6: Porn Again

I wrote best when I could hole-in. Bad weather, dark winter afternoons, in the middle of the night. That’s when I felt no shame. I could freely think of all kinds of delicious orgies—no interruptions, no distractions.

That’s why I was still awake at one a.m. on a Friday, my fingers stroking the keyboard, an empty glass of decadently expensive Müller Thürgau on my left, my mind drifting and my groin tingling pleasantly. Nice and cozy. I’d written two whole chapters, and it was good stuff, too. I’d admit I was a mediocre teacher, but that guy—my smut-writer alter ego—he was cool, ingenious, curious, and gritty. I loved that guy; I was proud of what he’d accomplished. My sales were up, I was getting amazing reviews within my scene, and the sequel was much anticipated.

The story was uncomplicated—a guy seducing his closeted boss—but the atmosphere and sex scenes were top notch. Graduating tension, high expectations, malicious flirting, and risky office hand jobs, culminating in a long, unapologetic ass play. I got a lot of positive responses because of my direct language. I was not a fan of euphemisms. If you couldn’t say it, you shouldn’t touch it, and definitely not fuck it or lick it. A cock was a cock, maybe a dick; an ass was an ass, possibly a hole. No shafts, no members, thank you very much. Some words had the power to put me off. Like rod. Or bud. That was just eww.

I was re-reading a scene I was particularly happy with. My character convinced his lover to bend over in a shower stall and spread his ass cheeks. First, he just watched, torturously long, and then he rimmed and finger-fucked the man to the edge of sanity, refusing to let him come. It was a secret fantasy of mine—one of many. While I’d dished out a lot of orgasms in the weirdest of ways, I’d rarely trusted someone enough to let them get creative with my body. Sadly, I’d never slept with someone who was that creative without it becoming kind of awkward. Hence my rampant imagination.

After fixing an annoying typo, I sank back into the text. They were on the floor, fucking. I wanted to write this one raw and real. No crazy acrobatic positions, next to no toys. Just the bodies. The bottom was in the other guy’s lap, hanging there limply, taking it fast and hard, short electric jabs into the very center of his body, his dick left waving around in the air.

He was sweaty; I could see the sheen on his chest and collarbones, his pale skin glowing, his face contorted in an expression which could easily be mistaken for pain. I imagined if he opened his eyes, he wouldn’t see anything, anyway. His knuckles were white as he dug his fingers into the broad shoulders of the tall man behind him and came without touching his dick, his come spraying out of him, sudden splashes of liquid, like when a car drives through a puddle.

I could hear him mewl when the top threw him forward, held him by his hips and finished, stuffing his cock as far up the bottom’s ass as possible. The bottom twitched with aftershocks, grateful and pliant like a dog that’s just been fed. The top perched himself on one arm, spread the bottom’s cheeks and watched his ejaculate leak out of the other man’s ass. He lifted a finger and tried scooping it back inside, using his thumb as a plug, making the bottom whine… Sometimes I get hard on my writing. It’s a quality check.

I sat there staring at the document, my erection waning. Something was missing. Had I written something similar already? It was possible. After seven years of being active on the market, I had more than thirty books out. I couldn’t keep track of all the fucking I’d ever imagined. But something was seriously wrong with this one. I couldn’t put a finger on it. Just a hunch. It was terribly frustrating because I had no clue how to fix it if I couldn’t even define it.

I started reading the scene again from the moment in the shower. It was sizzling hot. What was my problem tonight? I stared at the paragraph with the fingering. A word entered my mind, rearranging a great deal inside my head. Clinical. It was too…perfect. The sex was artificial. Damn it! How come it suddenly felt so boring?

I scrolled back twenty pages and read another scene. The feeling didn’t leave. It got stronger. I scrolled to another scene. Shit! By this point, I should’ve been pulling on my hair. Except I didn’t have any hair left.

The realization sank in, heavy and cold and irreversible.

It was trash.

All of it was mindless, plastic trash. It was like watching two robots fuck each other with kitchen utensils, not in any way better than the mainstream porn I’d watched with Mattias the other day. It sucked. I sucked. I couldn’t send this in. It would ruin my reputation.

I could have stopped there. But no. My thoughts got worse. Much worse. If I started reading something else, something I’d published, would it feel just as empty? What if my writing hadn’t changed for better or worse? What if I had changed?

