Graffixation Stories and Artwork #7
Artist: gonattsaga
Missing by cmk418
We weren’t friends. That’s the thing I had to keep reminding myself. We weren’t friends. We were just two guys stuck in a prison. I’d look up and he’d be there - hitting the heavy bag in the gym, straddling a chair in front of the TV watching “Miss Sally’s Schoolyard”, sucking on that damn lollipop. But now he’s not around and it feels like the balance is off. I think about him out there in the world, watching the sunset, eating McDonalds, having sex, but I can’t really picture him there. Imagining the outside world with Alvarez is as difficult as imagining Oz without him.
I’m not going to admit that I miss him, even a little bit. Because we weren’t friends.
Not at all.
Consumed by michele659
Title: Consumed
Pairing: Ryan/Miguel
Author: michele659
Summary: Ryan gives up on the idea of reforming himself and returns to his old ways with a vengeance. He’s determined to take whatever he wants-and this time it’s Miguel Alvarez.
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con
A/N: For the purposes of the story neither of Ryan's parents are in Oz. Thanks to cmk418 for looking over the story and for all the encouragement.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Oz.
~~~~
There was a time I thought I could redeem myself. A time I wanted to try.
I had this fucked up idea that I could make up for Cyril and all the pain I caused everyone. A time I thought I could make up for all the shit I pulled on people my whole life.
It seemed like Gloria had forgiven me for the murder of her husband; she believed I’d changed.
Or so she said.
She was there for me the night Cyril was executed, and I thought-hoped that we could start over.
But then all hell broke loose and we had to leave Oz.
We were all scattered, and when the rest of us came back to Oz she didn’t.
For the first time in my life I was really alone.
I felt betrayed, and I felt something close down inside me. The idea that I could be redeemed seemed like the lie it obviously was.
I went back to being the “Lord of the Dance”, plotting, taking, destroying whatever obstacle was in my way.
I told myself that I was just surviving, but the truth was the only feelings I had left were rage and need.
I was tired of being denied what I wanted, tired of holding myself back.
So now when I see something I want I take it.
Or someone in this case.
The “him” I’m talking about is Miguel Alvarez.
~~~~~
When we’d left Oz he was hooked on the “D” tabs that Torquemada had been feeding him, but he was still sane.
When we came back from Oz it was apparent that Miguel was seriously fucked up, which was saying something. Miguel spent most of his time in Oz fucked up in one way or another.
Something very bad had happened, but no one knew what it was.
No one knew because Miguel wasn’t talking.
He wasn’t saying anything at all, literally. He just spent all day staring, almost motionless.
The doctors said he could talk, but he was too traumatized to do so.
Traumatized or too disgusted, I don’t know which.
He just seemed really tired to me.
Given Miguel’s past track record of attempted suicide, the doctors felt that he’d be better off in the infirmary, where they could keep a better watch on him.
Father Ray came to see him often, of course (that man is so pathetic with his obsession for Miguel it’s not even funny) as did Sister Pete, and many different psychiatrists.
They had him on so many types of meds, trying to find the one combination that would work, that he seemed even more out of it than before.
I wondered why the doctors were so concerned about him now, when they couldn’t give a shit if he lived or died before.
Somehow, whatever was wrong with Miguel had to have been at least partially caused by the prison’s negligence.
Pending lawsuits and possible riots were the only things these motherfuckers cared about.
~~~
I went back to working in the hospital when we came back, even though Gloria was no longer there.
I thought, what the hell difference does it make where I work, and if I keep my eyes open maybe I’ll even be able to steal some drugs, get a little side business going.
I didn’t want to be back in the kitchen. Too many memories there, most of them bad.
Having Miguel come back was an unexpected gift.
~~~
I know I should feel guilty about what I’m doing with Miguel, but I can’t.
I have one thought when I see him- taking him, consuming him, burning through him.
Then I leave.
It’s almost like I can’t help myself.
The thing is, Miguel has had this hold on me practically from the beginning, but I would never admit it to myself much less him.
But now- I don’t care. I don’t care if wanting him makes me a “fag’”.
I just see him, and I take what I want.
He looks at me like I’m not there. Looks right through me,
But when I touch him he doesn’t move away from me.
I can hear Aunt Brenda saying I have the devil inside me, because I’m taking advantage of someone who’s obviously not all there, but the thing is- I don’t care.
In fact, I like it better this way.
I don’t want to worry about anyone else, don’t want to be responsible for another person for as long as I have left on this miserable earth.
