Hey now, I'm not ashamed to be someone's midlife crisis that wrecks the one familial relationship of value they had left after their marriage was already left in tatters, I think there's a simple bliss to sucking an older fatherly type guy off and watching his mind rationalize at a mile a minute while he's polished, trying to see if he can hold on to this new idea that just occurred to him, that this was why his marriage failed, that it wasn't about all his shortcomings, the ones she hurled at him for half their marriage, maybe he loved her after all, but he just could never express it, because she could never be what he truly needed, what he has right now, a fresh femboy graduate's warm, uncaring mouth.
It doesn't matter if it's true, doesn't matter that within days when his son figures out what's transgressed, that they'll both never be able to look each other in the eyes again. But he'll believe it, believe he's truly found the answer, because it's what he needs to believe to hold onto his very idea of self without drowning it away in cheap booze and college football.
It won't be enough. He'll soon discover his son's not talking to him at all anymore, and the reason why went off to college and never left a contact number, probably on purpose. So he'll need new thrills, new trysts, he'll make a Grindr, though it won't work for a long while. When it finally does, the next morning he'll delete it off his phone out of shame, but he'll reinstall it later than afternoon, reinstall it every afternoon, an app store ouroborous, his new post-coital sacred practice. And in shame, he'll hang out again around music too young for his children, hit the gym, pick up fishing just for the hooks, mold himself out of whatever dirt and grime and emptiness he can find into whatever they all want him to be, just for an impossible chance to live that instant once again.
But back to reality, to the present laid before him: by the time he finally finishes, gasps for breath in that dusty garage, remarks begrudgingly, almost inaudibly that she never swallowed, it's too late, it's all over that selfsame second that it started, and he's already been set on the path. And he knows but doesn't believe how much he'll never feel that first high again, for no addict ever believes in himself. In his blithe denial he'll resolve himself: to chase that fading dragon's image, though it's lost forever to him even now, while it's still standing right across from him, idly checking its phone; that dragon who already picked out a dorm fridge and a roommate and won't call, and eventually, won't even remember. But those eyes that looked up at him, though almost vacant and vaguely bored, those graven images will burn in his mind, overwriting old concepts. And that innocent summer day, that unimportant August date, will cast its light across the shadows of his mind until its own lights are finally put out for good.
And it's as arithmetic as it is inevitable, nothing will ever replace those lost visions, this puzzle is not his to be solved. What truly mattered was not the mouth that spoke but the transgression that it embodied, the one singular spiraling moment when he willfully stepped out of bounds. The other liasons and scandals he finds after will all be found as cheap flings, empty flickering fleshlights with built biceps and grade point averages attached. For it was always inevitable that they could be nothing more in spite of all their gilt and glamour, for they were allowed. What he lost, long before the divorce, long before the birth of his now-betrayed son, was the sin that follows redemption. He was given its template merely once, a hint or an accident, a cosmic joke with no laughter, and it's echoes will haunt him for an eternity because he was incapable by necessity of ever speaking in their language. To the rest of us his body will die, but his prison's mind is eternal.
I just, uh, think that the idea of making someone else feel that sort of despair for the rest of their life is very special.
gracieabrams
2087
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
amandla
stormborns