There was a sound. A knock. I was almost sure it was a knock on my door. Or it could’ve been the neighbors’. Now, again. It was my door. I glanced at the clock in the corner of my screen—1:43. Wary, I stood and went to the hallway. In a way, I was thankful. The visitor, whoever it was, had just saved me from a panic attack.

I leaned closer to the door.

“Yeah?” I asked through the wood.

“Alex? It’s me.”

Sweet mother of… Fuck.

I opened the door in a hurry, weirded out to the extreme. Because seriously, I was just interrupted in the middle of a freak-out over my smut. By Christian. I felt as if he’d caught me with my limp dick hanging out. He doesn’t know. I repeated the sentence several times in my head. He doesn’t know. He. Does. Not. Know.

“Hi, Alex, I’m so sorry to bother you. I saw the light in your window. I missed the night bus, and it’s freezing outside. Could I wait here for the next one?”

He doesn’t know. “Of course, of course. I was just… Yeah.”

“You were writing? I should have known.”

“No! It’s fine. I’m finished for tonight. Come in.”

“Can I read it?”

“No! Absolutely not,” I said in my sternest teacher voice.

He laughed.

He looked tired, maybe a little bit tipsy. His blond hair had grown since September; it hung over his ears, soft and silky, all bright colors, light hazelnut-brown and golden and creamy yellow. His eyes, turquoise in the middle of the night, watched me intelligently, always slightly amused as if he knew more about me than I did—just a hint of arrogance to make him seem endearing and not obnoxious. My groin tingled again.

“You were out with friends?” I asked, heading for the kitchen. Snap out of it!

“Yeah, my study group. We thought some team-building would be appropriate. I’ve only had two beers but I’m exhausted.” That said, he flopped onto the couch. Already by the kitchen door, I thought I could at least bring him water.

I came back with two glasses. Christian stretched, his long legs spread comfortably, and massaged his forehead.

“Hey, here you go.”

He took the water and blinked at me blearily.

It would be proper to offer. He looked exhausted. I battled with myself maybe for two seconds before I blurted, “You could crash here, you know. I get up at seven to go running. I’ll wake you up.”

His smile was like sunshine. “Really? That’d be great. Can you wake me up after you’ve been running, though?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his sheepish expression. “Yeah. I’ll get you some blankets and sweats. You want a T-shirt, too?” I gestured at his nice green button-down.

“That’d be awesome, thanks, Alex.”

***

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. That was good. So good. I’m usually verbal, but this was beyond words. He was so amazingly warm and soft, his milky skin like satin under my hands, his hair smelled like rain, tickling my cheeks and nose, I opened my mouth and felt the texture with my tongue, I thrust slowly upward, languidly, and felt him inhale deeply. He was limp in my arms, as he gave himself to me, and I was so hard, my dick was close to bursting, I thrust deeper, somehow not feeling enough friction even though I was so deep inside him he had to be in pain.

He was murmuring my name, telling me he loved it, he loved me. Telling me not to stop, please, never to stop… I licked his shoulder, and he moaned from deep within. His golden hair blinded me, and I folded my arms around his torso to hold him closer, thrust deeper, harder, more. He stood by the door, clad in a white suit, so beautiful; he blinded me. I was naked, holding my dick in my hand, and I was drowning in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop touching myself. I could come, just watching him stand there, fully clothed.

“Alex, please,” he said, his voice cold and measured. His eyes went from my face to my exposed cock, and he sneered. I squeezed and sobbed; he was disgusted with me, but I needed, needed to come. The phone started chirping. Christian cast one last disappointed look at my naked body and turned away.

The phone continued chirping. One hand inside my pajama pants, circling my drooling erection, I reached with the other for the ugly machine and turned the alarm off. Screw the weirdness and to hell with humiliation. I could still feel him in my lap, his back to my chest…he was panting my name. I totally ignored the rest of my sick dream. I needed to come. My eyes screwed shut, I held onto the slipping strings of my dream, the tightest of all virginal assholes clamped tight around my dick… Now, now, now. Please!

I sat up in my bed, threw the covers off and wiped my hand on my soiled pajama bottoms. I’d dreamed about fucking Christian. Then I’d woken up and finished myself off, still thinking of him, while he was asleep next door.

I needed to bleach my brain.

And what the fuck was the white suit supposed to mean?

In the living room, I slipped past his sleeping form, deliberately not looking his way. I went running and thought about my writing and not about the dream. Could be that I had just been in a sour mood yesterday. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. I would leave it for a couple of days and then read it again, sober.

