Notice: The following account depicts homosexual acts between consenting persons and is intended for mature readers only. Exercise your own judgment, in consultation with the appropriate laws and moral standards of your community, in deciding whether or not to read this work. While this story depicts significant events in the lives of certain individuals, readers are cautioned not to assume that their experiences are in any way representative of those of most homosexuals. Any connection between persons named herein and real persons, living or dead, is vigorously denied. Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com. This story may not be copied or distributed without the express written consent of the author. Copyright 2001 All Rights Reserved.
Chapter Seven. Big Dog World
Begging for scraps, picking a bone.
Over the course of our brief hour together, Paul “showed me ‘thank you.’” It was the most erotic experience I’d known, as intense in its own way as the experience I had given him. Sexually, it was pretty plain vanilla, as Paul only kissed me, held me, and then jacked me off, but since no one had ever done anything to me before, it seemed like the stars were falling. He was an expert at making me last, as every time I got close to coming, he’d take his hands off my dick and rub my chest, shoulders, or thighs to cool me down. When I did finally shoot, I was kneeling on my ankles with Paul right behind me, his thighs wrapped around my hips. I leaned back into him, my head resting on his shoulder, as he reached around me to rub my chest and stomach with one hand and jack my shaft with the other. His body against me was solid and firm, radiating with heat. A reassuring anchor as I melted into his touch. At the final moment, tears rolling down my cheeks, Paul turned to french me and held his left hand over the head of my dick. As I ground my hips forward, pushed myself through the encircled fingers of his right fist, I shot into his palm. “Mmmph... Oh, Pa-ah!... Oh, yes... yeh... yeh... Oh! Paaa-ul!”
When it was over, Paul was very cheerful and didn’t seem to mind holding a big wad of my cum. He went into the bathroom to wash it off, and when he came back, I was still in a post-orgasmic glow, my head swimming in satisfaction. But there wasn’t to be any kiss ‘n’ cuddle.
“Come on, get up!” Paul said. “My parents are going to be home soon, and you should go before your mom misses you.”
“Yeah, all right. I know. I just don’t want to move...” I was still fighting the unpleasant return to the real world. Then a thought hit me. “Where’s Matt?” I asked.
“He’s out somewhere with Mark. And I don’t know when he’s coming back, so you better get your clothes on!” Paul was being stern with me, but in a playful way. I think that he, too, wanted me to stay, but there wasn’t any time. I got my clothes on quickly, and Paul walked me to the front door. I was about to open it, but there was something else I had to do. Turning to Paul, I put my arms around him and hugged him. He hugged back.
“Thank you, Paul. I...” The words wouldn’t come but the tears did, and I buried my face in his neck, murmuring something about how sorry I was for getting emotional. Paul knew I could cry at the slightest provocation, but he never really had to put up with it before. I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but he never loosened his hold on me. His body was so warm and smelled so good, so like a man. I could only think about how much I loved him, how much I wanted to hold onto him forever.
I calmed down after a few minutes and started to laugh, a little embarrassed. I let go of Paul so I could wipe my eyes, but he kept one arm around me. “I’m sorry I’m crying, it’s just that I can’t help it.”
“It’s all right. That was your first time for something like that, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was.”
“Then I’m glad I could share it with you.”
“Oh, Paul, I wouldn’t want it with anyone else but you. You’re the best thing in my life. You’re everything to me.” Paul just smiled at me, and again, I had to kiss him one more time before I left.
That night, alone in my room, I had a lot to think about. After being with Paul, I was both overjoyed and profoundly confused. I was overjoyed, of course, because of my deep love for Paul and because our relationship was quickly becoming more emotionally and psychologically intimate. By showing me thank you, Paul not only expressed his gratitude, but also he expressed his affection. That, to me, spoke volumes, was more significant than the fact that, finally, I’d lost something of my persistent virginity.