I don’t want to care what anyone thinks or feels, don’t want any demands.
I want control, and I want a fantasy.
When I’m with Miguel I have both.
I do whatever I want to with him.
I strip him bare, I take my time or I’m rough, almost brutal.
I’m there to feed him, bathe him and I do those things.
But I tease him when I do, play with his body when I bathe him, stroke his cock, take him in my mouth, put him against the wall of the shower and rim him, fucking his ass with my tongue, reaching around to jerk him off, hard. He comes when I do this, but he doesn’t say a word, and his expression never changes.
I like to play games with him. I tie him to the bed and spread his legs and fuck him. I do all the things I’ve wanted to do to for so long.
Every time I do this I search his face for a response.
It didn’t matter that there is none.
I pour all my need, my desire, and my anger into him and he- just lets me.
I’d think about when we used to talk sometimes in the gym, and how he’d sweat and his clothes would cling to him. The way his breath would catch, the musky smell of him when he’d come close to me.
I think of all the times I wanted to straddle him right there, and fuck him. Or straddle him and shove my cock down his throat.
In my fantasies he’d eagerly take it, want it.
Now he takes it, but there’s no real reaction from him.
I fuck his face; let my cock be enveloped by that warm mouth and those lips I knew would feel as soft as they do.
And it feels so good.
And when I’m done I look at him, and he’s gasping for breath and he’s sweating.
But he doesn’t say anything, and I don’t care.
~~~
Sometimes I think I see something in his eyes. I think I see a little of the old Miguel coming through, the one that had so much fire, and I remember the sound of his voice.
The way it would turn me on when he’d speak in that rough, husky voice that could suddenly sound like a caress.
I used to like it when he spoke Spanish, and I would jerk off at night, imagining him speaking to me while we were fucking, saying all kinds of filthy things.
I wonder what it would be like if he suddenly started talking to me.
I wonder if he’d curse at me in Spanish for the things I’ve been doing to him. Or, would he tell me that he wanted to keep on doing those things?
I realize that it doesn’t matter, and I don’t really care what he thinks.
It’s just that to hear him moan, hear the way he’d say my name is a turn on for me.
I want to hear it.
I want to hear him call my name, want to hear him tell me that he wants this, wants me.
Not that I really care.
I just want to hear him say it.
~~~
One day I kiss him.
I haven’t done that since this started. It seemed too intimate for what we were doing-what I was doing to him.
The last person I’d kissed was Gloria on the night Cyril was executed.
At first I held onto that memory. Now that kiss held so many feelings I no longer wanted to remember. A feeling of comfort, of forgiveness, of promise that turned out to be nothing but lies.
So maybe I kissed him because I wanted to block out that last kiss with Gloria.
I felt nothing for Miguel, so kissing him would be like wiping out that last bit of illusion I had.
The illusion of what my life could be like.
So, when I walk into his room I go straight to the bed and I lift him off it, push him up against the wall and kiss him.
There’s a look of shock in his eyes, but he says nothing and doesn’t try to stop me.
I get some satisfaction of the way his head bangs against the wall with the force of my kisses.
I push his mouth open and thrust my tongue inside.
Everything I do to him is like that-harsh, penetrating, deep, claiming.
I wait to hear something from him. A sound, a moan, a whisper.
There’s nothing.
He doesn’t kiss me back.
I pull him away from the wall, grabbing his ass, grinding myself against him. Then I let my hands roam over his body, touching everywhere I can.
I bite down on his lip so hard I draw blood.
He still says nothing
But that’s alright.
I don’t care.
~~~~~
I have my weaknesses. I have my demons.
I’ve blurred the line between right and wrong so many times it no longer IS a line, just a maze.
I’ve given up trying to win over my weaknesses, and the “demons” are all that I have left.
They consume me.
Every once in a while, though, I remember a feeling.
A feeling I thought I’d lost, thought I’d eradicated or burned away.
I remember when Miguel would talk to me about his life on the road, when he escaped.
He said people believed whatever he said because they wanted to believe.
And when he talked, I believed too.
He’d speak of places he went. He’d tell me of the towns, cities and people he’d met.
Sometimes he’d tell me about his dream to get to Tierra’ Del Fuego, which he called the end of the world.
We’d have these conversations lying on the benches in the weight room, both of us looking up at the light coming through the windows.
Like we could somehow be transported out of this hellhole if we stared at the window long enough.