***

I loved cooking for Christian. I think, between him and Dieter and the two new girls who had moved in, they kept the kitchen reasonably clean and usable. But student income and cooking for one were rarely sufficient prerequisites for healthy nutrition.

Tonight, I made an extra effort. Grilled chicken breast, blue-cheese cream sauce, baked potatoes, and green salad with walnuts and passion fruit.

Christian seemed tired, sometimes even sad. It gutted me, every time I noticed, how much he’d changed since we met. How much of his unconditioned enthusiasm had wilted.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

“Not too much work at school?”

“It’s a lot. But I like it. The challenge is good.”

“Okay,” I said with a hint of doubt.

Chris stepped closer to me as I stirred the melting blue cheese, worried if I stopped, it’d clog. He petted my buzz cut. I had to force myself not to lean into his touch like a stray cat.

“I like this. It suits you.”

“It was necessary. The choice was either this or a comb-over.”

Christian laughed throatily. “You’re making a big deal out of it.”

I stilled and turned to him. “Am I?”

“Yes. I thought that, at your advanced age, you’d have gained some perspective. And here you are obsessing over a receding hairline.” His eyes had an evil glint in them, not unlike Mattias’s. It threw me.

“Advanced age?” I faked outrage. “You brat! You’re going running with me tomorrow morning! I’ll show you advanced!”

Christian took two glasses and beer bottles and turned his back to me. Walking toward the living room, he singsonged over his shoulder, “I have a lab tomorrow. You’ll have to show me some other time.”

“Brat,” I repeated.

***

“I’ve read your books,” Christian stated, calm as ever.

It was one of those moments; you probably know what I mean. Have you ever fallen into a lake in early spring? Or the feeling when your seventeen-year-old sister tells you she’s pregnant, or when you get punched in the face for real for the very first time? You never see it coming; the overwhelming, all-consuming force of it.

Heat rushed through my whole body and throbbed in my head. There were two thousand things wrong with the dimension I was currently in, and I needed to switch universes, like right fucking now. I needed a time machine. Hell, I’d jump into a wormhole, no questions asked. A nice dark closet would have sufficed, preferably stocked with unlimited booze.

I could only gape and stare at him; my arms limp on the table while he chewed on his meal thoughtfully, waving his fork in the air almost nonchalantly. My world crumbled while Christian took another bite of his chicken and hummed.

“It’s delicious. Thanks.” He licked the fork and swallowed, then proceeded to point the silverware in my direction. “Honestly, though. The Dark Room series? It’s best in its genre—or so I’ve read in the reviews. I mean, when I look past the explicit content…” He chuckled like it was nothing. “You are a brilliant storyteller, have surprising, original language, and you’re genuine. You could write anything. Why only smut? Doesn’t it get boring?”

It does. And I was blocked like never before. But I wasn’t going to admit to that. I was too busy freaking out. Was I talking to Christian about my books? He’d read The Dark Room stories? All six of them? No, he couldn’t possibly! Or could he? I intended to protest, but I choked. Christian had read it. My precious, innocent boy… My innocent boy is a twenty-one-year-old man who’s read my porn.

He ignored my qualms—either that or he’d never noticed them—and went on to rip my world apart like a piece of French pastry.

“Seriously, though! Have you ever tried writing something else?”

There are approximately two hundred thousand words of “something else” on my hard drive.

“I’m not comfortable talking about this with you,” I finally managed.

“Give me a break.” Christian snorted, and my eyes widened even more. He was…mean? No. Just the hero worship was suddenly subdued. I felt gutted, and he continued kicking me as I lay there on the floor, bleeding out my illusions by the gallon. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? You chose the most marginalized genre so you wouldn’t have to face real criticism. Is that it?”

No, I chose that so I wouldn’t have to criticize myself. “Criticism exists in every genre,” I mumbled. It was true. There were expectations to fulfill, rules to obey. It was an impossible battle: how to make my imaginary lovers fuck like cum-spitting machines and still have them appear real. I’d balanced at the edge of authenticity like a freaking aerialist! I used to think I was brilliant at it. Until this boy came around…

“You’re afraid of failing. And of losing your hair.” He was relentless.

I sat up and took a deep breath. Christian looked me directly in the eyes, and I was floored by his strength and intelligence. He was outgrowing me fast. Soon, he’d leave me behind, maybe think of me now and then, but not more than a college student would think of his first-grade English teacher.

