Chapter 8: Pillowcase

I fell in love with his skin before I fell in love with him. The touch of him, and the way he felt underneath my fingers. I loved gripping his arm, feeling the strength of my fingers squeeze his arm just enough to leave the imprint of pink against his skin, and the way his skin would ripple like a wave as I drug my grip across his flesh. The pink marks he left on my neck and along my shoulders, from where he'd dig his fingernails into my collar when I rubbed him the way he liked. Always daring him, seeing how far he'd scratch at my skin before it became splotchy. The ways his lips were soft like velvet, against mine. They were always so soft, never wet and gross the way actors make kisses seem. They were never sloppy. Each movement of his body was planned and precise, never a--figurative--hair out of place. I never had to guess what he'd do next, because I could see it in his eyes. He was daring, always, daring me to push him out of his comfort zone.
    People say falling in love with someone based on their appearance, is lust and my old Pastor said that's an example of sins of the flesh. That when you dote upon someone's appearance or by their beauty, in a way that makes you aroused or pleasured before marriage, that it's dirty and unclean. I disagree. I think it takes strong people who are confident in themselves to offer their bodies to their lover, that by accepting to have sex it's allowing the other your innocence in breaking down barriers. God knows we build the Great Wall of China around our feelings. But when we had sex it was like I was being vulnerable before even taking my clothes off, I talked to him for an hour about my life and how I felt about him, how I wanted us to be and even asking what he wanted me to do. He was honest, we both were, about how close we needed each other.
    I didn't tell him of the way I imagined him before this, that when I imagined us making love it made me break out in a sweat and hard, in ways that I felt I was betraying him. I didn't want to be disgusting to him, and I didn't want to offend him. My thoughts were keeping him a symbol for giving an erection and that wasn't who he was. I felt I was taking advantage of him in my thoughts, even if I didn't touch him. I didn't want to think of him like that. But it was hard to think of him any other way when he sat on my bed the day we did it the first time. He had this look in his eyes, this fire and desperation. Then he creeped beside me, kneeling, then straddling my waist as I placed the book I was reading on the nightstand, and he sat on my crotch as he made out with me. His lips never tired but mine were sore and red, but it felt good. I travelled my hands up his shirt, where in another circumstance a girl's bra would have been. I pawed at his shoulder blades, never letting my hands rest as they travelled along his spine and beside his ribs. They glided around his skin, his beautiful skin, so soft I couldn't help myself; pressed him to me closer. His hands stayed on my stomach, where the angle I was sitting at had folded my fat. He didn't mind, as I pushed his hands to rest on my hips. I need his touch to be as near to my dick as possible, daring him and myself, but not allowing either of us to give in to our urges. Instead he closed the distance between our bodies and pulled at the end of my t shirt, tugging it to my chest, and I lifted my arms quickly to rid myself of the t shirt as fast as I could. Then reciprocating by gripping the ends of his t shirt in my fist and tugging it up till it covered his head, and he sat there with arms relaxed at his sides, and a head of cotton. I laugh, as he's sighing,
    "Can we do it, with your head in a t shirt?"
    "You can do it with your own head in a t shirt." He laughs and takes it off, a mess of curly brown shaken from being tugged on. "By yourself," he adds.
    "Cool." But he's back to dismantling my belt, undoing the notches and sliding the leather out from the belt loops. He holds the belt in his hand and I eye it with a grin as he sets it off the side of the bed. "Kinky." I wait as his fingers pause over the button of my jeans, and feel my skin crawl as his weight shifts against my pelvis. His eyes aren't fiery anymore, just nervous oceans. I let them wash over me as his fingers play around my sternum, rubbing along my collar and pec.

