#posttype;whiskey

"I'd like to use you, tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"For a ride."

"Ah... where to? Why do you want me to drive?"

"...not in the car, Vincent."

I have him undress me, fairly often, at the end of the day. I'll go to him where he sits on the edge of the bed and he'll take off my tie, unbutton my shirt, unclip my suspenders, open my trousers for me. He enjoys it, I know, and I enjoy it too. Today ended up slightly different. I had unusual underclothes on. I found them in my bedroom today, as I was putting away some laundry, and ended up trying them on- and they were so comfortable that I just left them on! Promptly forgot about it. Wonderful soft fabric, I really quite enjoy them. So does he. Apparently. Moaning against my chest like some excitable animal.

His eyes zeroed in and he laughed, and grabbed me, yanked my trousers down. Disgustingly direct. "Oh, you-" he laughed again. I laughed, too. Let him jerk me around... grumbled while he groped me and pressed his face into my neck. God willing I will wake up a stone statue. I like him too damn much. "He does things just for me," he beamed, face so warm and excited. I love to deny him but it can be difficult to deny that face. Horribly, it makes me want to wear them again, and not just because they're comfortable.

This rude, brutish man. Makes my idiot mind spin, that part of me that he brings out somehow that is stupid and animal-brained, less logical. Yanking me around by my waistband, eyes bright and excited like a kid seated in front of a sparkling Christmas tree on the 24th. "Open window, too, for everyone to see." I had not realized that the currains were open in the bedroom. In the moment I didn't even care. [And that's a lot more embarrassing, all things considered.]

He fed me. There is little more romantic than offering someone else a piece of you, chunks of yourself, flesh and or blood. My mouth tastes of runny tangy pennies. Or iron pebbles run under hot water. There is a fullness to his, I don't know how quite to describe it. I'll have to taste him over and over to figure it out.

One touch that lingers just a moment too long, a smile or a gaze that follow a second later than I usually take, and he's grinning at me with half closed eyes calling me affectionate. Affectionate. And he takes an arm up around my waist and asks me what is it. There's a force in the touch or in the word of a man looking at you with glittery eyes and saying "What is it?" that disgusts me like nothing else. If there were anyone else in the world that did that sort of thing or anything like it I would put them on the floor and dig my heel into one of their eyes, so fucking quickly, I can't tell you. So why does it feel like some burning electric pulse when he does it? When he touches me there's an awful warmth attached. It'll put this hot liquid in my chest and my gut, like I'm melting from the inside out, and that does and will kill me. He will kill me. If anything will, it will be him. If you can be a god with a collar around your neck, a tie with someone else's name embroidered neatly on the inside layer so that their brand is always on the back of your oh so wringable neck, it will be him.

Only the purest sticky streak of stupidity could make me stumble around on my words. And I'm afraid I am very, very stupid sometimes. Makes me so god damn angry but that really comes in afterward, not during. During, my stomach is hot blood soup. Sour. Tart. A bottle of tabasco sloshing around inside of a glass lantern. The lamppost is on fire.

Drinking music. It's like you're talking to me, a million years ago. Remind me to never listen to this again

- I WILL STOP ENJOYING IT SO MUCH WHEN A WHITE MAN TOSSES ME AROUND.

- I WILL STOP ENJOYING THAT.

- I WILL STOP LIKING THAT.