When Miguel spoke about this place, I could feel the breeze from the palm trees, I could see the water; hear the soothing sound of the ocean.
I’d picture Miguel, lying out on a blanket next to me, naked, wanting and happy. I’d imagine the two of us spending days and nights just fulfilling every fantasy we ever had.
One day I look up it up on the internet and the memories of that time come flooding back.
The man who’d talk to me, tease me is gone now.
I don’t care though. Really.
It would just be nice to hear those stories again.
~~~~
As the weeks go by I start to get frustrated.
I realize that this non responsiveness is getting under my skin,
I don’t understand it, because he means nothing to me.
I think it must be that I want more control. I want to hear a response, see his emotions.
I want to rip away those defenses and pull him out of that safe corner he’s put himself in.
I know it doesn’t have anything to do with concern over him, or wanting a connection with him.
I’m past all that. I tried it with Gloria and looked where it got me.
I’m here for the rest of my fucking life and she’s gone.
No, this is all about control, and a challenge.
So I try to push him.
I do the things I’ve been doing with him but I don’t let him come.
He gets frustrated, I can tell.
But he never gives me the satisfaction of saying anything to me.
He never gives me the satisfaction of hearing him beg.
And I realize I want that.
I want to hear him beg.
I’ll find a way.
I’m Lord of the Fuckin’ Dance and I got moves.
~~~`
“Hey Miguel,” I call to him in as friendly a voice as I can manage.
He just stares at me, but his expression changes when I lie down next to him on the bed.
He doesn’t even look at me, just stares straight ahead, but his body tenses like he doesn’t know what to expect.
When I pull him close to me he stiffens even more, but he doesn’t pull away.
I start stroking his hair and I touch his chest.
He clearly doesn’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I’m not sure either.
I start talking to him.
“Remember when we’d be in the gym and you’d tell me those stories about what life was like when you were outside?” He doesn’t answer so I go on. “I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about that place you talked about. Remember? Tierra del Fuego? The earth on fire? You called it the end of the earth? You’d talk about it so clearly I’d feel we were there,”
He doesn’t say anything, but he closes his eyes and I can see it’s coming back to him.
I whisper in his ear, “I wish you would tell me about it again. I wish you would talk to me.”
Miguel opens his eyes and regards me suspiciously for a moment before looking blankly at the wall.
“I want to hear you say my name again, Miguel.” I tell him, and I know I’m confusing the hell out of him because I couldn’t have cared less in the beginning.
The only reason I want to hear him talk now is because I like the way he sounds when he talks.
And because I know he doesn’t want to do it.
Those are the only reasons.
****
I look for things I can say in Spanish that would make him talk to me.
I find these poems that are very sexual and they’re in Spanish and English, so I can know what the fuck I’m saying to him.
I don’t want to be saying anything that sounds like I love him or anything like that.
I just want him to want me.
I just want more than a body that’s not fighting me, or a hole I can fill up.
***
I waste no time when I see him the next day.
I give him a big smile and lie down on the bed with him.
“Miguel, I found something I thought you’d like. I’ve been practicing my Spanish and I think it sounds good.”
I swear I almost see him smirking but he looks straight ahead and then tries to shift away from me a bit.
I pull him back.
“Listen to me,” I say and then start reading:
Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.
As I say the first line his body jerks and he turns around to look at me,. Obviously he’s heard this poem and is wondering why the fuck I’m saying it to him.
It’s just a momentary reaction though, and then he goes back to staring at the wall so I continue.
Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra…
y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.
I’m getting hot reading the damn poem, and I know it’s having the same effect on Miguel.
His breathing is getting shallow and he’s obviously aroused.
He turns and looks at me and there it is.
The look in his eyes is not the look of someone who’s just not protesting a bad experience.
That look is the one I’d sometimes catch him giving me, or that I’d give him.
Pure desire.
I don’t give him a chance to think- I just lean over and kiss him, hungry and consuming.
This time he closes his eyes, and when I part his lips he eagerly gives me entrance to his mouth, and then I feel his tongue slipping inside me and he’s pushing himself against me.
Grabbing at me.
And then I hear him. Little sighs at first, then a broken, hoarse whisper of my name.
It’s so low that I have to tell him to say it again.
And he does.
And fuck it if it doesn’t get to me, just a little.
Just that one word, “Ryan, said with so much desire.
I feel like I’m retrieving my soul, just a bit.
It feels good.
It also scares the hell out of me.
