26.Oct.2003
"I usually wind up dating my good friends," I told him.
--
"so do i," he said.
Officially lifted; expansive elevation.
"Your teeth are fucking beautiful," I told Tony at breakfast, raspberry iced-teas and sausage links between us.
"Yes, thank you; they only cost me four thousand dollars."
"And how many years of discomfort?" I inquired.
"Not many, actually," he responded.
We bantered passionately and guffawed mindlessly, which was terribly refreshing. We both agreed it should remain pitch-black at seven in the morning.
I cannot count how many times Tony has driven me home while I was swimming through various influences in the past two years. We sustained a predominantly platonic camaraderie out of decorum, with the occasional flirt thrown in for balance.
I've been romanceless but otherwise determined in every other area of subsistence; single but productive, distracted from maternal tragedy and contemporaneously occupied with reality. Passionless and unscratched and unfucked and uncelebrated. This was a shift in schedule.
He admitted to me he had kept his physical distance due to always harboring a crush on me, which at the time of a year ago would have complicated several matters. All of the clothes and items I had left at his old house were still intact, he informed me, as he had kept them despite moving twice since then. That includes a dress I purchased in Minnesota, and I had been, in fact, recently talking to friends about it before Tony mentioned it to me.
I told Tony not even lovers of mine had ensured my items remained unharmed in their possession. I have also been fucking all the wrong people.
Tony came back to my house in the early hours of the morning, and we adjourned to my den, where we spoke quietly over a lifting, October-colored dawn. We traded relational horror-tales when I climbed behind him and rubbed his back through his ribbed shirt.
He is, by far, the most unselfish individual I've ever encountered; here is the type of boy who will be roused from a dead sleep to fulfill another's ephemeral whim. As being so giving, however, he wittingly opens himself to emotional harm.
I tell him this as I trace triangles over his trapezius with my fingernails, my hands now sprawled beneath his shirt. His epidermis seems constructed from silk alone.
He says he knows this, and he traces the outline of my knee with his right hand, warm and calloused. The contrast makes every part of me glisten.
The hours progress with affection. He talks of work as I rub his hands, fascinated with him. The sun illuminates my poliosis-fucked locks, and he touches just the gray hairs. We talk of our mutual friends here as I remove his shirt and rub his deltoids. We joke about previous experiences together as I scratch his minimalist tattoos. I tell him I can barely feel the ink of them, and he's running his fingernails down the length of my arm. I lightly touch all of his nine piercings, including his tongue. He says he wants them re-gauged, his lips moving against my fingertips. I scrape the vermilion border of his mouth.
We switch positions, and he kisses my collar-bone. He runs his tongue over my right sternocleidomastoid, lightly nibbling, and I say, "You have ..."
And his pearl-blessed incisors search for my jugular.
" ... the most ..."
And his white-sharp canines press into my carotid artery.
"... beautiful teeth."
And, he bites.
--
I bathed him at one in the afternoon, before he had to run errands and stop off at work. We ripped down the shower-curtain with our attentions turned toward other matters and tittered moronically. He said I was becoming sharper; I told him none of my rings fit anymore. We dried and spent our last cigarette-smoking five minutes vinelike and embryonic. As he was leaving, he kissed me and left a piece of body jewelry here. He slipped through my white gate and winked; I closed the door behind him.
I sauntered back into the bedroom, undressed, exhausted from 29 hours of no sleep, a two mile jog, twenty minutes of cardiovascular, and three vigorous exercises, wrapped myself in a cocoon of bedsheets, called Jason, and drifted off to a light sleep, officially lifted, and expansively elevated.
--
time & machine