What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.
—Tennessee Williams from A Streetcar Named Desire, 1947
Truth is a frippery, an excuse. Declare it once and done, it becomes the safe harbor and a platform upon which fantasy and desire inflict open wounds.
Love is the Truth that disrupts, corrupts, interrupts. Jack White penned it, pinned it—a thousand million shards of jagged edges slicing and dicing away at flesh turgid with denial.
Truth is the intersect of pain and pleasure.
Love is the soul naked to the other, jouissance beyond the pleasure principal…
Truth is exposure…
There were times he still cried, curled into a ball in a corner of the room he now called home, touching himself because nobody else would. Or bribing Jorge for a Friday night blow job that left him disappointed, because every time it happened, it hit home that there might be nothing more than just a quick scratch that never quite reached the itch.
A gloved hand, the leather soft and supple and warm, gripped his wrist hard enough to crunch his bones into meal. Pain radiated clear to his shoulder, the nerves pinched and screeching in terror. He would have squirmed, but all thought drained to circle on that single point of agony. If he cried out, no sound made it to his ears, the band pummeling the dancers on the floor into a tribal frenzy with grunge band sonics.
Tony found himself locked into mortal combat, and losing. The polished surface of the bar reflected his horror, eyes gone wild with fear and loathing that he couldn’t fight back. He wasn’t strong enough, or big enough, or brave enough to take on the asshole asserting a little display of dominance for his buddies.
The violence of the assault had scrambled his brains in more ways than one. If he was honest, it had stirred juices he didn’t know he had, and that scared him more than a big dumb fuck with dominance issues and a hard on for Jack Daniels.
“You ever been raped, boy?”
Turning away, Tony mouthed ‘please’ and tried retreating to his safe house, the one in his mind that blanked out everything hateful and ugly.
The biker’s hands pried him loose from his tentative scrabbling for safety, stroking and plumbing his flesh with determination, and sensation swelled from the inside out, responding and slamming the door against fleeing.
“Well, have you?”
Tony bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight, tighter, until the explosion behind his eyelids lifted him into orbit and he came, hot and sweet, cursing himself to hell and back because he loved it. He hated it.
Later he could not recall cleaning up or wrapping the apron around his waist, hiding most of the wet spots on his jeans and tee shirt. He did remember watching the big man pause at the door and give him a strange look because he had asked, “Have you?”
“Have I what, kid?”