~~~~~~~~
The End
Missing by cmk418
We weren’t friends. That’s the thing I had to keep reminding myself. We weren’t friends. We were just two guys stuck in a prison. I’d look up and he’d be there - hitting the heavy bag in the gym, straddling a chair in front of the TV watching “Miss Sally’s Schoolyard”, sucking on that damn lollipop. But now he’s not around and it feels like the balance is off. I think about him out there in the world, watching the sunset, eating McDonalds, having sex, but I can’t really picture him there. Imagining the outside world with Alvarez is as difficult as imagining Oz without him.
I’m not going to admit that I miss him, even a little bit. Because we weren’t friends.
Not at all.
Consumed by michele659
Title: Consumed
Pairing: Ryan/Miguel
Author: michele659
Summary: Ryan gives up on the idea of reforming himself and returns to his old ways with a vengeance. He’s determined to take whatever he wants-and this time it’s Miguel Alvarez.
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con
A/N: For the purposes of the story neither of Ryan's parents are in Oz. Thanks to cmk418 for looking over the story and for all the encouragement.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Oz.
~~~~
There was a time I thought I could redeem myself. A time I wanted to try.
I had this fucked up idea that I could make up for Cyril and all the pain I caused everyone. A time I thought I could make up for all the shit I pulled on people my whole life.
It seemed like Gloria had forgiven me for the murder of her husband; she believed I’d changed.
Or so she said.
She was there for me the night Cyril was executed, and I thought-hoped that we could start over.
But then all hell broke loose and we had to leave Oz.
We were all scattered, and when the rest of us came back to Oz she didn’t.
For the first time in my life I was really alone.
I felt betrayed, and I felt something close down inside me. The idea that I could be redeemed seemed like the lie it obviously was.
I went back to being the “Lord of the Dance”, plotting, taking, destroying whatever obstacle was in my way.
I told myself that I was just surviving, but the truth was the only feelings I had left were rage and need.
I was tired of being denied what I wanted, tired of holding myself back.
So now when I see something I want I take it.
Or someone in this case.
The “him” I’m talking about is Miguel Alvarez.
~~~~~
When we’d left Oz he was hooked on the “D” tabs that Torquemada had been feeding him, but he was still sane.
When we came back from Oz it was apparent that Miguel was seriously fucked up, which was saying something. Miguel spent most of his time in Oz fucked up in one way or another.
Something very bad had happened, but no one knew what it was.
No one knew because Miguel wasn’t talking.
He wasn’t saying anything at all, literally. He just spent all day staring, almost motionless.
The doctors said he could talk, but he was too traumatized to do so.
Traumatized or too disgusted, I don’t know which.
He just seemed really tired to me.
Given Miguel’s past track record of attempted suicide, the doctors felt that he’d be better off in the infirmary, where they could keep a better watch on him.
Father Ray came to see him often, of course (that man is so pathetic with his obsession for Miguel it’s not even funny) as did Sister Pete, and many different psychiatrists.
They had him on so many types of meds, trying to find the one combination that would work, that he seemed even more out of it than before.
I wondered why the doctors were so concerned about him now, when they couldn’t give a shit if he lived or died before.
Somehow, whatever was wrong with Miguel had to have been at least partially caused by the prison’s negligence.
Pending lawsuits and possible riots were the only things these motherfuckers cared about.
~~~
I went back to working in the hospital when we came back, even though Gloria was no longer there.
I thought, what the hell difference does it make where I work, and if I keep my eyes open maybe I’ll even be able to steal some drugs, get a little side business going.
I didn’t want to be back in the kitchen. Too many memories there, most of them bad.
Having Miguel come back was an unexpected gift.
~~~
I know I should feel guilty about what I’m doing with Miguel, but I can’t.
I have one thought when I see him- taking him, consuming him, burning through him.
Then I leave.
It’s almost like I can’t help myself.
The thing is, Miguel has had this hold on me practically from the beginning, but I would never admit it to myself much less him.
But now- I don’t care. I don’t care if wanting him makes me a “fag’”.
I just see him, and I take what I want.
He looks at me like I’m not there. Looks right through me,
But when I touch him he doesn’t move away from me.
I can hear Aunt Brenda saying I have the devil inside me, because I’m taking advantage of someone who’s obviously not all there, but the thing is- I don’t care.
In fact, I like it better this way.
I don’t want to worry about anyone else, don’t want to be responsible for another person for as long as I have left on this miserable earth.
