errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
Dirty Story
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,534
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,534
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
4
For this chapter I wanted a change of perspective. This time it’s Jacob’s POV.
Any civilized man would have given up after 5 minutes. I am resilient. I keep ringing the bell because I know his morning habits. He sleeps like a log after a late night and needs time to get accustomed to the new day, in the morning.
Dave finally opens the door, looking, of course, like he just woke up. Striped pyjamas, sleepy eyes, ruffled hair, something like the imprint of a pillow on his jaw.
“Morning, Dave.”
“Jacob.”
He lets me in. He is barefoot. I notice that when he bumps into a corner and curses.
“How come you’re here so early?”
“I haven’t heard a word from you in the last week. And I am starting a close relationship with your answering machine. Where the hell have you been? I thought you did something stupid, like died on me. Or, worse. Got a job or something.”
“Cute. I am OK. I guess…Now I am just trying to wake up for real.”
“I’ll make you a coffee.”
I leave Dave on the living room sofa. All the chances that he will fall asleep again, but when I’m back, I’ll bring the big gun: strong coffee.
Dave’s kitchen is so familiar. I know where he keeps everything, even better than he does. I even manage to find the box with my favorite brand of coffee, which I brought him when we were together. Hmmm… Still untouched. I feel stupid for a whole second. But hey, that’s life. I guess that’s all that’s left after our relationship. But I suddenly have this powerful ambition to make Dave fall in love with my coffee. So that’s what he gets. My strong coffee. Black. Or maybe he likes cream now?
Like I expected, Dave has fallen asleep again. I am prepared to shake him proficiently, to wake him up, but… I just watch him. His face features are so relaxed and he looks so peaceful. I notice that his pyjama is buttoned up so wrong… His jaw is covered in stubble… I can’t resist and I am caressing his face and all I can feel is this immense tenderness towards the sleeping man. My fingers touch lightly his beautifully drawn lips, where I would so want to kiss him. Just kiss him again, feel him again. Damn! I am repressing these uncomfortable emotions and start shaking him.
“Dave! Wake up! I brought coffee.”
His eyes open and I am lost in that blue ocean for a few seconds.
“Drink your coffee. And tell me what have you been up to.”
Dave yawns and stretches and I watch his pajama shirt rise, uncovering his abdomen. Again, I am flooded with the desire to lean over and kiss him there and just put my face on his chest, listen to his heartbeat, letting his warmth get to me again. I just pull my jacket closer around me. It’s so cold here.
Dave drinks his coffee slowly. Prudently. Like he doesn’t want to wake up too suddenly.
“I’ve been out a lot.”
A pang. So he met somebody.
“The good news for you, my dear publisher, is that I am writing again!”
After his success with the first 3 books, Dave has started different projects, but he didn’t finish any of them. And, to be honest, none was worth finishing. I have never had any doubts about his brilliance and talent, but from what I have seen, the spark was gone. Something essential was missing. He seemed to simply repeat himself but not at the same quality level. He was turning into his own caricature. As his publisher, I encouraged him to take one of these projects to the end, because his name would sell anyway. As his friend, I simply wanted him to find again the joy of writing. As the man who loved him, if that kept going, I would have bought him a shotgun. Too much? That’s how much I ...
“You will not believe this, but I am writing poetry.”
He is in love. Clear and simple. The obviousness is cutting through me like a butcher’s knife.
“That’s very good news.”
“It is, you know… I am writing again and it just feels like it’s worth it. When I’ll put together something, I’ll show you. Now it’s a mess – disparate sheets of paper, notes on the back of bills – the kind of stuff that I know how it drives you crazy.” And he smiles at me.
Hmmm… he makes no effort to make me mad about him, but it happens, nevertheless. I’m caught in a moment of inescapable desire. And stupid, pointless jealousy. Can this other man see him like I do? So beautiful and so rough and fragile at the same time, and … so fascinating… Can this other man love him like I do?
“I’m sorry I forgot to answer your messages. I was just too beat and just crashed here to sleep.”
No. No one can love him like I do. But there’s nothing more useless to him than my love.
I swallow the painful knot in my throat.
“It’s OK. I just needed to know that you are fine.”
And that’s all I need, indeed. Or all I can have of what I need.
“Dave, I’m leaving now. Keep in touch, man! And call me one of these days. I want to see your poems.”
I get up to leave. He catches up with me by the door.
“Jacob.” And he throws his arms around me, holding me so tight, it should be uncomfortable. I don’t hug him back. Something in my chest is breaking.
