At the house he bolts up the stairs and slams the bathroom door behind him.

She looks at me. I try to laugh.

"Como dije, tímido."

("Like I said, shy.")

She approaches me and moves in to kiss, but I back away and gestures towards the bathroom.

"No, no- el, el."

("No, no- him, him.")

I hear the shower water go on, and try the door. He's left it unlocked.

She smiles seductively, and begins to disrobe.

Her body is actually much more amazing than I'd thought. Quite full breasts- sizeable, but not oversized, with lovely pale brown nipples, a tiny waist, curved hips, and long shapely legs.

I'm so pleased for Curt.

I open the door, and we enter the bathroom.

The shower is actually a large, tiled, glass-enclosed chamber complete with numerous hand holds and built-in deep cushioned bench seats. Perfect for rigorous, multi-position sex, and designed precisely for it.

I sit outside the enclosure, on the far end of the room, suddenly incredibly nervous, and try to make myself invisible.

He is standing naked under the warm water, as she enters, and for the first time, I feel bad for him. This wasn't his choice, he was terribly uncomfortable with it, and now he's trapped.

She approaches slowly, and reaches a tentative hand out to him, touching his chest. I can see him sighing resignedly.

He looks down, running a finger absently over her waist and hips, over her belly and between her breasts before moving in to kiss her, and soon places a hand behind her head to pull her closer as their mouthes open and mix.

Gradually the kiss intensifies to the point where I can hear the soft squishy suction over the water.

To my surprise and great disappointment, instead of feeling happy for him, instead of seeing the beauty in it all, I'm immediately stung with terrible stabbing pangs of jealousy. A battle begins to rage within me- on the one hand, I love him and I want this for him, I want his pleasure, his healing, from all he has been through. On the other hand, the man I love is naked and kissing someone else, right in front of me.

He stops suddenly and turns to position her so that the water runs down her back, and reaches for the bar of soap. He lathers up, and places a flat, open hand on her right breast, palming her protruding nipple in soft, slow circles, before moving to her left breast, then eventually doing both at once, taking his sweet time. The look of desire and hunger in his eyes is as plain as the day is long.

Lord how I hate her guts.

His hands knead and caress and cup the weight and form of her breasts, and he moves in to kiss her again. Quickly it escalates, and he spins her round in place, arms on that small waist, so that her chest now faces the spray, and drops to his knees before her, to at first engulf a nipple, and then to nearly pull her entire tit inward with strong, wet, audible suction.

Yes indeed, let it be known: Curt Wild is a fucking breast man.

Oh god, this is killing me. What in all motherfucking hell have I done? Only gone and reintroduced him to the one thing he apparently wants more than life itself, more than heroin even- tits ! It's all I can do to stop myself from ripping open the door and clobbering her.

Naturally, she moans and cries and writhes about in ecstasy as he goes about, feverishly devouring her, and then practically leaps into the air when his hand slides downward between her legs.

Well, whatever qualms he may have had about this setup, certainly appear to have vanished. Now the qualms are all mine. I feel sick.

Swiftly he picks her up by the waist, plants her down on the built in bench seat, and kneels before her again, and for what purpose? Yet another rigorous, several-minute tit worship session, all while she squirms and squeals in near-orgasmic tones, just to torment me further.

How could he have stood to be with me at all? Seeing that I'm missing the one, or rather, two most essential ingredients? Did he long for them when he went up my body? Dream of them?

Stop it! You asked him, no you made him do this ! You cannot fucking complain now, wanker! Serves you right!

But I did mean what I said! I do want him to be happy, more than anything. I want to bring him pleasure and peace and bliss, and all that I said. It's true.

So … why is this tearing me to bits?

Both of his hands are now grabbing her ankles, and pushing upwards so that her feet rest on the bench, knees spread wide.

Oh god.

He kisses her with passion, while his thumb slides up and down her, I'm quite sure by now, sopping wet pussy.

FUCKING bitch! I'm leaving!

No! You can't! That was the only way he finally agreed! He made you promise to stay with him through it.

Arghghgggggggggggghhhhhhhh!

And now … fantastic! … wonderful! Christmas day has arrived! He's buried his face and hasn't come up for air for what feels like 20 minutes, all while she's bucking and screaming out swears like a Spanish sailor.

