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Authors: Justin Luke Zirilli
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why?”
“Because I’m crazy.”
Christian’s face goes sour. He’s angry—but he won’t lose his temper. That’s MY special power. Plus, he’s a professional and this is his party. Instead of dressing me down (no pun intended), he slings his bag over his shoulder and nods. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow? When we’re both feeling better?”
I shake my head. I know that’s not going to happen.
I won’t let myself give in to him. Because then I’M the one who gets hurt—next time or the time after that, whenever Christian decides my crazy is just a little TOO crazy for him. It’ll happen—it always does. So better luck next time to the both of us. Somehow I know he’ll come out of this fine and I’ll be worse for wear. This cookie crumbles the same damn way every time.
“Well, have fun getting fucked. I’m spinning at a brunch tomorrow, so I guess I’ll be going home to sleep.”
I watch him storm out of the brownstone, the door slamming behind.
It’s over.
Happy anniversary.
Now that Christian is gone, I feel alone, even though the sex around me is doing its best to suck me back in. Someone howls as he shoots a load down the throat of a guy he’ll never talk to again. Four guys surround me, all jerking off, looking down so the shadows overtake most of their faces.
Disgusting. And this time, I’m talking about me. Because I belong here, and the events of today—tonight—have only served to send me where I was headed all along. Hands take hold of my ass, grab my cock, pluck my nipple ring, caress the scar on my stomach. Instinctively, I want to yank them all off and run for the door to stop Christian. It’s not too late to apologize and forget all about this fucked-up hell of a night.
I could do that, right? Just a few small lies and happiness is mine again. I could learn to trust him over time. Actually trust him—no phone checking, no e-mail invading. For fuck’s sake, he spun at a sex party fully clothed, then tried to leave early just to win me back!
I could maybe tell him the truth—the whole truth and nothing but. Explain what the hell I was thinking, feeling, while I was laying waste to the city on my way here. Grant. The other Christian. The drag queen. Everything. But how would I explain it? In hindsight, it sounds—well, just as crazy as it actually WAS. Who’d come back to that? Who’d want to be with me now? I can barely stomach what I’ve done myself, and I’ve had over two decades to get used to my antics. No one who didn’t have to be near me would ever choose to be.
Tonight I’ve earned these strange hands. These mystery mouths. The wrapped, lube-slimy dick slowly easing its way inside me as I continue staring at the exit like a paralyzed stroke victim.
This is where I belong now. Home at last.
Christian will need half an hour to get to my place. Another thirty minutes to clear his things out and leave the keys. Meanwhile, I’m going to have sex with however many men I can. It’s all fading into the back of my mind, every detail of this day just a hazy memory as the immediacy of the here and now finally overtakes me.
Run, Christian. Run as fast as you can. I can’t promise I won’t chase you, but at least you’ve got a head start.
All I can think of is
A Chorus Line
. The cast of thirteen men and women standing in different frozen poses across the stage, facing the audience.
God, I hope I get it. I hope I get it. How many people does he need? How many people does he need?!
Except, instead of thirteen of us, there’s thirteen
hundred
. All guys. All identical to each other. Light-brown hair, around six feet tall, boyish. We’re a line of clones plugged into the wall of this hallway in the Equity Building in Midtown Manhattan. I have no idea how anyone ever gets a date at one of these things, though many of my actor friends do. Yes, we’re gay and mostly single, but to date someone here is the ultimate feat of egotism.
Hey there, you look just like me!
“Because I’m crazy.”
Christian’s face goes sour. He’s angry—but he won’t lose his temper. That’s MY special power. Plus, he’s a professional and this is his party. Instead of dressing me down (no pun intended), he slings his bag over his shoulder and nods. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow? When we’re both feeling better?”
I shake my head. I know that’s not going to happen.
I won’t let myself give in to him. Because then I’M the one who gets hurt—next time or the time after that, whenever Christian decides my crazy is just a little TOO crazy for him. It’ll happen—it always does. So better luck next time to the both of us. Somehow I know he’ll come out of this fine and I’ll be worse for wear. This cookie crumbles the same damn way every time.
“Well, have fun getting fucked. I’m spinning at a brunch tomorrow, so I guess I’ll be going home to sleep.”
I watch him storm out of the brownstone, the door slamming behind.
It’s over.
Happy anniversary.
Now that Christian is gone, I feel alone, even though the sex around me is doing its best to suck me back in. Someone howls as he shoots a load down the throat of a guy he’ll never talk to again. Four guys surround me, all jerking off, looking down so the shadows overtake most of their faces.
Disgusting. And this time, I’m talking about me. Because I belong here, and the events of today—tonight—have only served to send me where I was headed all along. Hands take hold of my ass, grab my cock, pluck my nipple ring, caress the scar on my stomach. Instinctively, I want to yank them all off and run for the door to stop Christian. It’s not too late to apologize and forget all about this fucked-up hell of a night.
I could do that, right? Just a few small lies and happiness is mine again. I could learn to trust him over time. Actually trust him—no phone checking, no e-mail invading. For fuck’s sake, he spun at a sex party fully clothed, then tried to leave early just to win me back!
I could maybe tell him the truth—the whole truth and nothing but. Explain what the hell I was thinking, feeling, while I was laying waste to the city on my way here. Grant. The other Christian. The drag queen. Everything. But how would I explain it? In hindsight, it sounds—well, just as crazy as it actually WAS. Who’d come back to that? Who’d want to be with me now? I can barely stomach what I’ve done myself, and I’ve had over two decades to get used to my antics. No one who didn’t have to be near me would ever choose to be.
Tonight I’ve earned these strange hands. These mystery mouths. The wrapped, lube-slimy dick slowly easing its way inside me as I continue staring at the exit like a paralyzed stroke victim.
This is where I belong now. Home at last.
Christian will need half an hour to get to my place. Another thirty minutes to clear his things out and leave the keys. Meanwhile, I’m going to have sex with however many men I can. It’s all fading into the back of my mind, every detail of this day just a hazy memory as the immediacy of the here and now finally overtakes me.
Run, Christian. Run as fast as you can. I can’t promise I won’t chase you, but at least you’ve got a head start.
All I can think of is
A Chorus Line
. The cast of thirteen men and women standing in different frozen poses across the stage, facing the audience.
God, I hope I get it. I hope I get it. How many people does he need? How many people does he need?!
Except, instead of thirteen of us, there’s thirteen
hundred
. All guys. All identical to each other. Light-brown hair, around six feet tall, boyish. We’re a line of clones plugged into the wall of this hallway in the Equity Building in Midtown Manhattan. I have no idea how anyone ever gets a date at one of these things, though many of my actor friends do. Yes, we’re gay and mostly single, but to date someone here is the ultimate feat of egotism.
Hey there, you look just like me!
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