I don’t want to care what anyone thinks or feels, don’t want any demands.
I want control, and I want a fantasy.
When I’m with Miguel I have both.
I do whatever I want to with him.
I strip him bare, I take my time or I’m rough, almost brutal.
I’m there to feed him, bathe him and I do those things.
But I tease him when I do, play with his body when I bathe him, stroke his cock, take him in my mouth, put him against the wall of the shower and rim him, fucking his ass with my tongue, reaching around to jerk him off, hard. He comes when I do this, but he doesn’t say a word, and his expression never changes.
I like to play games with him. I tie him to the bed and spread his legs and fuck him. I do all the things I’ve wanted to do to for so long.
Every time I do this I search his face for a response.
It didn’t matter that there is none.
I pour all my need, my desire, and my anger into him and he- just lets me.
I’d think about when we used to talk sometimes in the gym, and how he’d sweat and his clothes would cling to him. The way his breath would catch, the musky smell of him when he’d come close to me.
I think of all the times I wanted to straddle him right there, and fuck him. Or straddle him and shove my cock down his throat.
In my fantasies he’d eagerly take it, want it.
Now he takes it, but there’s no real reaction from him.
I fuck his face; let my cock be enveloped by that warm mouth and those lips I knew would feel as soft as they do.
And it feels so good.
And when I’m done I look at him, and he’s gasping for breath and he’s sweating.
But he doesn’t say anything, and I don’t care.
~~~
Sometimes I think I see something in his eyes. I think I see a little of the old Miguel coming through, the one that had so much fire, and I remember the sound of his voice.
The way it would turn me on when he’d speak in that rough, husky voice that could suddenly sound like a caress.
I used to like it when he spoke Spanish, and I would jerk off at night, imagining him speaking to me while we were fucking, saying all kinds of filthy things.
I wonder what it would be like if he suddenly started talking to me.
I wonder if he’d curse at me in Spanish for the things I’ve been doing to him. Or, would he tell me that he wanted to keep on doing those things?
I realize that it doesn’t matter, and I don’t really care what he thinks.
It’s just that to hear him moan, hear the way he’d say my name is a turn on for me.
I want to hear it.
I want to hear him call my name, want to hear him tell me that he wants this, wants me.
Not that I really care.
I just want to hear him say it.
~~~
One day I kiss him.
I haven’t done that since this started. It seemed too intimate for what we were doing-what I was doing to him.
The last person I’d kissed was Gloria on the night Cyril was executed.
At first I held onto that memory. Now that kiss held so many feelings I no longer wanted to remember. A feeling of comfort, of forgiveness, of promise that turned out to be nothing but lies.
So maybe I kissed him because I wanted to block out that last kiss with Gloria.
I felt nothing for Miguel, so kissing him would be like wiping out that last bit of illusion I had.
The illusion of what my life could be like.
So, when I walk into his room I go straight to the bed and I lift him off it, push him up against the wall and kiss him.
There’s a look of shock in his eyes, but he says nothing and doesn’t try to stop me.
I get some satisfaction of the way his head bangs against the wall with the force of my kisses.
I push his mouth open and thrust my tongue inside.
Everything I do to him is like that-harsh, penetrating, deep, claiming.
I wait to hear something from him. A sound, a moan, a whisper.
There’s nothing.
He doesn’t kiss me back.
I pull him away from the wall, grabbing his ass, grinding myself against him. Then I let my hands roam over his body, touching everywhere I can.
I bite down on his lip so hard I draw blood.
He still says nothing
But that’s alright.
I don’t care.
~~~~~
I have my weaknesses. I have my demons.
I’ve blurred the line between right and wrong so many times it no longer IS a line, just a maze.
I’ve given up trying to win over my weaknesses, and the “demons” are all that I have left.
They consume me.
Every once in a while, though, I remember a feeling.
A feeling I thought I’d lost, thought I’d eradicated or burned away.
I remember when Miguel would talk to me about his life on the road, when he escaped.
He said people believed whatever he said because they wanted to believe.
And when he talked, I believed too.
He’d speak of places he went. He’d tell me of the towns, cities and people he’d met.
Sometimes he’d tell me about his dream to get to Tierra’ Del Fuego, which he called the end of the world.
We’d have these conversations lying on the benches in the weight room, both of us looking up at the light coming through the windows.
Like we could somehow be transported out of this hellhole if we stared at the window long enough.