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    "Lay down," he says and I obey, allowing him to remove himself from my lap to sit on his side of the bed. I rest my body like a board, hands folded on my stomach and a monotone, obedience worn as my expression. I kick off my socks, which probably reek, and let them tumble to the floor in a soft pat. He finds my position funny, mostly because I'm mocking him but he's not laughing very long before regaining his straddling position on my waist, as I'm staring up at him with nervous stapled to my brow. As he moved on my crotch again, I flinched and my arms went to grab him, before I stopped myself and uncurled my toes. This wasn't daring anymore, it was real and he was undoing my jeans now. His fingers found the button loop and undid them, pulling down the zip with tentative care like he didn't want to move his fingers to a revealing place yet. Keeping mind to not pulling my boxers off, he pulls down my jeans to the place where he's seated to, and waits for me to kick the rest off as he takes a break from my lap to remove his own pants beside me. They hit the floor with a gravelly sound, a slight metallic clink as the button hits against the zipper. I hop up, quickly before he'll miss me long and hit the lights, creating a dark gray that casts shadows but doesn't cover. God will be seeing what we do and the devil will be filming it. I shut the curtains and lock the door, less a murderer waltzes in on us doing things he won't want to see. Then return to bed, slipping above the comforter and finding Ben had been waiting for me. He doesn't mount my hips, but kneels besides my ribs to kiss me hungrily on the lips, letting me all but stop and catch my breath.
    Then his fingers are prying my boxers from my hips, thumb in between my v line and the Drop Zone. They slip down to my thigh, exposing me, and he removes them. He's not laughing, and he's not trying to be overtly sexual. But I'm uncomfortable and this realness is becoming overwhelming. I want him, my body knows this as it's reacting, but my mind is distant from the experience. Sensing this, he says to me,
    "We can get under the sheets, if you're uncomfortable." I nod and get under the comforter, reaching for his hips with my hands. I find them and pull his boxers down from his body, allowing his legs to bend to kick them off. He melts beside me, skin against skin in an honest meeting. I felt my face grow warm, like I was the darkest shade of red as he kissed me. We were lying on our sides, wrapped up in each other, and holding onto the other's arms. Slowly he began to grind against me, till I turned him on his back and completed the job. I don't feel the need to describe the encounter, due to its more vulnerable atmosphere. But in plainer terms it was our moment of giving ourselves to each other. His mind became mine, and vice versa, our bodies weren't individual but this one being. He was so beautiful, small and frail in my arms. I never want to forget the euphoria I felt with him, not just the sex, but the sweet faced boy who allowed me his innocence. Maybe not for the first time, and I not mine, but at least he was giving himself honestly to me. And that's what means the most. That he told me I was his, and used his body to prove it. I don't care what boy had the same opportunity or what girl even, tonight was my night and I doubt they felt as in love as I did. He was truly mine in that moment. His hand never stopped holding the comforter, in a tight fisted, white knuckled hold. After the sweaty session had finished, and he had relaxed against my chest, reeking of sex and perspiration, I kissed his mop of wet hair. His chest was slowly taking control of rising and falling before relaxing as he rested. "You're good," he said. I smile and sigh into his head, feeling the taste of his sweat in my mouth and how leathery my skin felt. I hoped he didn't notice how sticky I felt my legs to be, or how wet my hands were from sweat. Nervousness above anything else. True that I'd done this before, on occasion, but with this boy in this bed, it was different and new and I didn't want to use my past experiences on him because he's different and his body is different. What he enjoys differs from the other boys, they were about the movement and the

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pornographic aspect of it, but Ben was romantic. Not candle and music romantic, but talking to me and never thinking I was doing something wrong. When he'd blush he'd kiss me, or when I felt uncomfortable he'd stop and make sure I was ready fully, and when he smiled when I called him beautiful or when I couldn't stop babbling when I was trying to find a position that worked. He never judged--out loud--my mistakes and when we actually Did It, he wasn't obnoxious or annoying about it like I've seen others be. That's all I'm going to say about that.
