Staying in - [James' apartment] - [Day 14/15]
First it had been Nimoy, unexpected and hot and rough and wrong. Then had come Tina, not nearly as unexpected though Jim's presence was primarily confusing for the lack of weight he'd given it at the time. Then there was Pasha, unexpected in a different way and in a sense merely the culmination of her absurd little forays at the theater.
None of it, in retrospect, made any sense.
He'd stumbled back to his apartment, physical needs other than sex finally taking their toll, and collapsed into a sleepless stupor, troubled by need but without a locus for it. The only thing that made any sense was Tina. He always wanted Tina, had gone to her when he'd felt this thing overpower him, and now he wasn't sure if he'd been conscious of his actions or not. Certainly not by the time Jim had interrupted, righteous and inflamed and strangely beautiful, and though now he could tell himself it had all been for Tina, it did not explain his need to touch Jim, the transfixing sight of Jim coming, his lack of rage seeing him deep inside the woman he loved.
That rage reasserted itself now, but it was a dim echo, a pressing reminder that he should be angry. But Nimoy? Pasha? Rough and tender, neither was anything he'd have done normally. He'd endured force before. He'd never enjoyed it, never longed for the harsh twist of that hand on him, never wished to lose control. And what had led him to gently show Pasha the way, savoring her discovery with her?
Maybe Marlena was right, and he was not the same man he'd been. Maybe--and the thought struck his fevered brain with horror--maybe he was Jim. He forgot all the times he had been tender, with Marlena, with others, and stared into the gut-wrenching certainty that he could imagine Jim in each of those scenarios, submissive and sharing and sweet. He was becoming Jim, or was already. Maybe they were one and the same, his mind split between the two, like the old story. Maybe if he went to Tina and asked, she'd only remember one of them. Maybe Spock speaking to him like a person was pity for his poor delusional lover, who once in awhile became another man, a man who existed only to rage and rebel and hate the man he was. Or maybe he was the real one, Jim the impostor, some throwback to conscience he'd created because he was too much of a pussy to accept reality.
His mind swam, incoherent and throwing up visions from his day like a slideshow that made him hot with lust and anger at once. He got up eventually to shower, and the water alone made him hard though it hurt, slightly, to bring himself relief. The sex had been amazing, but the implications did not bear contemplation. He finally fell into a fitful sleep, full of dreams that teased and aroused as he rode out the infection.
None of it, in retrospect, made any sense.
He'd stumbled back to his apartment, physical needs other than sex finally taking their toll, and collapsed into a sleepless stupor, troubled by need but without a locus for it. The only thing that made any sense was Tina. He always wanted Tina, had gone to her when he'd felt this thing overpower him, and now he wasn't sure if he'd been conscious of his actions or not. Certainly not by the time Jim had interrupted, righteous and inflamed and strangely beautiful, and though now he could tell himself it had all been for Tina, it did not explain his need to touch Jim, the transfixing sight of Jim coming, his lack of rage seeing him deep inside the woman he loved.
That rage reasserted itself now, but it was a dim echo, a pressing reminder that he should be angry. But Nimoy? Pasha? Rough and tender, neither was anything he'd have done normally. He'd endured force before. He'd never enjoyed it, never longed for the harsh twist of that hand on him, never wished to lose control. And what had led him to gently show Pasha the way, savoring her discovery with her?
Maybe Marlena was right, and he was not the same man he'd been. Maybe--and the thought struck his fevered brain with horror--maybe he was Jim. He forgot all the times he had been tender, with Marlena, with others, and stared into the gut-wrenching certainty that he could imagine Jim in each of those scenarios, submissive and sharing and sweet. He was becoming Jim, or was already. Maybe they were one and the same, his mind split between the two, like the old story. Maybe if he went to Tina and asked, she'd only remember one of them. Maybe Spock speaking to him like a person was pity for his poor delusional lover, who once in awhile became another man, a man who existed only to rage and rebel and hate the man he was. Or maybe he was the real one, Jim the impostor, some throwback to conscience he'd created because he was too much of a pussy to accept reality.
His mind swam, incoherent and throwing up visions from his day like a slideshow that made him hot with lust and anger at once. He got up eventually to shower, and the water alone made him hard though it hurt, slightly, to bring himself relief. The sex had been amazing, but the implications did not bear contemplation. He finally fell into a fitful sleep, full of dreams that teased and aroused as he rode out the infection.