But I was profoundly confused because my relationship with Paul wasn’t really a “relationship” in any traditional sense of the word. I didn’t even know what a relationship was supposed to be, I guess, given that I had never been in one before, but that aside, what could I point to, beyond the sex, that clearly defined what we meant to each other? Was I Paul’s boyfriend? Was he mine? Was this a passing thing or would it last? Could I rely on him in times of need? Would he always be there at the end of the day, or would he move on when something better came along? Even further, I wasn’t sure what kind of friends we even were. We got along all right, spent a decent amount of time together, and talked about our lives at school, but what time we did have was mostly devoted to one thing. Beyond that, we never really did anything that friends normally do with each other. I mean, how I would have loved it had Paul fed me a big mouth load of his cum and then taken me out bowling or something. Matt got in the way of that sort of thing, of course, but on the other hand, it wasn’t like Paul acted as though he even wanted to do things with me other than have sex. Paul was a very popular guy in school, and he had at least a half dozen other close male friends. Though I didn’t know any of them beyond name and sight recognition, I knew that one or two of them might be ranked “best” friends. Where was I in this exclusive list, or was I even on it?
And what about sexual orientation? Again, I was at a loss for the right term. The peculiar gay/straight differential equation came into play. My orientation was clear, but Paul’s was not. With his girlfriend of the moment, he was obviously heterosexual. But what was he with me? That afternoon, we’d added kissing to our sexual repertoire, which seemed to indicate a degree of homosexual desire, but beyond that he’d only jacked me off, something he obviously wanted to do and had enjoyed but something that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t straight. Paul’s outward actions remained ambiguous to me; what I didn’t know, what I needed to know, were his internal thoughts and feelings.
The only things I was sure about were two. One: I was thinking about all of this way too much, but given my sexual isolation, my persistent shame with regard to Matt, my fear of being exposed, my continued reliance on alcohol to ease my chaotic emotions—how can you blame me? Being with Paul was the one thing in my life that made me feel whole, that made me feel accepted, yet it was the one thing in my life that seemed most tenuous, especially as graduation day loomed nearer and nearer. Two: Paul and I needed to have a long, frank discussion, not just about us but also about life in general. Leave us alone in a single room, and I surrendered to Paul completely, which was easy to do because the rest of life’s demands and pressures disappeared, if only for a brief moment. Set us down in the middle of a fucked up world, full of expectation, worry, and self-doubt, and my trust very nearly disappeared.
I realized why my baseball fantasies of the last few summers, when I dreamed up in the announcer’s box of sucking off whatever jock happened to be at home plate, always ended with him telling me that he loved me. While the fantasy of giving him a blowjob was no more than a quick trick, the deeper undercurrent of my loneliness and desire projected something more important to me: a lasting union. Hearing those words meant I could trust my imagined lover, trust him to be loyal to our sexual relationship and also faithful to our bond. But this was only the idyllic construction of an adolescent imagination. Would anyone actually have enough respect for a cocksucker to love him, let alone be his best friend? Would real life prove to be anything even remotely as comforting as fantasy? It was always pretty to think so.
In actuality, Paul was loyal to me sexually in that he did everything he could, more than what I expected, really, to make sure I was happy and satisfied. Plus, except for that afternoon when he jacked me off, he never once deliberately withheld himself from me. As my desire and satisfaction were derived from his, though, it’s not like being loyal was all that difficult for Paul. On the other hand, as far as I knew, Paul was not monogamous. I tried not to let this bother me, I guess because I had never asked him, and Paul had never offered, to have sex only with me. How far his sexual relations with girls went I didn’t know (something else I needed to ask him about, as much as I didn’t want to), and even though I had heard and seen enough to let myself believe that I gave him the best sex, the fact that Paul failed to withhold himself from others, that is, failed to reserve himself only for me, started to bother me more and more. Part of this was simple jealousy, and in the back of my mind I knew I really had no proprietary claim on Paul’s body. Seen one way, the simple fact of the matter was that I sucked Paul’s cock because I wanted to—doing so was always mine to refuse.
But more than that, I couldn’t help but feel hurt. This I felt I had a right to. The truth was that ours was no mutual coming together of equals. Paul was the dominant, and I was the submissive. Paul had taken possession of me, and I sucked his cock because he wanted me to. My own will really had nothing to do with it in the end. Paul owned me, much as he might own a pet dog. Take care of me, give me plenty of food and exercise, and I would serve him well. I would be a good boy. But in return, he owed me his consideration, his generosity, his magnanimity, his bounty, his reward. He owed me, most importantly, his cum. And any drop given to someone else was, so it seemed to me, stolen from what was mine. I was unwilling to bite the hand that fed me, of course, but it pained me to know someone else was getting scraps from the master’s table. In short, Paul was not faithful to our bond. It wasn’t right that he should ever deprive me of the opportunity to serve him. I had earned it.
