Dirty Story

He’s studying me behind his glasses. A curious look – I never know exactly what to make of it. But I know he’s judging me, even if we often talked about this and he always claimed that he never makes final judgments of character. He prefers to give people the benefit of doubt. Or, better said, the benefit of his aristocratic indifference. But there’s no room for indifference between us for a long time now.

“Dave, I’m your best friend and I know your ways… your needs… that restlessness that burns inside you… But your tendency towards promiscuity… it’s like a Russian roulette. Sooner or later, it’s gonna get you.”

“I’m careful. You know that.” And I grab my coat.

“I’ll take care of this.” he offers before I get my wallet out.

“See you tomorrow.” And I extract myself from the crowded bar. I feel the kick of the cold as soon as I exit. The heat from the inside – all those bodies mashed together, eating drinking breathing – what a horror – has made me sweaty and it took my air; now the cold is cutting through my guts, sharp as a knife. I am freezing and feeling oddly free.

Jacob is right. I needed to focus. Find some peace. Get organized. Get writing again. I am trying to remind myself of how writing used to be fun. Now it’s just a race towards a deadline, towards an end. And I don’t give a fuck about what end is that. Anymore.

When we were together, be lent me some of his precision and calm. He wanted out when I’ve proven that I’m still a stray dog at heart and no matter how good I have it, I still need the street where I can offer and receive affections freely.

As a friend, he’s more tolerant than he was as a lover.

As a friend, I listen to him more. I yearn to please him. I want to behave. Find myself – whatever. Do all those self-help clichés. But inevitably, after a few days of bottled up discontentment and misery and emptiness, I find myself getting dressed and going out at night, my steps finding by themselves the same streets I avoid during the day.

Tonight I am taking the car. It’s raining. When it should be snowing. The seasons are as mixed up as I am.

What an annoying drizzle! I already feel it in my old bones. Black tree trunks, shining wet reflect my car lights. It’s a desolately beautiful thing.

“Don’t give me the ‘it’s only sex’ discourse, Dave. I don’t need theories about how this doesn’t define you. It’s not like you are a different person. It’s a part of you. No use rejecting it. No use acting superior to your own behavior. I am not asking you to be different. I am not making stupid assumptions that you could change. Or should change. After all, your weaknesses make you - you. And I quite like you as you are. But don’t expect me to be untrue to myself either. I just need… different things.”

I think of Jacob’s voice, so calm and in control… and a world of sadness in his eyes. At that time, all I wanted was to take him in my arms and show him he was wrong and love him back just as he needed. But who was I kidding? I can only love him as I can love – in my inconstant, fractured way. He was right – as always.

We turned out to be better at the friendship game. I didn’t get myself somebody else. No one qualified to take Jacob’s place. Some cold nights I laid awake regretting horribly not having him in my bed anymore. Some other cold nights, I went cruising for a little bit of pleasure. Like tonight.

I’m slowing down, so I could have my pick.

I almost hit him when he slumps in front of my car. I get out and ask him if he is alright. He mutters something about being fine. I take a closer look. Young, tall and slim. Long straight legs – isn’t he cold in those leather shorts? The fishnet stockings couldn’t keep him warm in this weather… It’s December! Bleary eyes – he looks so wasted. Too much make-up – smudged because of the rain. He’s kinda pretty, in a dirty way. Maybe because he’s dripping raindrops and I don’t want him catching a cold… I’m interested.

I invite him in my car. I ask him what would he like. I feel generous today. He mumbles something I don’t understand and reaches for my zipper. The price for his services. Probably. He doesn’t wait and bends over my cock. He smells like rain and mud and a bit of sweat. His lips are cold, but his mouth is so warm… And my hands caress his back. He feels young and alive and warm and he feels so good to touch… It’s damn uncomfortable here in the car, someone could see us, I should be damn uncomfortable with what’s going on, but he’s so good, it’s alienating.

He takes me whole into his mouth, his nose pressing against my belly. And then he suckles sweetly on the head – and it’s weird, he never looks at me, it’s like he has this intense and exclusive relationship with my cock. But I can’t really hold this against him, all I can do is try not to lose my mind because he’s so damn good, it’s perfect.

When I come undone, I pull back. He wipes his smeared chin absentmindedly and then licks his hand clean. I stare at him in wonder and can’t believe this can look so gracious. He shifts in his seat and I know our moment has expired. I pay him. He never looks into my eyes. I ask him what’s his name. He doesn’t answer. Why do I need his name? It's not like I need to name my fish after him.

He gets out of the car and I follow him with my eyes and when he gets near the club, I finally see him in the neon light. He’s not kinda pretty. He’s goddamned gorgeous. He turns to look at me when he hears me closing the car’s door. The window’s down so before I leave, I hear him:

“Christoph.”

Christoph.