    I feel his ankle rub against my calf, the hairs of his leg prickling against mine. We are quiet and calm, the ceiling fan covering us in a whirring sound and a reasonable amount of cool air that's not so much cooling us off as it is making the room humid, as it recirculates our heat. He suggests we snuggle together, so I hold him tight. He's lying on his stomach, on top of my chest, one hand tucked underneath his ribcage, and the other drawing shapes on my neck. His heat is filling me with a burning happiness that is deep in my core. I like how open he is, I like that he's slow and patient, I like the lack of ultimatums, and how tender he is. He can be a bitch, but he doesn't stay that way for long. He doesn't have pride for the important things, but he can be a total stubborn ass about other things. We call each other on our shit, trust each other enough to speak our minds about disagreements. Philosophical debates are my specialty, but I will give that up to listen to him talk about nonsense that had happened throughout the day. Even if he were to talk about the weather, I would find such resonance. He's that someone I always want to be around, the one I want to talk to above all others. The one I want 24/7 without doubt, and always want to touch.
    He rubs his cheek against my chest. I want to tell him how much he means to me, and how simple things like that mean the world to me. How compassionate he is, and how every motion has meaning to him. But I don't. I don't want to scare him off.
    "I wish we could stay like this."
    "Hot and sticky." He doesn't say it like a question.
    "Warm and comfortable."
    He smiles up at me, "you are good."
    "I am." I don't say it like a question, so he laughs.
    "You are."
    His fingers rest like cupping a bug that you're afraid of hurting, against my cheek and stay unmoved. His fingers are light like air, with the lightest of pressure from his finger tips. I reach for his hand, taking it in my left hand, and bring each finger pad to my lips. I take extra
care to touch each finger to the center of my lips, before working on kissing the knuckles, then the calluses on his palm, then to the palm and the wrist. I end on his forearm, before he giggles and tells me to stop.
    So we lay there in silence, masked by humming from the fan and the outside sounds of ambulances that are awake even at one in the morning, and the sound of our mixed breathing. It's melodic in its own way. Like a song you'd never tire of, because it reminds you of that one person. Even if the words tire, and the melody becomes boring, there's still the thought of your person there in your mind.
    I sit off the side of the bed, feet and legs dangling as the comforter covers my waist. My hair is a stringy mess, brown and gold locks going against the parting. I'm sure I am too gross to stay in bed. I need to clean up, between cum, sweat, and whatever else kind of bacteria, I may have. "Take a shower with me?" I ask. He doesn't respond, just lies there on his side, blanket pulled to his chest and a hand underneath his face. He's smiling like a child, looking at me like I've made him proud. He looks dumb.I smile, chuckling, "what?" I lean forward and cuddle against him, kissing his neck. He giggles underneath my lips, and holds onto my back. I repeat myself while peeling the comforter away from his body and begin pecking softly against his

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chest and sternum. He grabs my face in his hands.
    "You gonna let me see you naked?"
    "You've seen me naked, if you want to see again then all I have to do is lift the sheet." I make a move to bring the comforter from around my waist, but he stops my hand. I laugh and interlock my fingers with his, touching his fingers to my lips and resting the pads of his index and middle on the inner part of my bottom lip. "Do you complain?" I say, talking with his hand still perched near my mouth, hoping my whispered tone sets his skin ablaze.
    "I don't. I would, you know I would if I did have complaint."
    "Oh I know." He sidles up to me and rubs a hand against my thigh and along my hip bone. He attempts to climb on top of me, but I deflect and pin him down to the bed, hands against his shoulders. I lean my knees in his side, and look down upon him. His face is pale, but his cheeks are flushed. The man in him is apparent, but his horniness is bringing him back to being a child. His eyes are wide and wonder-filled, glowing and shiny gray. I've always loved his eyes so much, and how emotional they are. The shadow his brows cast against his lids, giving him depth and beauty. A nose that fits his face, elegant and small that slopes slightly. His lips thin and small, pink underneath his pale skin. Cheekbones high and protruding beside his nose and underneath his eyes. They gave him this manly appearance. There's a brown shadow beside his ear and jaw that I love. He's a painting, like I'd said before about him being my masterpiece. He is the Mona Lisa, and compared to him I'm a lonely woman who doesn't smile. True that on the level of not smiling, we are alike, but the painting was not just about her smile. He is more than his appearance and I know that, but he speaks like a child. He always gets nervous when he's most reflecting a child, and anxious when I don't act fast enough. When his eyes get antsy I know I must act before he does; kill before being killed.