I can imagine that none of this makes sense to you, that you think I’m a complete idiot, a freak even, and that you wouldn’t give me the time of day. On the other hand, perhaps this makes perfect sense to you. If such is the case, you already understand something of the psychology of a true cocksucker. Of course, it’s about your man’s pleasure—as well as your own, because serving him that way pleases you more than anything else. But it’s not about giving blowjobs. Anyone can do that, and not just any dick will do. Rather, it’s about sucking a particular cock, about serving your own individual master, about nourishing yourself with his desire. It’s about filling the absence that lurks within you with him. It’s about being allowed to feed on his virility, being allowed to draw your own vitality from the source of life in him. And it’s about finding a unity of purpose. Penis and mouth fit together like pump and handle: the first doesn’t flow without the operation of the other. Exercise complete and utter devotion as a cocksucker, and it’s your right to tap the wellspring of his manhood. At least it ought to be.
I tried earlier to convince myself that Paul was just a regular guy, but that simply wasn’t true. Paul would never be just a regular guy to me. Without a doubt he was—physically, emotionally, spiritually—the essence of my being. Recalling my baseball fantasy, I realized that I had said “I love you” to Paul once already and that he had yet to say it to me. If he even would, I didn’t know. But how do you tell a guy you’re sucking off that you want to hear him say “I love you”? How do you tell him what you expect those words to mean? And how do you tell him that while he may not specifically owe you his penis, he certainly owes you his semen? My confusion led me to realize, of course, that I’d forgotten to ask Paul what I’d planned to. I guess I was too caught up in the moment to remember to do so. But now I wasn’t sure if I even could. Paul had promised me anything I asked, but then I had done the same with him. Did one negate the other? And even though they were made a bit irrationally, I had taken our separate promises seriously. But had Paul? At first I thought so. Now I wasn’t so sure.
You might think I was all set to have that long, sit-down talk with Paul. But over the next several weeks, life continued as it had over the last nine months. I saw Paul a lot and had plenty of opportunities to talk with him. I sucked Paul regularly, and gently finger-fucked him, something he always enjoyed, on a few more occasions when we had the time. He never let me rim him again, but he did jack me off two or three more times. Except for that first time, we didn’t really kiss all that much when we were together, which is to say that although we now kissed each other, we didn’t make out. At the very least Paul usually let me kiss him goodbye whenever we parted. But why didn’t I talk to him about my concerns? For once, it was not that I was unable to find the right words in his presence. This time, I couldn’t bring myself to raise the subject because I was afraid of what might happen.
The time of my growing unrest—though perhaps “obsession” is a more accurate word—was in April and May. During all the time previous, the rest of my life had persistently ground on. My friendship with Matt waned and waxed, and he increasingly wanted to spend more time with me as I learned to hide my feelings of guilt and shame from him. My weekday alcoholism continued unabated yet skillfully hidden. I applied for college, out-of-state of course, and took SAT and AP exams. I tried to put more effort into studying for end-of-semester tests, in an effort to boost my GPA as much as possible. I dropped my Latin tutorials at the rectory, which were always extracurricular anyway, in order to have time for a part-time job I got in order to save up some money for living expenses at college. And I tried to spend at least a few hours of quality time every week with my mom, since I wasn’t likely to see her that much in the near future. I was looking forward to graduation, counting the days until I could finally leave high school, leave the miserable town of my childhood, and thinking with a mix of anticipation and anxiety about what life in the coming school year would be like.
At the same time, though, I feared the coming of my final summer at home. I had no idea what would happen to Paul and me, but I had no intention of quitting him cold turkey. I wanted us to go on, how I didn’t know, but I was so in love with him, so dependent on his raw sexuality, that he seemed more a part of me than any blood relation. Life without Paul would be simply not to exist. Thus I feared doing anything that would jeopardize our relationship, and so I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about my worries. My logic here was stupid, but because Paul had never told me what he thought and felt about “us,” had never indicated what he thought the future would bring, had never told me that he loved me, I didn’t know how he would react if I started placing emotional demands on him. While talking to him might make things better, it might just as likely make them worse. I was in a quandary as to what to do, so, for better or for worse, and as foolish as it sounds, the safest course of action seemed to be doing nothing.
