submitting easily. I can still work with this; he's still going home sore. I grab his ass with both of my hands, one cheek each, and pull him all the way onto my lap. He gasps as I spread him, digging my fingers into his skin, wanting to leave bruises. What little lube is still on my two fingers goes inside him. He growls as I make a scissor motion, trying to prepare him as quickly as possible. I am gentle when I slide my head inside. Once that's complete, though, I squeeze his little butt so hard he cries out.
I ease into him, giving his body time to adjust to my girth. I make it halfway, using his hisses and groans as cues for when I need to slow down. It takes only three gentle pumps in this manner before I feel my balls slap him. I grin when that happens, because it means he's ready just enough that I'm not going to murder him, but not entirely ready for a pummeling. He'll have a serving of hardcore pleasure, with a little side of pain. But desert would be awesome. I know this from experience.
"It's rodeo time," is all the warning he gets. His nails curl into my hair, yanking as I lift him up. Then, SLAM! He bites into my neck, but I can still hear his wail. He tears the skin on the back of my neck as I do it again. I can feel a small trail of moistness run down my back from my shoulder as I ram the kid again, and again, going balls deep; I don't know if I'm bleeding or he's drooling, but I'm happy with either.
I pump him as hard and fast as I can, listening to him squeak with every thrust. As it gets easier to fill him, I pick up the pace, trying to outrun the thrumming of the music in the background. He makes the mistake of letting go of me to lean back. I see his entire body flushing, and a little bit of saliva on the side of his mouth. His eyes half-lidded from the pleasure. I see him like this and my fervor increases. He's bouncing in my lap, reaching back to the cushions to keep his balance as I pulverize him. I feel my hips cramping, so I slowly sit up, holding his hips tightly as I readjust while still filling him. This time, he doesn't fight me. His neck rests against the arm of the couch as I sit on my knees, fucking him relentlessly. I can see my hand-print in red against his skin. It's fucking hot. The cowboy hat tumbles aside. He grabs onto the couch, chewing his lip to try and keep the screams inside.
It doesn't work.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit..." the kid whimpers, between lunges. His entire body starts turning red, but especially his cheeks. He's one of those people whose blush envelopes the entire face. Shit, he's fucking adorable. I need to really make him scream. I pull him to me as I shove myself into him, using all my physical might to go as physically deep as possible. The kid's eyes widen and his entire body trembles; I don't think he was expecting that. "FUCK! GOD! FUCK!"
His legs are twitching in my grasp. I do it again, and he bites into his lip so hard he draws blood. I hear the ripping of fabric as he tears off pieces of the arm. He screams, and growls, and writhes. I feel amazing. He looks amazing. This is amazing. My release is imminent. I try to hold it back, seeing the kid throbbing and so near to his own. My shaft feels so full, tingling as it begs to unload, but I can't do it. I have to last longer than him; it's what I do. His eyes are rolling up into his head. I thresh him hard, so goddamned hard. I feel so warm, so close. Every brush of the skin is like tiny explosion of raw energy, making me leak from every pore. I thank the Gods of sex when the kid's body suddenly tightens around me, his back arching. The howl he makes is indescribable. It's raw. It's powerful. It's somehow the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
I feel something warm, and wet, against my hip. His body shivers as he spills his seed, giving me permission to follow suit. I pull out, screaming his name, and aim my cum at his face. Fuck, I am too slow. Instead, it spurts all over his crotch, joining his own genetic material. My energy exhausted, I collapse on top of him.
I miscalculate the width of the couch, screaming "Shit!" as I go rolling off into the floor. I hit the ground face first, and my cap flips off my head. My mind tries to command my arms to lift me back up, but they don't want to move. Instead, I sit there, listening to my breath against the cold tiles. I haven't gone that hard in a while. The first time I had, it wasn't my first time ever – God no, that was awkward as fuck and really short – but it was my first time with him. I wonder if I subconsciously did that, seeing as how every other thing about this kid, and this night, has harkened back to the cold, cold day. Jake was a screamer too, but not a biter or a scratcher. He was always so afraid of hurting me, that he just grabbed onto the pillow and hugged it as I rocked his world. When he came, he shrieked like a girl; and I kept going. He would whine and complain about being too sensitive, and I would last forever, relishing his body as I made him ejaculate at least twice more. I had so much control back then. But the thing about him was, when I was done, he would pull me into his arms. He might've let me fuck him like a bitch, until it was too much for him to handle, but it was him who protected me as we slept. I needed him.