    "Oh you know, do you," he laughs underneath my arms and reaches up to hold my hips. His fingers are dangerous and soon he's holding me in a way that catches me off guard, so that I groan under his touch and bend my head towards my chest, resembling a turtle, just to catch my breath and heave my upper body towards my squatted position. "I told you I don't complain, you don't have to be so...arrogant." I chuckle. I remove his hand, and intertwine our fingers.
    "If it pleases the court, I'm not being arrogant. I actually really appreciate that you don't complain. It actually means a lot to me," he smiles and I lay passion onto his partly open mouth. "It's...very vulnerable...to...," his arms wrap around my neck and rest there with his hands
playing absentmindedly in the nape of my neck. His fingers twist and untwist my hair, then he curls it around his finger to lay it on my skin like circles. He moves to another piece and keeps twirling it, moving to the next as he finishes. "Show my penis to my boyfriend."
    "But I would never make you uncomfortable, if you haven't noticed I'm vulnerable too. It's not like I'm impressive, but I wouldn't ever make fun of you, even if I was."
    "I think you're impressive."
    "Babe, I know, but--" I interrupt by busting up laughing. Even letting go of his arms to collapse into the pillow and laugh so hard I'm wheezing. "It's not that funny."
     "I just love your confidence so much," he grimaces. I feel a certain fragility in his demeanor, like he's lost his confidence. I don't want to pretend his self-esteem is lower than mine, but I know it when I see that smoke behind his eyes, that proves he lost the fire and is recovering. "Shower." I sit up and pat his cheek with my hand.
    I roll off the bed, and pad off into the bathroom. I hear the bed sheets rustle, and the soft sound of his feet hitting the ground as he walks into the bathroom. He sets to wrapping a towel around himself and fixing imperfections on his face. They're not present but he won't listen if I tell him. He's focused above his eyebrows and near his temples, at barely visible acne. Then he finds his eyes are too hollow, saying he looks "like a skeleton" but then doesn't mention anything

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about my face. If he finds such fault in his own face, he must find mine unsatisfactory to the highest degree. A mutt cannot compare to the Palace of Versailles. He leans against the counter and I take the opportunity to kiss him, hold his hands in mine, and rub my thumb against his soft cheek to show him I love him. Maybe without words, because we're not there yet. But enough to show I care.
    "You're so beautiful. So, so beautiful." And I plant my lips on his forehead, and hold his head to my chest, embracing him fully. He tries to break free, but I let him know his attempts are fleeting when I kiss the top of his head and lift his chin to look at me. "Do you hear me?" I say.
    "It's not that I don't hear, it's that I don't believe." He stops to watch me and lets his finger trace my jaw and pull me in to nearly touching his nose. I feel his breath against my lips, warm and sweet as I swallow and feel my chest tighten. "Make me believe." I kiss him and tug his underwear off, and pull him into the hot shower. I hold him tight against me and press him against the wall. Everything feels so warm and passionate as he works his way down beside my hips and I stare into the spray with a parted mouth. He kept kissing me, pressing me harder into the wall. I break away and stare at him, then wrap my arms around the back of his neck and hug him close as he gasps and rubs his hair out of his eyes.
    "You're beautiful."
.                        .                        .

    "Sir, are you alright?" He asks me.
    "Hmm? Oh, yes." I check my face and notice I'm crying, a strange thing to say. I don't think anyone can cry without noticing. You can feel when you're about to, and it hurts. Just like now.
    "I just saw that you were upset," he says.