Yet another thing my body's missing!

Oh, why can I not see the beauty in this? It is a beautiful thing, to see him consumed, no, overwhelmed, with passion, with lust. But I imagined myself gushing with love and awe, tears rolling down my cheeks to watch him 'in motion', as I'd told him, driven by hunger and need. Happy and proud that I'd been so unselfish! Where is that person? Where is he, goddamit ?

A sudden switch, and now he's sitting on the bench, and I have a clear view of his face. He looks blissful indeed. Eyes squeezed tight, mouth open as she plants herself in his lap, and slides downward, enveloping him, cock rapidly disappearing from view, and then reappearing, disappearing, and then reappearing … etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.!

Curt's cock. MY cock. The one that belongs to ME. The one that's shot off in my hands. The one that's been in my mouth and deep inside my ass.

Now … deep inside her body.

Ah, the convenience of a nice, naturally lubricated cavity! Surely now erased from his memory is any thought of cold, unsexy, 'hard-on killing' vaseline.

Well congratulations you bloody stupid, colossally moronic idiot! It was really smart to remind him. Good work! He will never look at you twice now!

And then I flip back again: Maybe it was smart to remind him! Maybe this is what he needs! The images flash through my mind: Curt & Bianca, hand in hand, eloping to Madrid, or flying off to Barcelona for a traditional Spanish wedding, her large, close-knit family in tow, who embrace him as one of their own. Curt, in pajamas, face down on the bed pouring over his Spanish lessons, throwing out phrases that she lovingly, patiently corrects. Curt at the breakfast table, healthy and content, cooing over a plate of her warm homemade bread, his addictions and demons a thing of the distant past, something that he feels surely must have happened to someone else.

The painful reality being … I cannot offer him any of this. Normalcy, wholesomeness, balance. Maybe he loves me, or he thinks he does, simply because he's so bloody fractured and needy. Maybe he loves me, or thinks he does, because I'm the first person to come along who hasn't used him, for sex, for drugs, what have you.

My heart is positively splitting.

A sudden shift, and he is moving to stand. She leaps off of him at the last second, almost falling backward. He lifts and presses her backward into the glass wall- directly in front of me.

He grips her hips and pulls forward a bit, plunges, and begins moving within her.

And then, out of the blue … his eyes raise, and meet mine.

I'm stunned by the sudden connection and quickly assume the best poker face I can muster. I hardly want him to know how poorly I've handled this, what an absolute tragedy and disaster I feel it's been, how much irreparable harm I know it's done to what we have. To what we had.

I don't want him to see it in my face, in my eyes, that I know it's over.

There he remains though, looking directly, deeply, intently; unwavering, even for a moment, as he thrusts himself forward into her body. And for the first time ever, I'm finding it immensely uncomfortable to hold his gaze. Something has been broken between us.

God, I want to die.

It will be over soon. Within the hour, or surely by tomorrow, he will have made his polite excuses, and left. I won't hear from him again.

And now … his eyes have shut and lids have begun their gentle, involuntary flutter, the telltale signs of his pending orgasm. I study his face. I want to remember this, to burn it into my brain.

I notice something odd, though. She is sticking her first finger deep into her mouth, and rotating it. It is not until I then see her slide it low, back round his waist and straight downward, that I leap out of my chair.

In a split second, his eyes have shot open and he is catapulted backward, inadvertently carrying her with him. He pushes forcefully against her, shoving her roughly into the glass, his face a mask of pure terror and rage. His lips curl into a snarl and he screams so that we both jump in place:

"NO !"

His face is crimson, every vein popping, eyes suddenly bloodshot. He approaches, seething, and she flinches back.

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE !" He rages, voice cracking from the sudden force of air.

I run for the shower door, horrified, afraid of what he might do.

"Curt !"

He doesn't acknowledge me. His entire body is trembling. His eyes have boiled over, tears stream down his cheeks, glaring crazily at the girl.

"BEFORE I FUCKING KILL YOU !"

She scrambles past me, sobbing, bewildered, terrified, running out the door.

His eyes dart over my shoulder. He pushes me out of the way and lunges for what he sees laying on the counter: his razor.

I'm shaking. "What are you doing?"