It was the only time I ever slept the entire night - when he was there, to ward off the nightmares.
My mouth is already moving to ask the kid if he wanted to spoon when, suddenly, I feel a painful pressure on my back. The kid literally rolls over me and onto his knees. As he stands up, he plants two kicks on my back, catching an old injury. I bark in response, knowing I'm going to feel that for a few days. He scrambles his underwear on as I begin to rise. The little fuck doesn't even have the decency to seem panicked as he gathers his remaining stuff into his arms. I push myself to my knees, wincing at the reminder of my old skate-boarding career. Once I know I can work through it, I jump up, and, like a flash of light, I'm across the room, grabbing his arm - spilling his things again. He yanks himself from my grasp, giving me the bitchiest look I think I've ever seen. With his flushed cheeks and messy hair, standing there in bee-patterned boxers and his damned shoes, it's more adorable than intimidating.
I'd be killed by cuteness if I wasn't furious at him.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand to know, giving him my best "daddy's voice." It's not quite as effective as the mommy voice, but it has made more than one punk go wobbly in the knees.
"What the fuck ith wrong with me? What the fuck ith wrong with you?" He throws back. I am confused. Before I can answer, he sobs: "I don't care if you're fucking cheat on thomebody or whatever thith ith. At leatht have the dethenthy to tell me I'm a thubthti- fuck that word! Alternate! At leatht tell me I'm a fucking alternate."
"Uh…" Can he read my mind? Is he a psychic? Do they exist?
The kid starts hiccuping like he's going to full-on cry. A few tears escape, before his expression hardens. I'm still registering the change when his fist connects with the side of my head. He swings for another, but I catch him this time. I use his momentum to twirl him around, and force the arm he swung at me behind him. He reaches behind himself and catches my glasses as he tries to scratch at my face. I grab this hand as well, and secure it also to his back. Once that's done, I kick the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. I then lean against him, letting my heavier weight do most of the work.
"Goddamn, man! What the fuck? You need to calm your horses, little bro. Alternate? Dude, this is fucking one night stand. What does it matter?"
"Get fucked by the sharp end of a chainthaw!" The kid spits at me. He tries to stand; when he realizes that he can't, he thrashes, wriggles, and throws his head back. All these attempts to free himself fail. He's worse at escaping than Dave.
"I'll let you go when you calm the fuck down, bro," I reply, as calmly as possible.
"Bleat like a goat and pith on your turntable!"
Okay, this is getting nowhere. My mind races as I try to pinpoint the moment that this turned from a fun rumpus into whatever the fuck it is now. I can't. I can't think of a single damn thing that I would've done to deserve such vitriol. "Time out, kid. Shit, man, what happened? I thought we were having fun? Are you off medication, or something?"
"You thorry piethe of shit! I hope you get thucked off by a rabid dog."
He lets out one final animalistic scream before I feel him slump against me. He's not fighting anymore. We both kind of crumple, and I pull him into a hug. I feel dread pitting in my stomach, as something occurs to me. Was I too rough? He did have fun, right? I wasn't hurting him for real, was I? Once the possibility is in my head, it becomes a fear I can't shake. I wrap my arms around him, and kiss his hair, as much for my comfort as his.
"I'm so sorry, man. I thought you were okay with it," I say, petting him. There's a horrible, gut wrenching silence that follows. I just want him to tell me that it was okay. That we were okay. That I'm not a- that I didn't-
"I'm fucked up," he finally whispers. "Shit. Shit. FUCK. Why can't I jutht have a break?"