The difference between a good boy and a dog, though, is that if you come home smelling like another dog, Fido isn’t really going to care. One afternoon in late April, again while I was trying to work on some math homework, Paul snuck up to my room so I could suck him off. It had been several days since we were last together. School had just gotten out for the day and since spring baseball practice had started a few days earlier, Paul wasn’t spending his time right after school working out at the gym. He had about an hour before going down to the ballpark, just enough time to meet me after school and get some relief. Despite my growing anxiety and dissatisfaction, Paul could push the right buttons in me with his eyes closed. I quickly found myself kneeling between his legs as he sat on the edge of my bed, running my fingers over the hair on his legs, tonguing his heaving balls, and straining to open my jaw and close my lips around the base of his dick. I had assumed this posture hundreds of times, never once enjoying it less. The feeling of his hard cock in my mouth was a source of joy, reminding me, in the largest sense, who I was, what I was doing, why I was doing it in the first place.
Paul wanted to get off quickly. He put his hands around my head, guiding me up and down on his rigid cock and setting the pace of his thrusts. He drew me almost completely off on each stroke, only to slam me back down and force his flaring cockhead past my tonsils and into my throat, my nose buried in his musky pubic bush. Off to the side, I could see us reflected in my bedroom mirror. Paul had his eyes closed, not even watching me as my mouth plummeted up and down on his penis. I tried to glance to the side to get a better look at his shaft slipping past my lips, but his large hands and strong arms were like vice grips holding me firmly in place. Paul seemed in another world, though, and when the quickness and depth of his thrusts made me start to choke, he was oblivious to my struggling, like he was just using my head to jack off while dreaming of somewhere else. The angle of my mouth on Paul’s dick was awkward enough, and he rammed himself so deeply into the back of my throat, that I had difficulty breathing and felt a sharp pain with each penetration, but still Paul never noticed. After a few minutes of this treatment, his balls rose up and his panting quickened, so I knew he was close. I tried to suck my cheeks in and clamp tighter with my lips and tongue because, like a good boy should, I wanted to make this blowjob as pleasurable as possible for my master. Paul let out a forceful “uhng!” and within seconds, he blew a gigantic load, as though he hadn’t cum in weeks. It was slick and salty and more than I could swallow, but he continued to thrust, forcing much of it down my throat. Still he came, and when I choked on the hot liquid pouring out into my mouth, it had nowhere to go but up my nose.
As Paul finished, he slowly returned from whatever dream world he’d been in. “Oh, yes... that was so good!” My heart warmed at hearing his words. I was a good boy. A very good boy. Tell me I’m a good boy. Please, Paul. Tell me I’m a good boy. Please, Master. Please. Paul held himself in my mouth until he started to soften a bit, and when he slipped out from between my lips, cum and spit spilled down my chin. I sneezed and more cum ran out of my nose and down the side of my upper lip. Its bleachy smell never seemed stronger or more intoxicating. Looking up at him, I grinned widely. Good boy. Very good boy. When Paul finally looked at me, he started to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that you had this look on your face... like...”
“Like what?” I asked, somewhat upset.
“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”
“Just say it!”
For some reason, though, Paul didn’t want to. “Look, I’m sorry. I guess I was just reminded of our first night together, you know. Here in your room. Remember?” Paul reached out to tousle my hair. “Let me help clean you up.” Paul wiped the spit and cum from my face, and fed it to me by letting me suck it from his fingers. Then I licked his cock and balls clean, taking care to suck on his flaccid head to get the final drops from his urethra. I even licked the sweat from his inner thighs and from the skin behind his scrotum. He hadn’t had a shower since early that morning and was simply delicious. But Paul didn’t say anything, and I felt a little hurt by it.
Paul wasn’t going to tell me what had made him laugh, but deep down, I knew. The look on my face told him how happy I was. Happy to be kneeling between his legs. Happy to be sucking his dick, happy to swallow his cum, happy to have it dribbling down my face. Happy to be his personal cocksucker, his own personal faggot. Happy to be his pet. Happy to be his dog.
Only a few moments ago, I’d felt so high. But now, my emotions swung the other way. I felt lower than I ever had before. I wanted to be the object of Paul’s desire, not his patronizing. When he shoved his dick into my throat, when he fucked my mouth raw, I felt complete. It no longer even mattered to me whether or not I had an orgasm. I was hungry with desire, and his dick made me full. But now, I felt humiliated, like I didn’t have what it took to be a whole person, let alone a real man. Paul had never made me feel like a faggot before, but now I was as queer as they came. Useless. A waste of flesh.