“It isn’t fear, exactly,” I said. “It’s precaution and consideration. I write what I can. I don’t trouble the world by attempting what would be painfully embarrassing both for me and my readers.”

“That is bullshit, Alex. Stop being a coward.”

“How did you find out?” I hedged.

He averted his eyes and fidgeted. Ha! There’s the guilt! “I asked around.”

“You asked around?” I repeated unnecessarily.

Christian lifted his chin defiantly, challenging me. “I wrote to five of your exes on Facebook with the same question.”

“And they told you?” No way. Most of them had no clue.

“No, Mattias told me.”

I choked on my chicken, spluttered and teared up from the pressure in my windpipe. I was going to wring the bastard’s neck. I took a gulp of my drink and blinked away the tears.

“Mattias doesn’t have Facebook.” Seriously, the man was paranoid about his privacy. Hidden phone number, no social media. I’d slept with him several times, had a beer with him every two weeks, and I had no clue which street he lived on.

“I met him in front of Subway a couple of weeks ago. I asked, and he told me.” Christian looked so smug. And adorable. I shook my head at him and smiled through the pain. He grinned back.

I tried to eat more, but my stomach would not cooperate.

“Are you annoyed?” Christian asked after a minute of silence.

That was not the right word to describe the mayhem he’d caused. I felt as if they’d just ejected the metal stick from my head and disconnected me from the Matrix. I exhaled slowly before answering, “Honestly? Yes.”

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He shrugged. “It was hot.” One corner of his lovely mouth lifted in sync with his eyebrow. “I particularly like your pen name.”

I covered my face with my palms, so my exclamations were somewhat muffled. “I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know what you thought, okay? I don’t want to talk about this ever again!”

Still rubbing my face, I heard Christian laugh at me. Loudly and merrily.

***

“How could you?”

“It’s past eleven in the evening and you’re calling me? I could’ve been asleep.”

“You’re never asleep. How could you have told him?”

“Told what? To whom?”

“Don’t play games with me, Mattias. I know you’ve told Christian my pen name, at the very least.”

“Oh, that! I didn’t think it would be a big deal. If I’d known you wanted me to keep it a secret, I would have.”

“You are so full of shit. You knew and told him anyway!”

“You are such a drama queen. And so self-important. It’s not the first porn he’s read or seen, you know. It is the twenty-first century.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Why is it such a big deal? He liked it.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Alex, if you don’t want people to read your stuff, don’t publish it.”

“Shut the fuck up! Why did you tell him?”

“You want me to shut up or answer?”

“I swear I’m going to come over there and strangle you.”

“He wanted to know. He wants to know you. That’s a good thing.”

“No, it’s not. I never wanted Christian to read it.”

“But why? It’s good shit. He’s an adult. Let him enjoy some quality porn. I like your stuff, a lot. I didn’t see any harm in recommending you.”

“I don’t want him to see me like that.”

“Stop being prissy, Alex, and let the guy enjoy himself. You write some prime jerk-off material.”

I spluttered into the phone. “Jerk-off?”

“Seriously?” Mattias burst into laughter, and I had to hold the phone farther away from my stinging ear. It took a few seconds before he caught his breath and continued, still chuckling. “What do you think people do after they’ve read one of your scenes? Pedicure?”

I honestly hadn’t thought about it. And now… Fuck! I knew, of course, what my stories were. I knew people did consider them “inspirational.” I just hadn’t imagined Christian touching himself while reading them. And now it was all I could think about.

“Alex, are you still there?”

Barely. “I have to go.”

“Oookay. If you still think—”

I never heard the end of that sentence. I hung up and went running. At midnight. Whatever.

I came back at one o’clock in the morning, and in my sweaty running clothes, I re-read the shower scene. Then I lay down on my living room floor, feeling the heat of exertion slowly leave my body. The light of the computer screen disappeared after a moment, and it was completely dark. I stared upward into the darkness and thought of Christian reading the same scene. I imagined him seeing through it like I had done a couple of days ago.

It was all fake. There was nothing that would ever matter, nothing worth remembering. It was not good enough. Nothing I’d ever published was good enough. Nothing I’d ever written would mean anything to anyone the moment they’d wiped the come off and thrown the tissue into the trash.

It never used to bother me. It was porn; it shouldn’t pretend to be anything else. I shouldn’t pretend to be anything else.

But now I wanted to be something else. To have the sex mean something. To write something better. Be something more.