Well, this isn't how I planned on ending my night. I rest my head against his, wishing that there was I way I could line our brainwaves up to download his thoughts. "I really, really thought we were good, man. Fuck, I'm so sorry-"
"Nobody wantht to touch me anymore," He shrieks. The pain and desperation in his voice hurt me. He's not like Jake, in this moment. Jake was always bursting with self-righteous vindication when he made accusations or confronted someone. This kid sounds like he doesn't think he deserves better. He sounds like he's in pain. The kid continues, so close to tears: "I finally find thomeone who doethn't know me and you're a fucking athhole! You don't even want to fuck me. You're thinking of thomeone elthe. I'm a fucking whore without a paycheck!"
I'm a little bit taken aback by this subject. He snorts a laugh either at my lack of a response, or at his own foolishness.
"What are you talking about? Dude, you're fucking hot. I've been thinking about plowing you since I started my first set," I reassure him. His hair tickles my cheek as he shakes his head.
"Don't lie to me!" Damn, that's a lot of fury burning his throat. I didn't think anybody could make words sound so sharp, they physically cut. "Thith wath a quickie with the DJ, remember? Don't inthult me by pretending to protect my feelingth, or whatever conthiderate shit you're doing right now."
Well, he's no longer sobbing. Now he sounds like Jake; like he's so sure that he's got things figured out. Like it doesn't matter what I say, because I'm not telling him the truth. He knows better. He's caught me.
"Fine, but I'm not lying. I don't know what's up, but I do not lie about hotties. Hell, I'd even fuck you again, baka. I don't care if you spaz out on me, babe. Crazy's kind of sexy."
"Yeah, whatever. Whithper your thweet nothingth to Jake. Maybe he'll let me borrow a fuck to give."
I let a sigh of frustration pass over my lips as I sit up, releasing him. He sits there for a moment before gathering his clothes again. He gets to his feet, and turns around. He's giving me a shit look, and I can't help but feel like I deserve it. I wipe the sweat from my brow, and decide to start fixing myself up as well, since we're apparently done here. My limp – but still sensitive – penis goes back into my jeans as my mind runs through our conversations. He dresses himself, doing his best to not look at me. I wonder if this is as much from embarrassment as it is from anger.
Whithper your thweet nothingth to Jake. To Jake. Jake.
It strikes me that I've not once mentioned Jake to him. I freeze, and shuffle through my mind again. No. I've thought about Jake a lot in these past few minutes, but I've not said a word about him. The kid walks by, his clothes back on relatively straight. I almost let him go, fighting the urge to demand to know where he got that name from. There's a rage inside of me, though. A rage at myself for being stupid, and careless; a rage at the kid, for ripping into my scars. Nobody knew about Jake; Jake was my soul mate. I fucked it up with him, real bad. I hurt him. I set out to hurt him, trying to turn him into somebody else. Trying to make him more the man I wanted him to be, and less of the man he really was. The thought of the kid just walking away, for the same goddamn reason, was a bullet to the heart.
"Wait," I shout. The kid jumps, startled. He turns and looks at me, leaning against the door. He looks ready to bolt. Am I really that scary? "How do you know about Jake?"
"You thcreamed hith name, douche," the kid answers, annoyed. "For the record, it'th not like I fucking care or anything. I jutht don't have to put up with thith shit."
"When?"
"When what, knucklebrain?"
His insults are starting to annoy me. I allow a little bit of that emotion to creep into my voice, as I say, "When did I scream his name?"
The kid's brow furrows. He's looking at me, but I can't tell if he's angry, confused, or trying to remember. I watch his metamorphosis into cocky; it is fucking seamless. This kid changes emotions like I change a playlist. "When you were trying to forth your filthy thplooge into my fathe."
Oh, right.
"Yeah, sorry about that," I say, feeling just a tad ashamed. Maybe I was too caught up in the moment. "Bukkake is kind of my fetish, dude. I just wanted to see your pretty face dripping white."
"No, you wanted to thee Jake 'dripping white', you inthufferable prick."
