He's depraved. Shameless. He allows his body to be used and gripped and scarred by any motherfucker that meets his eye. Gender doesn't matter; he'd be infatuated with girls when younger, but over the years his attraction laid heavily with men. He likes their strength, I think- likes what they do to him and what he does to them.
Gold is a versatile bastard. One moment he'd be excited and happy-go-lucky, and the next, stoic. Same applies to sex, as it always does. Top and bottom, gentle and rough, kind and brutal; he can pull it all off. How do I know? The walls are paper thin. I know because I can fucking hear them.
It's like clockwork- he waltzes through the door late at night with his current conquest in tow. He smiles at me in a way that he never repeats with the one night flings he traps and that's the last I see of him for the night. By the time I lay alone in my bed, they're well on their way in the next room over, with their obnoxious moans and cries and names, always a different name from night to night.
He's a damn whore. He exposes himself to everybody, and I can't fucking stand it.
I want him to be with me.
Late at night, I touch myself to the sound of his hoarse voice. I imagine Gold's eyes hungrily focused on me, only me; I can almost feel his hot, tan skin against mine. For a few moments my hand is his, stroking my cock with an expertise far superior to my own- because he's been with everybody except me- and grinning as I writhe and scream beneath him. I want him to take me. I want to be the whore for once, to take his dick and be forced around and looked at like a piece of meat.
I want him to fuck me.
I want him to love me.
Semen coats my stomach and my chest heaves. It's been the 3rd round of the night, and the room besides mine is finally quiet.
I imagine afterwards, too. He'd stroke my hair softly, tell me how good I was for him and how much fun he had with me. He'd tell me that I'm the one for him and that I make him happy. I'd return the favor. My face would flush a deep shade of crimson and I'd bury it into his warm chest. And we'd sleep, ready to face the tomorrow that awaited us. Together.
But that's not true, I realize, as tears sting at my eyes. I'm not his and he's not mine, and he doesn't want to be mine anyway. So a fantasy it is, and a fantasy it will stay. But nobody can take my fantasy away.