As you might expect, I began to cry. The tears rolled down both cheeks, even down my neck and into my shirt. This was what my need to hear Paul tell me he loved me had come to. I was an emotional wreck, up one moment, down the next. I couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore. I had to know how Paul felt. I had to know why he continued to see me, why he wanted sex with me, why he would sometimes jack me off, why he would sometimes kiss me, why he would do nothing more. I had to know why he looked elsewhere for the same things, why he wanted sex with some girl, too. What could she provide that I could not? What was she that I could not be? What was it Paul could share with her that he felt he couldn’t share with me?
Paul pulled up his pants and climbed up on my bed, positioning himself up against the pillows and headboard. Then he reached for me and pulled me up with him so I was sitting between his thighs, my own legs overlapping one and my feet hanging over the edge of the bed. He wrapped his arms and legs around me and held me as I cried into his chest, all the while rubbing my back and kissing my head. How it was that Paul could be at once so tough, so masculine, so macho and at the same time so giving and so tender, I didn’t know. At the time, though, I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was that I was in the warm, sweet-smelling embrace of the man I loved. After a few minutes I started to calm down and apologize, again, for being such a wuss about things. I was embarrassed about crying in front of Paul, about failing to hide my weakness, about being so obviously unequal to him. But Paul, to my surprise, wouldn’t hear of it. “You can’t help being who you are,” he said, and he couldn’t have been more right. I am what I am, regardless of what anyone else, myself included, might prefer. Somehow, hearing that from Paul made everything better, and when he started to kiss me, my world seemed all right again. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him on top of me.
We kissed for several minutes, and for most of that time, I held my eyes open, watching for some sign of Paul’s feelings. But he kept his eyes closed, opening them only briefly whenever he needed to take a breath. It was the first time we made out this intensely, and the passion running through Paul’s body made me forget the outside world even existed. As he rolled on top of me, grinding his hips into mine, I could feel the intensity of his erection through both our clothes. He started to sweat again, and I inhaled his scent deeply. So musky and sweet. The vigor of his renewed excitement surprised me, but pleased me as well. Eventually, I reached down to open the front of his pants and wrap my hand around his shaft, so that as Paul thrusted forward, I could push down and let him forcefully slip through my grasp. Between groans, Paul told me how good it felt and how he didn’t want me to stop, but pretty soon I had a better idea. Fighting against the imperative of our lust, I pushed Paul off of me and invited him to strip. As he did so, I took off my own clothes and got a bottle of mineral oil, the only thing on hand, from the bathroom. When I came back, Paul was sitting on my bed, sweat running down his forehead and precum running down his raging shaft. Again, I licked him clean, slowly and deliberately, savoring the taste of him. Then I poured some oil into my hand and used it to jack Paul up and down, getting him well lubricated. I got back on the bed and pulled him on top of me in the same position we’d been in before. Only this time, I guided his rigid cock between my thighs and under my ball sack, asking him with my body what I’d been unable to ask with words. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted him to penetrate me so that he might finally know how much he needed me, how much I needed him. Again, as I watched him closely, Paul closed his eyes and descended back into the quicksand of his own sexual craving.
For the next several minutes, I pretended I could be whatever, whoever Paul most desired. I pretended that whoever Paul imagined—as he thrust his dick between my thighs, as he lay over me in a smothering mass of flesh, sweat, and hot breath, as he fucked me with unflagging energy and vigor, as his solid cockhead began to work its way into the fissure of my buttocks—he imagined me. I pretended that if Paul could be with anyone, as certainly he could, he would choose to be with me.
And yet one phrase kept repeating over and over in my mind. “You can’t help being who you are.” You can’t help being who you are. But that’s just it. Who are you? Are you good? Are you beautiful? Are you desirable? Does he love you? It occurred to me—slowly, painfully, and totally against my will—that I was the same lonely fag I had always been, that nothing, really, had changed that fact. Sure, Paul was here, getting himself off on me at this very moment, but pretend as I might, he probably wasn’t thinking about fucking me. And although he knew I was gay, and accepted that, the likely truth seemed that he himself was merely a boy with an unusually vigorous sexual appetite—that he didn’t share my inclinations, that deep down, this wasn’t really a long-term thing for him, but just a lucky find. If I wasn’t here to satisfy his nearly constant desire, he’d either be with someone else or he’d do what countless trillions of teenage boys had done before him. He’d just jack off.