    We're in the waiting room of the hospital, I've been secluded here for such a long time it's not even a waiting room anymore. It's just a room. I've stopped waiting and expecting and hoping, and now I'm just here because my heart says I have to be, just in case. Just in case he wakes up and you need to be here. Just in case he dies and you're the first to know. Just in case a nurse needs you to help her with something. Just in case he wakes up. Not waiting or dreaming up a cure, but just in case.
    The man must be in his sixties, and his age shows in his stance. He's a big man, muscular and slightly heaved like his back is hurt. He wears khakis and a polo, with some kind of generic red jacket zipped up over the top of it. His shoes are worn loafers. Hair is combed to the right, and white as snow. He's got the brightest green eyes I've ever seen, perched above deep sockets and a nose slightly too big for his face.
    "My," I start, taking a chance on this man's conservative or liberal belief system, "boyfriend is dying." His expression slackens, and he sits beside me. He seems to soften and leans his back into the chair.
    "Disease?"
    "Attempted suicide." I'm too honest for him to handle. He peers down at the floor and clears his throat, never meeting my eyes again for the rest of the conversation. His attempt at fixing someone has left him broken instead and it couldn't be more relatable.
    "I'm sorry, kid," he says after a while. There seems to be a drawn out silence that follows, like he's trying to continue some wise sentiment about why I shouldn't be sitting here crying and thinking of my boyfriend and I having sex for the first time, and then the second time in the shower. And why I shouldn't be exposing myself to some stranger. The memories aren't for me, I want to tell him, it's for him. Ben is supposed to have them to realize I care. Because then I

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won't be to blame, and the guilt built up inside me will disappear because he'll understand that just because I didn't speak a lot, doesn't mean I didn't care. He stands up and pats me on the shoulder before leaving. Sometimes I wonder if he was actually there that day. I wonder if he was just a ghost that wanted to show me that I was being selfish and cruel writing this. That my words are barely about him, but about what benefits me and how I feel. I should be filling each page with memories of him and how much he meant to this world. Instead I'm reciting the memories of ghosts and silhouettes against bathrooms, praying that they won't haunt me. And thinking of sex with him, and kissing him. Of his skin and his smile, and how much I miss them. How he'd hold his breath under the shower spray, because he didn't like water hitting his face. His eyes would close tight and he'd suck in air as he'd rinse out shampoo. And he'd always take so long in singing a song playing outside of the shower, that he'd be doing nothing productive for a good fifteen minutes. He'd just sing along with white hair, waiting for the song to end before holding his breath to wash it out. Always the weirdo.
    I paid attention to him. I know I did. But how much of my attention meant something to him. He said, "It's not that I don't hear, it's that I don't believe," when we were intimate. I had given such attention to him, never taking my eyes off of him. But by disbelieving in what I said, does it mean nothing at all?
.                        .                        .

    He settles into the bed and lays on his side facing away from me. I didn't touch him and he seemed to have distanced himself as far away as he could. The sheets were covering his body but he was neglecting sleep with his eyes open. As I tried to move to touch him, he pushes away from the bed and out to the kitchen. My hand just stayed suspended in the air that once held his back. It doesn't mean anything when he leaves, as he returns with a glass of whiskey that he puts on the desk. It hurts, however, the way he doesn't break from sipping at the glass. When it's gone he lays down again and rests into my side.
    "I don't like it when you get like this." He's silent and snakes a hand by my ear to comb his fingers through my hair. "You drink when you're sad or regretting."
    "I'm just stuck in the past." He shifts to his side and faces away again, but his hands are finding mine and allowing me to spoon him.
    "Do you regret sleeping with me?" My words are soft and gravelly, ripping a quiet space in this conversation for him to speak. I've allowed as much for him to tell me why he's drowning in booze, but now I've put him on a platform. He can fall or he can never get down.
    "Damian," is all he says.
    "I'm serious." I kiss beside his ear. "Do you wish we hadn't?" He breaks free of my hold around his stomach, and sits up to place one soft, sweet kiss against my lips.