His voice is soft. He grabs it and rips out the blade …

"What I should have done a long time ago."

… and raises it to his neck.

I dive on top of him. We tumble to the floor and the blade falls. He rolls a punch into my ribs and scurries for it. I kick it across the room with my feet. He scrambles to stand and I manage to trip him. He falls backward, on the tile next to me, and I flip myself over, landing hard, leaning with momentum, with every last ounce, into his upturned wrists.

His face is twisted and swollen, unrecognisable, the beams of his pale, beautiful blue eyes turned black with rage and pain and humiliation. I have to force myself to see that this is actually Curt.

"I want you to listen to me," I eventually manage to pant out, voice quivering, as he resists, writhing and repeatedly pushing upward before falling back in frustration. How I manage to keep him in check at all, considering the differences in our weight and strength levels, I can only attribute to sheer, panic-fueled adrenalin.

"LISTEN TO ME!" I shout into his face. I'm gasping from the effort. "Curt, I love you … Do you HEAR ME? I … LOVE YOU! And … there is no … POSSIBLE fucking way, … on this entire EARTH, … you just mean … far too much to me … for you to even … consider …"

His eyes fill, and his face softens and then splits into a grimace as a sob escapes his lips. I drop to him and cradle his head with both hands. My gut clenches hard. He's bawling now, inconsolable, into my neck, torso shaking violently. It's absolutely unbearable, the worst thing I've ever seen or felt, like a hundred pointed daggers twisting into my spleen.

"Shhhh. It's okay." I caress the back of his head. "I promise. Shhhh."

For long moments he wails out in pain, his cries echoing and bouncing off the tiles. It's absolutely unbearable; almost beyond what I can stand. And I feel so bloody goddam helpless- I can only hold and pet him, when what I really want to do is slam my own head, hard, into the wall.

It was my idea, I created the situation that led to this, I forced him into it.

Please forgive me, Curt. Please forgive me.

After what feels like an hour I'm able to convince him to let me help him up. I walk him gingerly out of the room and over to the bed. He curls toward himself, still sobbing quietly. I climb in next to him and pull the blanket over. I caress and kiss his shoulder. Tears fall freely from my eyes.


When I'm sure he's completely out, and snoring, I inch my way carefully out of the bed and creep across the floor to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I flip on the overhead light and begin scouring the floor for the motherfucking razor. The room is a complete tip, broken shards of glass from the smashed hand mirror, an overturned shampoo bottle spilling out blue guck, towels scattered, a magazine rack on it's side. It looks like there was a fight in here tonite, and there was.

Finally, there it is, against the wall, next to the bloody chair, the one I'd been sitting on in order to watch him fuck someone else.

What kind of twisted monster am I? I seduce him into it, then begin being seduced, no, bewitched, myself, into this magical fairyland fantasy that is is somehow the Answer to all of his woes … only to have it take the most sickening, nightmarish turn imaginable. My head is banging fierce, too hard to try to make any possible sense of it. I open the screen to toss the blade out, and creep back to bed.

I need so badly to sleep, to put this day behind me, but all I can see is the terrified, ghastly look on his face, as the memory of the rape is instantly triggered. Why? In god's name why, of all things on this earth did it have to do that ?

Softly as possible, I curl my body forward into his, laying a protective arm across his torso, and fall asleep.


I awaken and bolt upright. He's not there. The clock's glowing numbers read 5:05am. Far as I can recall, we went to bed after 3. OH fuck, on no, oh please … he hasn't … he hasn't gone and done it while I was asleep? I jump out of bed, run for the bathroom, throw on the switch and spin round in a circle. Empty. Turn quickly, run down the stairs, fly through every room, calling and calling out his name, voice high pitched and shaking, check the back deck, the jacuzzi, run inside, turn over every piece of furniture, every cushion, every pillow and rug, sweating, sobbing, in absolute terror of finding him, throat slashed, laying upright in his own blood, eyes staring.

Nothing.

He's just left then? He can't; he has no money and we're on a bloody island! Only way out of here is to … I bolt outside, sprinting for the water, illuminated by the strength of a particularly bright moon. Did he hurl himself into the ocean? Is this where I'll find his body, washed up by the waves, bloated and discoloured ?

Nothing!