“Good luck, Dave.”
Any civilized man would have given up after 5 minutes. I am resilient. I keep ringing the bell because I know his morning habits. He sleeps like a log after a late night and needs time to get accustomed to the new day, in the morning.
Dave finally opens the door, looking, of course, like he just woke up. Striped pyjamas, sleepy eyes, ruffled hair, something like the imprint of a pillow on his jaw.
“Morning, Dave.”
“Jacob.”
He lets me in. He is barefoot. I notice that when he bumps into a corner and curses.
“How come you’re here so early?”
“I haven’t heard a word from you in the last week. And I am starting a close relationship with your answering machine. Where the hell have you been? I thought you did something stupid, like died on me. Or, worse. Got a job or something.”
“Cute. I am OK. I guess…Now I am just trying to wake up for real.”
“I’ll make you a coffee.”
I leave Dave on the living room sofa. All the chances that he will fall asleep again, but when I’m back, I’ll bring the big gun: strong coffee.
Dave’s kitchen is so familiar. I know where he keeps everything, even better than he does. I even manage to find the box with my favorite brand of coffee, which I brought him when we were together. Hmmm… Still untouched. I feel stupid for a whole second. But hey, that’s life. I guess that’s all that’s left after our relationship. But I suddenly have this powerful ambition to make Dave fall in love with my coffee. So that’s what he gets. My strong coffee. Black. Or maybe he likes cream now?
Like I expected, Dave has fallen asleep again. I am prepared to shake him proficiently, to wake him up, but… I just watch him. His face features are so relaxed and he looks so peaceful. I notice that his pyjama is buttoned up so wrong… His jaw is covered in stubble… I can’t resist and I am caressing his face and all I can feel is this immense tenderness towards the sleeping man. My fingers touch lightly his beautifully drawn lips, where I would so want to kiss him. Just kiss him again, feel him again. Damn! I am repressing these uncomfortable emotions and start shaking him.
“Dave! Wake up! I brought coffee.”
His eyes open and I am lost in that blue ocean for a few seconds.
“Drink your coffee. And tell me what have you been up to.”
Dave yawns and stretches and I watch his pajama shirt rise, uncovering his abdomen. Again, I am flooded with the desire to lean over and kiss him there and just put my face on his chest, listen to his heartbeat, letting his warmth get to me again. I just pull my jacket closer around me. It’s so cold here.
Dave drinks his coffee slowly. Prudently. Like he doesn’t want to wake up too suddenly.
“I’ve been out a lot.”
A pang. So he met somebody.
“The good news for you, my dear publisher, is that I am writing again!”
After his success with the first 3 books, Dave has started different projects, but he didn’t finish any of them. And, to be honest, none was worth finishing. I have never had any doubts about his brilliance and talent, but from what I have seen, the spark was gone. Something essential was missing. He seemed to simply repeat himself but not at the same quality level. He was turning into his own caricature. As his publisher, I encouraged him to take one of these projects to the end, because his name would sell anyway. As his friend, I simply wanted him to find again the joy of writing. As the man who loved him, if that kept going, I would have bought him a shotgun. Too much? That’s how much I ...
“You will not believe this, but I am writing poetry.”
He is in love. Clear and simple. The obviousness is cutting through me like a butcher’s knife.
“That’s very good news.”
“It is, you know… I am writing again and it just feels like it’s worth it. When I’ll put together something, I’ll show you. Now it’s a mess – disparate sheets of paper, notes on the back of bills – the kind of stuff that I know how it drives you crazy.” And he smiles at me.
Hmmm… he makes no effort to make me mad about him, but it happens, nevertheless. I’m caught in a moment of inescapable desire. And stupid, pointless jealousy. Can this other man see him like I do? So beautiful and so rough and fragile at the same time, and … so fascinating… Can this other man love him like I do?
“I’m sorry I forgot to answer your messages. I was just too beat and just crashed here to sleep.”
No. No one can love him like I do. But there’s nothing more useless to him than my love.
I swallow the painful knot in my throat.
“It’s OK. I just needed to know that you are fine.”
And that’s all I need, indeed. Or all I can have of what I need.
“Dave, I’m leaving now. Keep in touch, man! And call me one of these days. I want to see your poems.”
I get up to leave. He catches up with me by the door.
“Jacob.” And he throws his arms around me, holding me so tight, it should be uncomfortable. I don’t hug him back. Something in my chest is breaking.
“Good luck, Dave.”