    "No." He breaths out into the dark and shuffles his head into my chest. "I wanted to, really. I like you and don't think for a moment that you did something wrong or that you pressured me or anything like that...at all. In the moment however, I just wasn't realizing what was going on or what we were actually doing, really, it just felt good and I wanted you. Now that the moment kind of passed, it just seems real. What we did means something...not just like, dumb high school sex. I mean to me.
    I'm just drinking because I've realized I regret the times before. The shitty people I've been with. All the people who took advantage of me or treated me like some kind of hooker, and you never did any of that. I--I just wish I had waited for you. Never would I ever regret us. I just feel..."
    "I didn't mean to stir anything up, really." He nods and smiles. "I know how you feel, though, I know what you mean. I won't ever do anything like that to you. It's hard to feel secure

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when so many people have hurt or abused you, and one more person saying they won't hurt you, doesn't do much. But I can't tell the future, and maybe I might. Maybe you might hurt me. I don't know, I just don't want to worry about the future or the past, and just make sure you're okay now. That's really all I can do, and if you want to talk, talk and I'll listen to the end of time. If you want to just sleep, I'll make sure you won't be disturbed. I just don't want you to live in the past and miss out on everything good because you're worried about what might betray you. That's just too much pressure on someone. Ok?"
    His pale face looks electrified through the dark brown torrents of beautiful brown hair. I knock the pillow off of the bed, and collapse onto his mouth. My lips are desperate for his, gasping and attacking him with the velocity of a struggling goldfish out of its tank. He fights back. Passion and fury intertwining with lips and loose hands. His hands are groping around my ass, right by my upper thigh. A small body lying on top of me, one knee tucked in and beside my leg, and the other straight along mine. We're a mess of bodies, rising the comforter. His touch feels so good against my sides. The way his fingers glide up the legs of my underwear, feeling beside my hips and returning down. They get me hard in seconds and I feel awkward about it because I know he knows. But he ignores it and builds momentum in his passionate kisses. Everything is building up until we're lying together, tangled and tired, clothes on but wrinkled.   
    I wanted to hold him to the end of time.
    "You always make me feel better," he sighs, whilst kissing my cheek. I pause, to address the quiet of the room and look to the closet. The door is opened partially, allowing a dark rectangle to appear and soak the clothes inside in an opaque black. Then to the clothes on the floor that lean against that wall, and near the edge of the darkness. Our underwear is on, just because we didn't want to be intimate again. I peer to the curtains and feel that if I were to open them I might not appreciate how early it is. It's easily four or three in the morning and I certainly feel it. My arms are heavy, just as my eyes are. The whiskey has only enhanced this feeling and pretty soon I can't even keep my eyes open. I just rest,
    "You're fragile." He shuffles in the bed sheets and stares at me, although I can't really see any features, I know he's got a blank expression.
    "I am not fragile, I'm quiet." Not hardly, there are moments when his voice carries so far I fear Alaska will call a complaint. Most of his actions of over-exuberance come from the cage his parents have kept him in for so long. It's the teenage syndrome. When a kid is held back from seeing the world, they feel forced to act out against any constraint to feel what they've missed. Taking bit by bit of the pain and agony of the world they never experience in their monotone existence, and sometimes it results in nasty outcomes. There was this one girl I knew whose parents raised her like a complete Amish, not in the religious sense, but the remoteness. The girl got out at 18 and lost her mind, did everything her controlling parents didn't want her to do. Tattoos, beer, cigarettes, heroin, weed, she lost her mind. Finally she just got in too much trouble, from the amount of torment her body went through when she was trying to figure herself out, that she just wasn't a person anymore. Haven't seen her since senior year, but she has been rumored dead, or pregnant by rape. Feel bad for her, but I can't say that I am doing so well myself in breaking free. Or Ben.
    "You're colorful and loud. Don't give me that."
    "I'm not a vase, I don't break."
    "You do."