Exhausted, petrified, head banging relentlessly, I collapse in a heap onto the lounge chair, crying, mind racing. What if he ran back to town to go find Bianca, to make good on his threat ? (Or worse, to elope?) What if his body is still out there, in the ocean, right now? It might wash up right in front of me while I'm sitting here! My eyes dart, panicked, searching the shoreline, and there in the soft glow of the moon … I spot him. In the distance.

Swimming.

Turning and diving, coming back up, and then, momentarily still, floating on his back, allowing the waves to gently carry him. Quite obviously not trying to drown himself, though I've been freaked out so badly that …, I mean, could he not have left a bleeding note?

I'm struck that he looks exactly as he had the day we arrived, like a boy who grew up on the Mediterranean, spending his days on the beaches building sand castles and collecting shells, swimming like a fish, or rather, a beautiful dolphin; a complete natural.

"Who knew!" I say out loud. "Curt Wild and nature," I hold out two fingers, "they're like this."

I walk slowly upstairs into the bedroom to retrieve him a soft white terricloth robe, and there I find the bloody note, on his pillow, which, in my panic, I'd entirely missed. Messiest of scrawl, crumpled, ripped out sheet of paper, single word:

"SWIMMING"

So he had fucking told me! He knew I'd be panicked if I found the bed empty- he was at least clearheaded enough to think of that …

HUGE … long … sigh.

Outside I wait for him with the robe and a large clean towel. The breeze is warm, but constant, and I cover myself. And in the 30 minutes or so that it takes him to finally come back in … I fall dead asleep

I awaken to him trying to carefully dislodge the pile of robe from my lap. I stand, throw it round his torso, and slide my arms underneath. We hold eachother in silence. He has every reason to despise me, to hate and to blame me for the ruin that was last night, and still bloody well might, but for now, there is this nourishment, this moment of peace, that we both badly need.

"You're shivering."

He clears his throat. "Water was a bit cool. Felt good."

"How long were you out there?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. An hour."

"You must have froze! You should at least wear swimming trunks."

Clears his throat again. "I um, I really wanted it to just … wash over me, completely."

I kiss his chest.

"Curt.

"Mmm?"

"I'm so incredibly sorry–"

"–It wasn't your fault, Brian."

"But–"

He releases me and looks.

"–Listen to me- it wasn't. I'm the one that flipped out."

His eyes shift to the chairs.

"Let's talk, okay?"

We sit, and each of us reach out, instantly, simultaneously, to hold hands. This one small act, tiny, really, after the violence and mayhem of last night, after the terrified search for him this morning, feels as big, as all encompassing, to me, as the entire bloody universe.

He turns to me.

"This morning I woke up and I just felt … numb. I'm so familiar with that feeling, you have no idea, for years, and I'm so fucking sick of it, and I suddenly thought to myself, you know what? It's the numbness that's the fucking problem! That makes me so fragile! It was for the numbness, the pursuit of that, of total nothingness, of wanting so badly not to exist, that I did junk all those years! It just suddenly all made sense. I mean, think about it- how much more can you not want to exist, than to like, willingly, and repeatedly puncture your own goddam veins and arteries with what you know is real, actual poison?

At first I thought … okay well my literal first thought this morning, if I'm honest, was, how can I off myself? How can I finally get this over with? That is why I initially thought of the ocean. I played it over in my mind: I'll just walk out there, and float and let it carry me away, and it'll be painless and I'll fall asleep and be dead. No blood to clean up, no mess, no pain- won't feel a thing.

And then I realized, shit, it will probably be cold out there, especially if I'm taken out a long way, and I'll be shivering like nuts. You can see how much planning I was doing. And then it just sort of all came together in my head and I saw it clearly for like the first time, the numbness, I mean. Even though I may be off smack, mentally, it's still got a grip on me, because I'm still pursuing the fucking numbness. So then I suddenly realized, I need to feel the cold! I need to go through that portal and feel things and stop being afraid all the time!

I mean, can you believe it? How ridiculous is it that here's a guy planning his own suicide, which, shit, I've done dozens of times, and what was I worried about? That aww gee, it might feel chilly! Completely twisted and backwards- like my entire life has been, I swear to christ.

