I want to use him hard, use him up, see him spent and damn-near broken, and that fucking terrible clock on the nightstand keeps on throwing me red warnings that my time is almost up. I can’t slow time by pushing harder, but I sure as hell try.
His only request is to make me come and I deny him that — not because I don’t want it — but because he does.
And he has to go soon. He has to leave me.
I want to hold him, to keep him with me, to tell him he’s a good boy and tell him that I might love him, a little.
The clock ticks away, closer to the time when we retreat to our separate lives and he’s no longer really mine. I start pushing him away — I’ll beat him to it — and I get quiet and angry and I want to tell him that I hate him a little too.
I know he can’t read me now — fuck, I can’t even read me — and there is no winning for him, for me. I know he thinks I’m not pleased with him and I seem incapable of telling him otherwise, telling him the truth. The problem is that I have so many truths and most of them conflict and I don’t want to burden him with the epic mess that is my thought process. It’s not his responsibility to sort me out.
He collects his things, leaves, and I fucking fall apart. I want him to come back and hold me, to tell me he loves me a little. I want him to tell me it’s okay to have pushed him hard, hit him harder, denied him hardest of all. I want him to tell me it’s okay.
I need to know it’s okay because I don’t know if it is. Are we okay? I’m not okay. I feel awful for having done what I did, feel awful for the satisfaction of it all, for the high it gives me. I feel guilty for having used him like a toy and I feel guilty for how good it felt.
He’s gone and I drink. I drink until I can’t see straight and I start writing drafts of notes to him. One starts, “I’m sorry…” Another starts “I had such an amazing time tonight…” Another starts “Please tell me you’re okay…” Another starts “I should tell you…”
And I’m drunk and sad and angry and I don’t finish any of them.