Author's note: please do not ask where this one came from, because I have no idea. Actually, I can tell you this: we took more standardized tests today, and I finished ridiculously early. Apparently Tamara, who chose to take charge most of today, found inspiration for this somewhere in the computer screen. You will have to ask her, though, because I cannot fathom what in the MAP test brought forth this. It certainly wasn't what I intended to write…
Addicted
My eyes flick once more towards him, then dart away again, unwilling to risk more than a fleeting glance at the boy who should be my enemy. And, to all intents and purposes, we are enemies. Only we know otherwise, and we will never utter a word. We cannot. Who knows what results such an admission would produce. Not ones we desire, certainly. Better to simply stay silent.
I glance over again, meeting his eyes for a single moment. His emerald gaze remains expressionless, but the message is received. He turns back to his friends, and I turn towards mine, confident that we understand each other. He will meet me tonight. He cannot not. I fascinate him, with my sarcasm and my many facades. He never knows which of the many facets of my personality he will find, and the anticipation keeps him coming back for more. I do my best to ensure he never tires of me. I must. He calls to me still, just as he did that very first time. It seems so long ago, yet, in truth, very little times has passed. It merely feels like an eternity.
I remember our first encounter vividly. How could I not? He came to me, so eager yet so frightened, and I could not help but to reciprocate. As inexperienced in matters of love as myself – and far more willing to admit to it – his breath came in short, breathless gasps as he explored me. What choice had I but to do the same, what option but to give him the pleasure he game me? So I did, reaching into him to find untouched areas and mark unexplored areas with my touch, my saliva, and, eventually, my semen. His moans grew in volume until I feared we would be discovered. Then he returned the favor, and I thought no more of being discovered, or of what anyone would think, or of anything but the raw, desperate pleasure brought on by his touch.
He came again, as I knew he must. He had tasted pleasures of the flesh, and now he could not do without. I knew how he felt; I felt the same way. I craved his touch, the feel of his flesh on mine, the moans he uttered as we moved as one, our breath synchronizing and our hearts beating too quickly for comfort. The look in his eyes as he left said it all. He hated me, just as I hated him, yet he returned, night after night, unable to keep away. I never went to his room. Too proud to beg, I waited until he came to me, a thing he never failed to do. This night would be no different.
He comes, just as I knew he would, and we lock the doors. None can know, just as none can know about the others I have had, the pitiful youngsters, awed and inexperienced, too dull to keep for very long. But he, he is different. His touch awakens a fire in my soul that the others do not. I think of his eyes and his touch and the taste of his mouth, his chest, his penis, and I cannot stop myself. I do not even wish to stop myself. Why should I deny myself the pleasure of dreaming of him? Lust is not forbidden to me, only love, and I will not love him. I cannot love him.
We utter no coherent words as we couple, everything we must communicate transmitted through breath and touch and moan. I lose track of the time, knowing only that we will know when to quit. We always do. He gives out first, even if I long to do so long before he does. I will not accept that mark of weakness, and so persevere, pushing back the pain and the exhaustion and the frustration to heave again, rutting like a beast, uncaring of the damage I do to his flesh just as he cares not for mine. Neither of us expose our skin any longer, for fear of being discovered. His breath comes in pain-filled gasps, as I know my own do, and I know he will soon reach the end of his stamina. Sure enough, he collapses on top of me, his chest heaving and his hands clawing my back, gouging out more bloody tracks. My own do the same, and I know he will wear a sweater tomorrow, just as I will.
He stands at last, dressing in silence and leaving without farewell, just as he always does. I do not move, merely watch as he leaves the room, his gain stiff and painful, lasting reminders of the deed we have just completed. Only when the door has closed behind him to I turn, not bothering with my own clothes, merely replaying it in my mind, going over every moment so as not to forget any of it. His touch, his taste, his breath… all of it must be conserved. I do not ask myself why, I simply accept that it must be so. Only when I finish committing each detail to memory do I permit myself to sleep, knowing full well that he will return, and craving the next time already.