(no subject)
This is a short story I wrote a long time ago. On some romantic evenings of self I go through old things I've written, and then post them on LJ like the nerd I am. Also, it's a bit...graphic. Buyer beware. It is not, in the sense you'll probably assume, autobiographical. But you know as well as I that we can never seem to escape ourselves.
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Tragedy
It was raining very hard. So hard, in fact, that her screaming seemed mute. Quiet. I couldn’t make out what she was saying but I knew it was about me. I stepped closer to the edge where she was, where she stood. Screaming.
I opened my eyes, cum dripping from my fingers and falling into the delicate caress of a soiled tissue. It was in that final moment of emptiness that always follows closely on the heels of orgasm that I heard her voice again, screaming so loudly in my ears that I did not notice I was crying. Sobbing.
Some people are born with tragedy in their lives, someone once said. I am not one of those people, but I cannot help loving them for it.
Things were not getting better. I fell backwards in the energetic wave that paralyzes the tongue and inexorably culminates in that final, imminent ejaculation. She stares you in the eyes and her arm moves a little faster and- that’s it. Soon she’s washing her hands and face and you lie on the bed, emptied, breathing a little too hard and wishing she would go away-run away-out into the rain where you could hold her and kiss her and tell her that once upon a time, you loved her.
Except you never do. She never lets you. There really isn’t much you can do; it’s not your fault, it’s because someone fucked with her head when she was young and impressionable and now she is incapable of doing anything but taking it out on you. Poor boy, you are too naïve. You will always be too naïve.
I noticed the semen dripping off of the tissue onto the floor. I was too tired to clean it up, and, well, no one was coming to see me anytime soon anyway so I guess it didn’t matter. All I did was sit in my room and wish someone would knock on my door. I’d masturbate and go to bed. The next night I would repeat. Ad nauseum.
I turned off the lights and sat by the window. Outside the rain came down heavily, drowning the muted nighttime air in a warm summer smell that drifted in through the screen. I listened to the thunder rolling across the valley, watched the lightning flash in the distance. It was peaceful and violent: paradoxically beautiful, like everything I had ever forced myself to love.
I should have told her, but I knew I would never get it back. Emptying myself into her only left me feeling that much hollower, and I knew it wasn’t possible to keep pouring my love and life into someone so broken. Like a little china cup: cracked, beautiful, useless. I loved her, I thought. Or rather, she loved me. I thought.
I wept again as I watched the storm rip through the night. She was gone, and I knew it. I didn’t miss her.
I knew I didn’t miss her.
There is a point beyond which the loneliness-the emptiness- becomes just enough to carry everything away. When the ‘I love you’s’ become so repetitive and sound so vacant that hearing them brings on a vicious, visceral feeling. So many times I wanted to let her just disappear into the violence of the nighttime air, while maybe the softness of the summer would coax me into a dreamless, waking sleep.
But there she was in my head, screaming something I could not understand. I wanted to help her, to hold her, but that would never happen. Pulling her back could only have been possible if she hadn’t already stepped over the edge. Catching her can take you over, drag you down into the darkness below. And, as anyone will tell you, that’s exactly what happened.
She used to look right through me. Eventually I got used to it, but I missed feeling like I was worth a glance, or a smile. I wanted more than anything for her to knock on my fucking door and come in and kiss me, for once. Just once. But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t. I wanted to catch her as she fell and bring her back, but I couldn’t. And so she fell, and I kept looking out the window as the rains came down. Waiting. Listening for anything, something, nothing-and all I found was myself, alone, masturbating until my fingers bled.
I cried long into the night on that last, romantic evening because I should have known that some people-well, they are born with tragedy in their lives.
I am not one of them. I swear to god I am not one of them.
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Tragedy
It was raining very hard. So hard, in fact, that her screaming seemed mute. Quiet. I couldn’t make out what she was saying but I knew it was about me. I stepped closer to the edge where she was, where she stood. Screaming.
I opened my eyes, cum dripping from my fingers and falling into the delicate caress of a soiled tissue. It was in that final moment of emptiness that always follows closely on the heels of orgasm that I heard her voice again, screaming so loudly in my ears that I did not notice I was crying. Sobbing.
Some people are born with tragedy in their lives, someone once said. I am not one of those people, but I cannot help loving them for it.
Things were not getting better. I fell backwards in the energetic wave that paralyzes the tongue and inexorably culminates in that final, imminent ejaculation. She stares you in the eyes and her arm moves a little faster and- that’s it. Soon she’s washing her hands and face and you lie on the bed, emptied, breathing a little too hard and wishing she would go away-run away-out into the rain where you could hold her and kiss her and tell her that once upon a time, you loved her.
Except you never do. She never lets you. There really isn’t much you can do; it’s not your fault, it’s because someone fucked with her head when she was young and impressionable and now she is incapable of doing anything but taking it out on you. Poor boy, you are too naïve. You will always be too naïve.
I noticed the semen dripping off of the tissue onto the floor. I was too tired to clean it up, and, well, no one was coming to see me anytime soon anyway so I guess it didn’t matter. All I did was sit in my room and wish someone would knock on my door. I’d masturbate and go to bed. The next night I would repeat. Ad nauseum.
I turned off the lights and sat by the window. Outside the rain came down heavily, drowning the muted nighttime air in a warm summer smell that drifted in through the screen. I listened to the thunder rolling across the valley, watched the lightning flash in the distance. It was peaceful and violent: paradoxically beautiful, like everything I had ever forced myself to love.
I should have told her, but I knew I would never get it back. Emptying myself into her only left me feeling that much hollower, and I knew it wasn’t possible to keep pouring my love and life into someone so broken. Like a little china cup: cracked, beautiful, useless. I loved her, I thought. Or rather, she loved me. I thought.
I wept again as I watched the storm rip through the night. She was gone, and I knew it. I didn’t miss her.
I knew I didn’t miss her.
There is a point beyond which the loneliness-the emptiness- becomes just enough to carry everything away. When the ‘I love you’s’ become so repetitive and sound so vacant that hearing them brings on a vicious, visceral feeling. So many times I wanted to let her just disappear into the violence of the nighttime air, while maybe the softness of the summer would coax me into a dreamless, waking sleep.
But there she was in my head, screaming something I could not understand. I wanted to help her, to hold her, but that would never happen. Pulling her back could only have been possible if she hadn’t already stepped over the edge. Catching her can take you over, drag you down into the darkness below. And, as anyone will tell you, that’s exactly what happened.
She used to look right through me. Eventually I got used to it, but I missed feeling like I was worth a glance, or a smile. I wanted more than anything for her to knock on my fucking door and come in and kiss me, for once. Just once. But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t. I wanted to catch her as she fell and bring her back, but I couldn’t. And so she fell, and I kept looking out the window as the rains came down. Waiting. Listening for anything, something, nothing-and all I found was myself, alone, masturbating until my fingers bled.
I cried long into the night on that last, romantic evening because I should have known that some people-well, they are born with tragedy in their lives.
I am not one of them. I swear to god I am not one of them.