    "Everyone breaks." Even the strongest and most courageous can succumb to doubt and guilt. And for most of my life I have been riding its coat tails, attempting to remain unnoticed and never let myself forget what's dragging me around. Sex is hard to focus on when the boy you're making love to has scars on his arms. Not because I feel them rub against my arm, or the gauze itches against my forearm, I couldn't care less, but I worry of not being enough. The smaller slits
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are healed and white but the bigger are scabbed over and red. The dangerous ones are wrapped and covered in bandages, and Neosporin, and have since begun to heal from the first time he hacked into the skin with more than his razor blades. I worry I might be feeding his nightmares by adding just another person to fuck and move on, despite my intentions as being the direct opposite.
    "I won't."
    "Everyone breaks. Sometimes we can't stop it from happening." He turns, and leans away from my to grab his phone from the side of the bed and check the time, with a blindingly bright light that stings my retinas and may leave me permanently color blind. Even though that's not how it works. He sets it down with a chink. I see his arm return to the bed, a mutilated arm of bruises and red marks. I hate that he hits himself, or punches walls but I can't chain him down from himself.
    "Will you try?"
    "To keep you from breaking?" How does one do something like that? How will I know the edge? How will I know when the edge has passed? Will it ever pass?
    "Will you try?"
    "As best as I can."
    "I won't let you break. I know that in every inch of my soul."
    "Even your toes?"
    "Even my toes."
.                        .                        .

My voice is groggy and rasped. Not an attractive sound or picture. "Goodnight Ben." It comes out like a plea for a whisper in the brightly lit room. The nurse has offered me a bed, or water, or someone to pick me up. But all I really want is for him to take me home, so why bother in offering. He's in some other world right now, out of mine. So saying goodnight is like talking underwater for him, at least that's what I envision the coma to be. A vast sea of bubbles and green and blues. Just in the middle of the ocean, so that you can sea the surface but you're held down in that one spot unable to see anything around you, but that one bright light and the darkness below. He'd like to symbolize that darkness as what he deserves, ultimately dragging him down with the weight of his sins, and would likely pay no mind to the bright surface light. He was always like that. I like to think that he wasn't pessimistic, so much as he was realistic. We all wish to be happy about our world, and even skip around merrily in fields of flowers, but it's not real. It's what our brains tells us that we want, then flips 180 to prove life will be finicky and show you just how much that field is rotting and cold.
    Jen has stopped by a bit more, bringing me things and telling me things about my appearance that I already know. I have stubble, nearing a beard. And my eyes have bags underneath them with purple blotches. I have a paler complexion, she jokes, than he did. My hair is probably greasy and unkempt, but I really haven't run my fingers or a comb through it to identify if that's true or not. She likes to make sure I'm not slipping away too. I feel I can't thank her enough for trying to keep me stable, it means a lot. I've started saying that a lot now too. It means a lot. Those are funeral words, I think, when people gather around with mugs and casserole pans and rub a hand on your back and whisper things like "he was such a nice young boy" or "gone to soon" and "how did he die...oh..." You really have nothing else to respond to those comments with, other than it means a lot that you care, or that you brought me food or condolences. And yes he was gone to soon. I need to stop saying those words before I need them to actually mean something. Right now they're just empty words I need to show others that I'm not Ben and I won't make the same decision. I know people are worried about that more

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than ever, since he's been under so long and I've not taken care of myself. What keeps me going is memories, whether innocent or not. It makes me feel like I am the sole holder of his memory and with me I can tell stories so that he will not be forgotten. And if he survives, he will read them and weep or blush. Just like going back in my head to the first time.
.                        .                        .

    I could feel the erection against the bedspread. It was not a new feeling, seeing someone attractive and wanting to feel them around me, or inside of me. But Ben would be the first person I really cared about, the one I really wanted to make a good impression around. Pre-cum in my boxer shorts really wouldn't do that. No one thinks, 'here's how I will show my love to you! ejaculate in my shorts from picturing you naked. I hope that's okay,' because that's not romantic.