I didn’t really know the best way to get Paul inside of me, but my invitation was clear. He didn’t take it, and as he came, he grunted, shaking me out of my distant meditation. In the course of fucking me, his dick had slipped into the crack of my ass, brushing firmly across my anal lips but never penetrating. Hot ropes of semen, not as copious as those I’d just swallowed, squirted into my buttocks, creating, as he pounded out the last spasms of his release, a frothier and even slimier mess than had the oil lubricating us. When he was done, breathing heavily and dripping with sweat, I wrapped my arms and legs around him and held him on top of me, allowing him to rest and regain his composure. As he did so, my predicament was so sharply focused in my mind. As disappointed as I might be over the emotional shallows of our relationship, I couldn’t help but feel a satisfying sense of accomplishment for once more doing a good job, for giving Paul a pleasurable orgasm and being a good boy. As much as he might use me, as much as I might be only a glorified way for him to masturbate, I loved Paul. And if it was true that he visited me only to fulfill his own gratification, I wanted to serve him. I’d promised him that. I’d given him everything within me that there was to give. No matter what Paul did, I would serve him, any time he wanted and to the ends of the earth.
After a few minutes of recovery, Paul suddenly looked up. “Oh, fuck! I’m late for practice!” Jumping up, he looked around the room in a panic. “What time is it?” he asked, nearly yelling. I checked the clock by my bed.
“It’s a quarter after. What time were you supposed to be there?”
“Fifteen minutes ago! Fuck!” Paul’s agitation was extreme.
“Can’t you just tell the coach you’re running late?” I asked, not really knowing what else to say. “Maybe you can tell him you had a flat tire or ran out of gas or something.” Paul glared at me like I was the stupidest person he’d ever seen.
“Just shut up and get me a towel.”
I was stunned by Paul’s harsh words, but the irritation in his voice made me move quickly. I had some towels in my closet and got one for Paul, which he then used to wipe the sweat from his body and the oil and cum from his crotch. Dropping it on the floor, he quickly gathered up his clothes and started to get dressed. As he pulled on his socks and underwear, I felt terribly guilty about making him angry, so I thought it best not to say anything. Standing there, naked, watching him get dressed, I felt his cum, which was soaking the crack of my ass, start to run in a thin stream down the inside of my thigh. As he pulled on his pants, I grabbed his shirt and held it, ready to give it to him when he was ready. Without any conscious thought whatsoever, acting purely out of instinct, I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. Even in my naked, emotionally sensitive state, I guess I was eager to breathe in his scent. And it was as heady and rich as always, so masculine and overpowering.
But something was different. I smelled a vague odor of what seemed like lavender, but sweeter or spicier—I couldn’t tell. Before this new input could register in my brain, however, Paul reached for his shirt. Handing it to him, I received a curt “thanks.”
Paul finished dressing and was ready to leave. Sensing my distress, he reached out and put his hand on my head, saying, “Sorry, I’m just pissed. I’ll call you later.” Then he kissed me on the cheek and was gone.
Have you ever had one of those times where your mind is racing but you can’t put together a sensible thought to save your life? That’s what was happening to me. Utterly unaware of my surroundings, I suddenly found myself crouching on the floor of the shower and sobbing uncontrollably, the hot water streaming over me. Deep down, I knew exactly what I smelled: a woman’s perfume. Entitled to it or not, I felt a profound and gut-retching sense of betrayal. All my willingness, effort, and loyalty. All my striving to be a good boy. Now, it seemed like such a waste. I wasn’t a good fuck: I was a good fuck toy.
I felt like I had completely misjudged what Paul and I meant to each other, and now I wasn’t sure there was such a thing called “love.” I wanted so desperately to believe, but I couldn’t. Not after what had just happened. Tears and slobber mingled with the water beating down on my head. And try to disregard them as I might, I kept hearing myself ask the same questions over and over: Who are you? What are you doing? Why can’t you stop being what you are?
Look for “Chapter Eight. What Comes
to a Head.”
Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com.