Penance

beware of pseudo angst and lovey goo. and buttsex.

It must be the way he says “I’m sorry” that makes me keep saying “I forgive you”. That has to be it. For what other reason would my resolve soften every time he stands there on the doorstep, apologizing to me with a slump in his shoulders and a weary expression? Why else would I continue to step aside every time, allowing him to cross our- my- threshold? It must be that he has a way. He has a certain manner, a certain trick to the way he carries himself, that makes sure I’ll forgive him and take him back… and I do, every time. I know he’ll just go out and do it again. I know it like I know my mother’s name. I know it like I know I’ll forgive him…every single time.

Maybe he thinks he’s indestructible. He flings himself around like a chained dog, butting his head against trouble, and then he comes down from his lunatic high, and he comes home, standing out on the front landing saying, “Alex? I’m sorry.”

Those wide brown eyes of his have been my undoing far too many times to count. Sometimes I can resist, but sometimes he’ll turn those eyes on me and fix me with a look that just crumbles my icy heart and I have to give in. He’s got me collared. He’ll fly out in a fit of restlessness, and I know he’ll do god knows what and god knows who, and he’ll find some hot young thing little more than half his age, but then he’ll come home, knowing I’ll be there. Why don’t I leave? It would serve him right if he came home from one of these mad dashes, only to find a ‘FOR SALE’ sign in the front window. But you and I both know I can’t do that. I couldn’t do that to him or to myself, because I’m a trained house pet, pathetic as it is.

When he’s home, it’s like nothing outside ever existed. He slips quietly out of bed an hour or so before I do and makes breakfast, and I awake to the welcome smell of coffee. His office is further into the city than mine, and he leaves the house before I do, and we kiss quickly and I wish him a good day before he dashes outside and I listen for the hum of his car’s engine. I don’t need to drive to my office; I walk to the station and catch the train, and I have a mainly silent 15 minute ride to nurse my thoughts… which are mainly about him. In fact, every time my brain isn’t otherwise occupied, it switches to him. Night and day, he’s on my mind, and I feel absolutely pitiful knowing that.

I’ll close my eyes and I’ll remember the early days of our relationship, when we were first dating and we took every opportunity to sneak off and make out. Or when he moved in with me, and he insisted we christen every room with hot, wild, sex. It wasn’t so long ago, you know. Maybe six or seven years or so? But, about a year ago, he started getting this crazed look, now and again. His foot would tap, or he’d drum his fingers, and then he’d get up and leave, without much explanation. They say the first cut is the deepest, and it’s true. It really hurt that first time. I thought, ‘This is it, the end!’ but he came back a few days later, and I was just so relieved to see him that I threw my arms around him and dragged him off to bed. That was a good night. We each came over and over, until exhausted, we collapsed in the bed, and neither of us went to work the next day. I never brought up the fact that he’d run off, not until he did it again.

The second time he disappeared and returned again, I went to anger instead of grief. I nearly hit him, but managed to restrain myself, although I saw him eyeing my clenched fists warily. The first thing out of my mouth when I opened the door and saw him standing there was “Give me one good reason why I should let you back into this house,” and his answer was, “Alex… I’m sorry.” And I let him in.

He tells me that it’s not me, that he’s not tired of me by any stretch of the imagination, and that he still loves me like he did when we first met, but that he just gets this feeling, like he’s being chased, and he suddenly feels like running. And so he does. And so I wait. I confronted him with my suspicions that he was seeing someone else, and he told me he wasn’t, but that he had picked up some guys for one-night-stands, and then he told me he always uses a condom. If I remember his exact words, he said, “I want to protect you AND myself, you know.” Yeah, I know. I fucked him anyway that night. Seems to me we always have great sex after he runs off.

It’s 11 o’ clock and he’s gone again. He left around 9:30 last night and he’s been gone ever since. Sometimes I wonder what he does when he’s gone for several days, but then I realize I really don’t want to know. The TV is tuned to a news station, but I’m only half-way listening. Really, I’m hearing the clock ticking on the wall, and staring at his college sweatshirt which is sticking out of his gym bag. He might have been wearing it when we first met. We were just out of college, and he was a friend of my roommate’s or something, and there was a big group of us going out to celebrate. He was introduced as The Rock Man, but I later learned his name was Angelo. My roommate had this clunky old van with cigarette burns in every seat, and he had a story for each one. Angelo was the second to last into the van, and I was last, since it took two people to start the van: one to turn the key and step on the gas, and one to give it a push down the hill so it would get a kick-start. I would hold on to the door frame and start running, using the downward momentum of the hill to get me going, and then I’d swing myself in and slam the door behind me. I landed all over Angelo and, well… ice broken. We ended up talking, since you could only hear the person directly next to you over the van’s motor. Turns out his uncle was a big-shot record producer, and Angelo was working in the company building, hence the nickname. I had been in a band back in high school, and so we talked music and instruments and bands all the way to the bar. We had a few drinks and then he said he had been told to go to a local club for his company; there was a band playing there that might merit a contract, and he was to go listen to them. In my heavily inebriated state, I agreed to go with him. The band was really good, and everyone was dancing. I try not to dance as it shows off my gay, and I wasn’t sure how Angelo would react to that, but… he started it. He didn’t even ask if I wanted to dance, he just dragged me out there, into that surging, gyrating mass of sweaty humanity and there he was, grinding against me… and there I was, hard and trying to find an excuse in my intoxicated brain. He grinned like the devil himself and pressed my hand to his crotch. I swallowed hard just as he reached up to kiss me. I left my number in the back pocket of his jeans, and that’s where it all began.