    He encouraged me forward, hands on my hips as I lifted above him on all fours, above his tiny body that I so desperately wanted to be inside. I reached for his arm, feeling the skin beneath my fingers soft and the muscles tighten and relax. I turn him on his back and wedge my body comfortable on top of him as he rests into the pillow with hands tied up in the comforter. His eyes are closed and prone to wait for me. I don't wait, worrying he might get bored and I might make a fool of myself or become a douchebag if I somehow manage to try to convince him. I tuck my fingers into the waistband and pry his underwear down, and he kicks off the rest, while turning on his side. I see him smile and I suddenly find my actions need to be about making love rather than fucking. I love him and I know that and maybe he doesn't, but in the moment he's allowing me to show him. So with a move of precision, I find him relaxed around me as we move syncopated.
    Sometimes sex feels like someone's jerking off with your body, or you're just not there at all, and other times you are pleasuring someone else but have nothing that turns you on. And then sometimes your partner likes to perform fellatio and that's all good, but it's not really romantic when someone's got my dick in their mouth and gagging. I mean I know that's what a blowjob is, but it's not really a nice thing to watch. So usually when I have to perform it, or someone gives it, I keep my eyes closed. Or lean my head back to stare at the ceiling as the desire grows in my core and my breathing becomes hitched. It feels good, about as good as masturbating does. It's the same concept of rubbing friction against the member to illicit pleasure, but the mouth just adds this awkward feeling of taste and feeling. You can wash your hand and it be fine, weird, but fine. But when it's in your mouth, it's going to be there for a while and then you swallow it or find cum in just places on your face that you don't even remember having cum near. Sorry, this is kind of disgusting.
    And then there's sex where as much as there's pleasure, there's comfort and respect. I wasn't jerking off inside of him, we were making love and it was good. I could look down and see that he was enjoying it, or if he wasn't transition or ask. He never was shy about complimenting me or letting me know what worked, just like I never backed off from asking if it was alright or making sure I was keeping a pace he was comfortable with. He liked it when I had my hands in his hair, not pulling or grabbing it for arousal, just running through to let him know I'm his boyfriend and not just a hook-up. Then he'd moan when we made out, I'd kiss around his neck and beside his collarbone, before going back to thrusting inside of him and feeling him hum into the bedsheets, a low throaty growl. And nearing the edge, he was quieter and would scrunch up his expression like he was embarrassed, as haughty breaths escaped his lips. Husky breathing like when someone's finished a race, but not exhausted. He'd be sweaty and sigh out his orgasm with muscles tight and an expression of relief, as I'd follow and feel myself

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tightening as well, before relaxing beside him on the bed to take a break and lean into him. What I loved the best was holding him and snuggling him in close around me like a beautiful blanket. I liked how close we could be without losing ourselves. I liked how he'd kiss me gently, and then the next minute pin me to the bed to see how raw he can make my lips. The way his motives stayed the same but the actions he took reflected a deeper need that his subconscious was forcing him to accept. The need to break away from constraints that he's making himself, and stop being concerned with who he feels he needs to be, rather than who he is. Whether that's in bed with a boy, or in bed with a girl, or none at all. I don't care if he's unwilling to have sex with me again, although it would be disappointing as he's surely the best I've had, if it pleases his aching mind. He always needs to keep his mind elsewhere when others are around, and if his head is haunted, it's hard to get him to focus on anything else.
    So we laid there in the sheets, naked against each other and warm. His hair gathered beside his face, a reminder that even the worst hair can not be compared to sex hair. I touched my own and sighed, already feeling the tangled mess.
    His body radiated a chill. His hands were always freezing, and his skin paled against the white sheets. It gave him an angelic appearance that was amplified by how his expression shifted into a smile, accepting the fact we were at peace for once in our lives.
    "Ben...I." I choke. He shifts against my neck, and hums a soft note into my throat. There's no point in speaking when he's asleep. He'd never hear it. Still I want the room to know and feel it, like it was him accepting it. Maybe if it echoed across the walls it would resemble an echo of mutual feeling. If the walls could talk, they'd tell you how much I love you.

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