But anyway, so when I got out to the water, I was so fucking relieved it was cold, well sorta cold- nothing like Lake Michigan, but, I mean I actually wished it had been a little colder, but, it just felt like, I mean, wow! It was making my nerve endings pop, and the salt water in the waves was rubbing me raw, and it just felt … fantastic! Like the closest I've maybe ever come to a religious fucking experience, or something."

I squeeze his hand and kiss it. "I'm so pleased. I'm so relieved."

"But see, here's the thing, Brian. I also realized, it's the exact same thing with … what happened to me …"

He turns his head in sudden disgust with himself, and then spits out the words.

"I can't even fucking say it!"

He turns back. I can see that his eyes have watered slightly.

"What happened when I was … raped," he sighs and pauses for a moment, "it did the same thing to me- it numbed me up; literally froze me solid, physically. And it cut me off from feeling things- mentally and physically. Wonderful job of doing that. For a long time I didn't go near anyone, sexually, or sure as fuck let anyone near me. I didn't even beat off- never, not once, never even crossed my mind, for months and months, I'm talking. It just cut me off, completely, from my own body- like the blood flow, the circulation to my lower half just … ceased. I mean, how sick is that? You can't be cut off from your fucking body, it's YOU, and yet … I absolutely was."

I've grabbed his hand and am holding it with both of mine. I'm fighting myself, willing the tears not to come. No! Stay back you bastards!

"So, when I was floating out there just now, enjoying the feel of the cool water and the salt, the taste of it in my mouth, some of it even got into my eye and it burned a little and I didn't even mind, and suddenly I was like, fuckin EUREKA ! THAT is the key! Finally! I might have gone my whole life without knowing!"

He looks at me, semi-triumphant, expectant.

"I just need to reattach myself to myself. I'm halfway there- my dick eventually came around, fuck knows; I just need to join up the other half."

I'm squinting, "I, I'm sorry. I don't entirely follow," I blunder.

"Brian," he entwines his fingers into mine, looks directly in my eyes and speaks tenderly. "I want you to make love to me."

I hesitate. He continues.

"I mean … up the ass." At another time I will laugh at Curt's version of a romantic proposal, but for now I have an immediate flashback of the rage he flew into with Bianca not 3 hours ago, hurling her into the wall, bloodshot eyes, veins popping. I stammer.

"Oh. But, god, Curt, I mean, wouldn't that, wouldn't you, doesn't it–"

"–If we go real slow, I think it might work."

"Umm … well, are you … I mean, entirely … sure?"

"No!, but Brian, … If I don't at least try and replace that memory, make myself feel whatever I'm going to feel, instead of running from it my whole goddam life, if I don't, like, substitute it with something totally positive and gentle and beautiful, instead of, for my body, it only being associated with fear, with something threatening and negative and … violent- someone taking something from me, someone trying to hurt me, then it will literally rule over me for like, the rest of my entire life. Do you see?"

"Yes," I say, when what I'm thinking is: "But for pity's sake PLEASE let it be some other bloke who breaks the ice."

"But Curt, I'd be … I'd be so afraid to … hurt you. I'd just be … devastated. You can't imagine–"

"–Brian, I've already been hurt, badly, in there- injured. You know the story. There is nothing you could do that could even approach that."

"But, what about tonite, … Bianca–"

"–That was totally different! She completely … surprised me. She didn't get my permission. She's not someone I even fucking know, let alone trust, and then she just … forced it in, or at least, … tried to."

He stammers.

"I'm just, I mean … you can't … it won't …"

"That's what I mean. How do we know that–"

"We don't know, Brian! But I just feel like … I have to at least try! I have to re-write the script, or it will never change!"

He sighs. His eyes have filled again.

"Plus, I mean, I just … miss it! I crave it! You have no idea. I've even had dreams about it- really vivid; and then I wake up hard, and I'm alone, and I turn over in bed and beat off, imagining there's someone back there."

My heart clenches. My eyes flood.

"And I think, maybe … with you, if I'm just … relaxed enough. If I know I'm with someone who cares, who knows the history, who won't, who will–"

I squeeze his hand.

"–I will."

He stops and looks at me, eyes suddenly bright.

"You will? Really?"

I smile huge. A tear drops onto my cheek.

"Yes."

He leaps from his chair and engulfs me in a full-bodied embrace.