I know he’s back before he knocks, and I open the door and see him standing in the porch light’s dim glow. My face softens and I lean over and kiss him, hard, deep, desperately. God help me, I missed him! I can taste alcohol on him and I press my hand into the small of his back, tipping him backwards like we were dancing the tango. I kiss down his neck and suck at his pulse point and I taste soap, like he’s made a last-ditch effort to get clean. I notice he’s lost his shirt as my hand starts stroking under his jacket, and I all but carry him inside, kicking the door closed behind me. I hear the satisfying slam and trip over his gym bag, and we go sprawling across my nice rug, and he is apologizing over and over between kisses, telling me he’s been a fool and that he’d never really picked up any guys; it had all been a lie. I stopped dead and stared at him.

His eyes were misty as he explained that he’d just gone out drinking, or had driven miles and miles, trying to clear his head. He’d been propositioned a thousand times, he said, and had almost taken a few guys up on it, but he always chickened out at the last second. And then comes the biggest confession: “It scares me to love you so much and I tried to run away, to see if I could get away from this feeling, and I tried to make you hate me, but I just came back to you, and you kept on being here when I did…” I felt hot tears sting at my eyes and pushed them back as Angelo grasped my shirt in his fists. “Why are you always here?! Why do you keep forgiv-!!” he breaks off as he holds his breath and tries to hold back tears himself. I’m beside myself, absolutely stunned. I gather him to me and hug him tight, and he shakes in my arms.

My hands and mouth are all over him. I feel starved, and he’s more responsive than I have ever seen him. He’s crying and moaning wildly, arching eagerly. He usually tries to keep himself under control, either to protect his self-image or out of respect for the neighbors, but he’s utterly drunk on lust and his mind has disengaged. I’m stroking him and his eyes are clenched shut and he’s breathing in little puffs and I bend over to suck him and he swallows a scream. I can tell we’re as good as we always were as he swears and calls my name as he comes. I turn him over, knowing he loves a rim job, and he’s crying and writhing, over-sensitized after his orgasm. I’m surprised to taste soap all over him; he must have been scrubbing like a madman. I rim him and jack him until he’s hard again, and he’s muttering brokenly, slurring words together with obscenities and endearments. I fumble around in his gym bag, knowing there’s a new tube of lube in there I’d asked him to pick up while he was out a few days ago. He doesn’t need much preparation after all the sex we’ve had, but he does exercise to keep himself from getting loose. He’s stretched and I’m in easily, and he’s panting, his head thrashing. He’s beautiful like this. I always wish I could get a photograph… but as you can probably imagine, I’m always too busy with other, more pressing matters. Out and in, and he cries out suddenly, his cries falling into a rhythm with my thrusts. He arches, and I know it won’t be long for him. I find myself watching him, and my heart throbs. It’s mind-blowing to realize that someone is so helpless with pleasure because of you. My control is long gone and I am pounding into him, only vaguely aware that he will be unspeakably sore tomorrow. I’m gripping his hips hard enough to bruise and reaching deep, and he’s all but drooling, as he pleads and tells me he loves me. I pull almost all the way out and slam back in, and his back bows impossibly and he’s coming all over his chest, and I’m not far behind. He sinks back into the carpet, panting, his limbs falling limp and rubbery to the floor. I ease out and roll over beside him, feeling overheated but undeniably satisfied. There’s a long silence, broken by the ticking of the clock and the infomercial on television. Neither of us knows what to say. I suspect he’s embarrassed about his emotional confession, and I’m not really sure what to do with the information. In spite of myself I feel so happy I could burst. My heart is doing double-time and I finally decide to add another confession to the evening.

“I think about you… all the time. Night and day. I don’t know if I could leave you. You’re…” Words fail me and I trail off. He rolls over onto his side and I know he’s looking at me, judging my words. I stare at the ceiling and can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. He reaches over and puts his hand on my chest and I glance over, and he’s looking at me with something akin to admiration, and I know it’s love. ‘I forgive you,’ I thought. “I love you,” I said.