When Miguel spoke about this place, I could feel the breeze from the palm trees, I could see the water; hear the soothing sound of the ocean.
I’d picture Miguel, lying out on a blanket next to me, naked, wanting and happy. I’d imagine the two of us spending days and nights just fulfilling every fantasy we ever had.
One day I look up it up on the internet and the memories of that time come flooding back.
The man who’d talk to me, tease me is gone now.
I don’t care though. Really.
It would just be nice to hear those stories again.
~~~~
As the weeks go by I start to get frustrated.
I realize that this non responsiveness is getting under my skin,
I don’t understand it, because he means nothing to me.
I think it must be that I want more control. I want to hear a response, see his emotions.
I want to rip away those defenses and pull him out of that safe corner he’s put himself in.
I know it doesn’t have anything to do with concern over him, or wanting a connection with him.
I’m past all that. I tried it with Gloria and looked where it got me.
I’m here for the rest of my fucking life and she’s gone.
No, this is all about control, and a challenge.
So I try to push him.
I do the things I’ve been doing with him but I don’t let him come.
He gets frustrated, I can tell.
But he never gives me the satisfaction of saying anything to me.
He never gives me the satisfaction of hearing him beg.
And I realize I want that.
I want to hear him beg.
I’ll find a way.
I’m Lord of the Fuckin’ Dance and I got moves.
~~~`
“Hey Miguel,” I call to him in as friendly a voice as I can manage.
He just stares at me, but his expression changes when I lie down next to him on the bed.
He doesn’t even look at me, just stares straight ahead, but his body tenses like he doesn’t know what to expect.
When I pull him close to me he stiffens even more, but he doesn’t pull away.
I start stroking his hair and I touch his chest.
He clearly doesn’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I’m not sure either.
I start talking to him.
“Remember when we’d be in the gym and you’d tell me those stories about what life was like when you were outside?” He doesn’t answer so I go on. “I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about that place you talked about. Remember? Tierra del Fuego? The earth on fire? You called it the end of the earth? You’d talk about it so clearly I’d feel we were there,”
He doesn’t say anything, but he closes his eyes and I can see it’s coming back to him.
I whisper in his ear, “I wish you would tell me about it again. I wish you would talk to me.”
Miguel opens his eyes and regards me suspiciously for a moment before looking blankly at the wall.
“I want to hear you say my name again, Miguel.” I tell him, and I know I’m confusing the hell out of him because I couldn’t have cared less in the beginning.
The only reason I want to hear him talk now is because I like the way he sounds when he talks.
And because I know he doesn’t want to do it.
Those are the only reasons.
****
I look for things I can say in Spanish that would make him talk to me.
I find these poems that are very sexual and they’re in Spanish and English, so I can know what the fuck I’m saying to him.
I don’t want to be saying anything that sounds like I love him or anything like that.
I just want him to want me.
I just want more than a body that’s not fighting me, or a hole I can fill up.
***
I waste no time when I see him the next day.
I give him a big smile and lie down on the bed with him.
“Miguel, I found something I thought you’d like. I’ve been practicing my Spanish and I think it sounds good.”
I swear I almost see him smirking but he looks straight ahead and then tries to shift away from me a bit.
I pull him back.
“Listen to me,” I say and then start reading:
Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.
As I say the first line his body jerks and he turns around to look at me,. Obviously he’s heard this poem and is wondering why the fuck I’m saying it to him.
It’s just a momentary reaction though, and then he goes back to staring at the wall so I continue.
Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra…
y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.
I’m getting hot reading the damn poem, and I know it’s having the same effect on Miguel.
His breathing is getting shallow and he’s obviously aroused.
He turns and looks at me and there it is.
The look in his eyes is not the look of someone who’s just not protesting a bad experience.
That look is the one I’d sometimes catch him giving me, or that I’d give him.
Pure desire.
I don’t give him a chance to think- I just lean over and kiss him, hungry and consuming.
This time he closes his eyes, and when I part his lips he eagerly gives me entrance to his mouth, and then I feel his tongue slipping inside me and he’s pushing himself against me.
Grabbing at me.
And then I hear him. Little sighs at first, then a broken, hoarse whisper of my name.
It’s so low that I have to tell him to say it again.
And he does.
And fuck it if it doesn’t get to me, just a little.
Just that one word, “Ryan, said with so much desire.
I feel like I’m retrieving my soul, just a bit.
It feels good.
It also scares the hell out of me.
~~~~~~~~
The End