Reject What Shows the Real You
Adam POV:
*** (this symbolizes the beginning of a flashback)
His brown eyes were glued to the TV screen. His mouth hung open, slightly, his hands grasped the controller, his thumbs worked the tiny joysticks as he killed zombie after zombie. Watching him was quite amusing to me. He sat, cross-legged on my bed wearing nothing but my nice, black, button down dress shirt. I, myself, was sporting some white sweatpants and no shirt. I was surprised at how amazing he was at Call of Duty—knowing that he didn't own the game—I wonder why that is?
"Dammit!" he shouted, startling me. I smirked at the GAME OVER that was flashing on the screen. Good. He'd been at that game for seven hours! Non stop! "Mitchell, I'm hungry."
"What do you want?"
"Order a pizza, will you?"
"Yeah… sure.." I noticed he was restarting the game. If I don't do it now, I won't have another chance for seven more hours… at least! I climbed on the bed, a mischievous smile on my face, and sat behind him, scooting closer; enabling me to wrap my arms and legs around him. I kissed his neck and licked right behind his earlobe. He—not tearing his eyes away from the screen—leaned back, lounging on my body, tilting his head; giving me more access to the flesh on his neck.
I watched for a few minutes as he killed the armature zombies of level one. I traveled my tongue a little ways down his neck, then lightly grazed his earlobe, before sucking on it. He moaned, loudly, letting me pry the controller out of his hands.
"Now why is it that you are so good at that game?" I murmured against his throat, unbuttoning his—my—shirt. "Maybe its because you have a secret weapon?" I inquired, palming his chest. "A hidden gun, perhaps?" my fingers snaked around his half hard cock. "Did I find the secret weapon, Joe?" I whispered in the shell of his eyes, pumping my hand.
"A-ah! Oh my god, Mi-Mitchell! St-stop!" he cried, thrusting his hips in time with my pumping hand. But we both knew he didn't want me to stop… he wanted—no, scratch that— he needed this now…
"Do you really want me to stop, Joe?" I murmured, smiling as his moans got louder. With one final pump, his cum shot out, spreading his semen all over my hand and causing a scream to rip through his lips. I brought my hand up to his face, allowing him to taste himself; to suck on my fingers.
Watching him cum all over me and suck on my fingers was enough for me to end up aching between the legs. Moaning, I slid my other hand down my pants. Joe—still sucking on my fingers—knocked my hand away and pulled my sweats down to my ankles with his teeth.
"Spread your thighs." he commanded.
Usually, I was on top. I like the top. I like being in control. If I wanted to be sweet and gentle, I'd do it. If I wanted to be rough and painful, so be it. But the way little Joe's voice was—dominate and demanding—it turned me on.
I obeyed, watching as he searched the drawers for something. His eyes lit up as—I assumed—he found what I was looking for. Keeping the mystery item hidden from me, he climbed back on the bed. I could hear the clinking of metal… chains? Nope, handcuffs. He straddled me, pinning my arms above my head and clipping me to the headboard.
"No, Joe, I don't want it!" I need to feel in control somehow, and without my hands, that's impossible.
"Shhh… if you touch too, it'll be over too quickly. Now just relax!"
"How can I relax if you're- Ow!" he elbowed my ribs, shushing me loudly again. I knew, with my training, that in less that five seconds, I could have the cuffs off and Joe on the floor with a gun to his head. But instead, I clamped my mouth shut.
Now I've never been the obedient type, especially to people who are shorter than me. (no offence to people who are under six feet.) But helpless, handless, and aching between the legs, all I could do was watch as Joe's lips formed deliciously around my throbbing cock.
Ok, ok, in case you haven't guessed, I'm gay. To some, I'm 'homosexual', to others, I'm 'one of them', and to the rest, I'm a faggot… a cock-sucking ass-fucking faggot. I blacken the name of our fair country. But whatever you wanna call me… I'm just gay. I tried to explain it to my mother; no, it's not a phase. Yes, it gets better.
"Sir? Sir?" the cab driver snapped me out of my thoughts.
"What?" I snapped, annoyed that my flashback was interrupted. He pointed out the front window at my apartment. "Oh…" I said, feeling a little guilty. "Thanks." I fished in my pockets and tossed a wad of cash on the front seat. I gathered my briefcase and various other crap I had strewn all over the back seat of the cab. With much struggle, I managed to get out of the cab and too the front door. My neighbor, Lydia, was able to help me inside and up to my apartment; all smiles, flirty. Sorry, Lydia, I thought, but I'm gay. with my briefcase hugged tightly against my chest, I could literally feel the heat from Tommy's— uh, I mean Joe's file seeping through the thick leather walls of the case, just begging to be read.
After successfully escorting me to my apartment room, Lydia seemed to wanna stick around. What happened to women? I thought they always wanted to be conceited! True, I haven't dated one since I was seventeen, but that's besides the point. Maybe they've changed in the last eleven years, I don't know.\
No offense, women, but ya'll are just way too complex…I'd much rather be with a man… which is why I don't get lesbians… after—nicely—getting Lydia out of my apartment—which took two hours, three beers, and a Call Me with a phone number on a sticky note—I cleared my desk and placed the file squarely on my desk. I got up to get a beer out of the refrigerator and use the restroom; I have other things to worry about than piss.
Opening the bottle with my teeth, I set the beer next to the folder, not even bothering to search for a coaster. White rings on my desk didn't seem to penetrate my thoughts as I opened the file carefully. A mass of mail, credit card transactions, receipts—Damn he still spends like he used to—, birthday cards—October 18th. See? I remember—, YMCA membership expiration notices—so he's been working out? That's hot—and numerous photos—in every one he was sporting black sunglasses and looking away from the frame; so either he didn't know they were being taken, or he was very aware of the secret photographer and was avoiding them. Either way, he still looked damn sexy.
I thought it best to sort it all out first. Soon, I had a pile of pictures, a mound of cards, a stack of miscellaneous papers, and an empty beer bottle. Step two: Get More Beer. I got up and stretched my legs, disposing the empty bottle in the recycle bin. I retrieved a second bottle from my fridge and set it on my desk. The picture I'd taken of Tommy sat face up on top of the picture pile. I lifted it gingerly and studied it. This was my favorite picture of him… and it's too beautiful to be cast into a degrading pile of 'Confidential' scraps of a man's fake life. Only I knew the real Tommy Joe Ratliff. Everyone else knew only Joe Filtar. In a way, it's sad… sad how a job can recreate a person's life. Nothing is as it seems. And this picture proves that he had a life. As short as it was—four years—I gave him a life… and he gave me one… this picture showed the real Tommy Joe Ratliff.
I found a Sharpie in my desk drawer and wrote 'Tommy Joe Ratliff 2008' on the back of it, then pinned it to my cork board I'd hung on the wall. I sat myself at my desk again, eyeing the uncapped sharpie. I carefully wrote the word Filtar on my hand, then below that, I wrote Ratliff. Filtar—minus the second F—is Ratliff backwards. That's a given.
By three in the morning, I had four empty beer bottles, a stained hand, and an address… by God, I had an address…