I try to argue, but I can't. It's true. I didn't think it would matter, but it does. This kid noticed when I was checking into the hotel on memory lane, and it hella pissed him off. I try to imagine things from the other perspective, how I would feel if I knew my sexual partner was fantasizing about somebody else. I would like to think that I wouldn't care. Hell, I'm pretty sure that I've already been in this situation before, and I was okay then. Then I think about what would happen if I'd seen him checking out - saw Jake's eyes floating in space, looking at a person that wasn't there. That would have made me feel cheap, I guess. It would make me no better than a vibrator.
Fuck. That feels... horrible. It feels fucking degrading.
But I'd only care about that if it were Jake. I wouldn't care if this kid did the same thing. I mean, a bar hook-up is essentially mutual masturbation. We're not here for the emotional connection; we're here for orgasms. Right?
I want to run my mouth and pour all of these thoughts out into him, as an eloquent and long-winded apology. Instead, I fill my voice with all the arrogant southern charm I can, until it drips: "I don't want you to leave mad. Bro never leaves a customer unsatisfied, babydoll. How about I blow you until you're smiling again?"
Anger flashes through the kid's face, but is quickly replaced by a look so fallen, I fear I may have to pick it up off the floor any moment now. He jiggles the door handle, mentally debating with himself. I see his decision in the way he shakes his head, and sets his jaw.
"Yeah, I'm jutht going to ignore all that angry shit I jutht thaid and thquirt my tangy thludge down your whore'th mouth." With that, he gave me that adorable two fingered 'fuck you' that the British did, blowing a raspberry to finish it. I start thinking of ways I can turn that around, but he's already out the door.
Just like that, gone. The only thing left of him is the sticky spots on my stomach, and the salty-sweet aroma of the air. I stare after him, wondering why I'm feeling so lost right now. Maybe I'm just getting too old to turn off so quickly. Some lingering effects of the sexual pheromones, or something like that. As I'm retrieving my shirt from the couch, I notice the cowboy hat is still there. I pick it up, then hold it to my nose. I can smell his shampoo, and, of course, it's Jake's shampoo - sweet orange, bergamot oil, and honey. God, it makes me quiver, as phantom arms wrap around my shoulders, and non-existent lips kiss the back of my neck.
Our sheets were that kind you found in hotels, because Jake liked the swish noise they made. His caramel skin looked beautiful sitting against orange pillows, the green comforter tangled beneath him. I can see him there, as if I just rolled over to see him this morning, not a million years ago.
I have got to get out of here. Dressed again, I re-entering the club. The energy in the air is alive. The dance floor is a mass of jerking human bodies. I shake my head to clear it of the ghost of Christmas' past. I can still smell the honey as I check my playlist; we're not even half way done. Damn, I was too fast.
I'm startled as a beer appears in my vision. It's hardly a rare sight - the beautiful blue bottle of American brand malted goodness - but my throat screams for it. I take it, and down as much as I can in a single gulp. The girl who offered it smiles at me, her dark curls tamed by a cat faced beanie. Even on her days off, Nepeta Leijon never misses a night here. Mobius Double Reach-Around is her home.
She tells me about the latest things to happen at her school. I know she's flirting with me, and I flirt back. I don't exactly swing for the females, but our rapport is what keeps us sane. She off-handedly asks about my love life, as she does every night. I shrug, pretending to not care anymore. I wish I didn't care anymore. The truth is that I'm feeling way too much right now. I've always loved my life here, but tonight, it feels so hollow. I feel alone for the first time. Even the days following my break-up with Jake, I was okay. I never missed him quite like this before; I've never regretted letting anyone go.
Letting that kid in my head to upturn the buried images of my past didn't feel any different than the day when I received that call – when a dutiful granddaughter fulfilled her Grandpa Jake's last request, and called the man he used to love. Her precious little voice swelling with grief, and my eyes, dry as a desert. It wasn't my heart he broke - it was my soul. It was my everything.
Grandpa Jake. My Jake. My kid.
Nepeta keeps on talking about nothing in particular. I keep my sick beats going, watching the modern kids throw their arms and heads in every direction, unaware of the thing called rhythm. I pretend to listen to her, and try to drown out the memories in my head with the beer, and then another. By the time the club is closing, I have decided that I'm going to find this kid again. If it's the last damn thing I do, I'm going to make sure that he is alright.
I think… I think I love him.