The first thing waiting for me on the free side were the wonders of unbridled sex. And the lack of those wonders had made me pine away completely.
I spent very much time analyzing what put the bridle on my sex with Blake and when we passed the point of no return. The conclusion was that everything started to go wrong half a year after the meeting of anal skiers - when Blake yielded to my persuasions and started to pass high school graduation exams and then SATs. All that hardship made him miserable with stress, and the hell gate burst open to suck all our unbridledness into a black hole.
Once, I woke up because Blake was trembling. Not just trembling, but shaking so badly I decided he was having a seizure. Scared shitless, I grabbed his shoulders and understood: that was not a seizure, but hysterics. Poor fellow burrowed his face on my chest and burst out sobbing. He was blubbering, spluttering and gasping for breath for about two hours until he vomited at last. I was so scared that barely fell into the mop bucket while cleaning the floor. The fit vividly reminded me of Blake coming to his senses in a hospital after he OD'ed - but then I was ready for something like this, unlike that night. In the evening we, as usual, had dinner, caressed each other and fell asleep cuddling. Then, in the middle of the night, such a thing happened.
Then I thought that it was all about the fear of exam failure and tried to persuade my boyfriend that one can apply to a college every year, till the crack of doom. It is not surprising that my quasi-wise speeches were not helping: in a couple of months Blake told me what had really happened. That night he dreamt that instead of an interview the college board told him to take off his clothes and lean on the table. Poor Blakie woke up in a cold sweat: he had a flashback of one of those past moments lost into the maze of his subconscious and rotting there as a compost pile.
About fifteen years ago, two douchebags were abusing him. They drugged him, made him strip and were pressing lit cigarettes to his skin. Supposedly, one of them was Blake's constant patron, owner, sponsor - I do not want even to think about how it is called. But he either gambled away or ran into debt and therefore gave his twink to the other bastard for a weekend - to play with. And that one had such an idea of playing with people. I hope both assholes are already dead and will burn in hell for eternity.
Blake was seventeen or so. I've been recalling that episode for six months, and it makes my hair stand on end. And then, every time I was undressing my boyfriend, I was looking at barely visible pink circles on his thigh - discernible to no one unaware that they were there - and had to try my best not to cry with pity instead of blowing him. Many people are good at combining compassion with desire. Actually, I am one of those perverts. But, apparently, even my craze has its limits.
Should he have only one hysteric, I would probably have recovered from that shock. Had not I survived that porn where my ass was starring with support from a score of junkies?! Although who compares adventures of their own ass with something suffered by a loved one? But then Blake had his dam ruptured. He had cried almost all summer. I would not have minded him crying because of himself. He was wailing over books and films, and the only thing I could do was cuddling him and always keeping a pack of tissues in my pocket.
It was not diminishing my love of Blake. It seems it became even stronger. And we definitely were closer to each other than ever. But that love mutated. From a sexy boyfriend, just one stare of whose could make my knees tremble with desire, Blake was rapidly turning into a scared and wounded kid, whom I wanted not to fuck in the ass, but warm and comfort. It became clearer to me, why he'd run away when I'd been doing my twelve steps. And that intensity of emotions had worn me out badly.
And Blake himself was in constant need of sex.
I have no idea when age-related erectile dysfunction will knock my door, but for as long as I can remember I was sex-crazy. Sucking, leaking, kissing, touching, squeezing, snuggling, caressing, whacking, fucking and being fucked - there are a hundred thousand things one can do with human body to get and receive maximum pleasure. And it was not easy to find a boyfriend able to fuck me out - even me. But I was so lucky, that I managed to achieve even that!
I believe, somewhere deep inside Blake's soul, on the very bottom of it, there lived a confidence that the only thing making him really attractive was sex. Of course, for quite a long period of his life it was 100% true. But then a handsome boy-toy hustler had grown into a mature, independent man. He managed to overcome drug abuse, find a kick-ass job and become godlike in it. He rescued a crowd of addicts, including me, and got to be adored by everybody. He read an insane number of books, passed exams and got admitted to a college.
But once he saw that no steam was belching from my ears at the sight of his dick, fuck knows what used to start.
Blake never complained, never grumbled, never criticized anyone: all these things are my specialty. But when scared, he sort of froze from inside. A moment ago you were hugging a merry and buoyant guy, he was laughing and kissing your ears. And in a couple of minutes he became glassy and sort of unreal. As if replaced by a robot. He was doing seemingly the same things, but there was no him in them. And I not only would suck him for as long as he wanted, I would do anything at all to make him return and become alive again.
God knows, it was perfectly clear to me that all those sobs and hysterics were good for his revival. And yes, Blake needed to recall, acknowledge and bemoan everything. He told me straight up that with me it was the first time he could let himself go and relax fully enough for all that shit, accrued in long years and repressed as far as possible, to start to come out of him.
But I had failed to estimate beforehand whether I was able to cope with it. Mea culpa, I turned out to be unable to do that. I also cannot be called a benchmark of mental health. So, I missed the moment when I got trapped by my own weakness. Because it turned out I needed help for coping with all that. And I could not habitually carry my torments to Emmett because the torments were not mine, and I had no right to share them. Moreover, it would have been too hard for Emmett himself. And also I was afraid that he would think (although never speaking his mind), "For what fuck does Teddy need this ass-ache?!"
This is why I was so happy that Blake's college curriculum included some hours of personal psychotherapy. I was ready to cut capers when I was signing the check. And it seemed to work for him. At least, his hysterics stopped. But I failed to return that time when I was ready to give anything I had for feeling the taste of Blake's semen in my mouth. And then his studies started, Rita appeared, blues concerts completely superseded our opera evenings and the musical studio he was attending in the college replaced our dance classes. And we started to grow apart rapidly.
The day after that horrible night hysteric, I came home from work and gave a sigh of relief: my boyfriend was cheerful and merry again. We decided to watch Une Robe d'Ete by Ozone. With the first sounds of that Bang-Bang song, Blake took off his tee and started to dance in front of the screen. He was moving way prettier that the actor. And also I was happy that my beloved was in good mood, had come round and was having fun. And I told him, "Right! Fuck that film! That cute blond is not worthy to black your boots!" And Blake said, "Yes! I am a king of cute blonds!!!", and unzipped his pants. I blew him in naïve hope that everything was fine now and we would we able to live and fuck as we used to.
When Blake told me the real cause of his sobs, I understood how much bitterness there was in the phrase about a king of cute blonds. That bitterness had eaten me to the bone in a year and a half. And now I did not know how much time I would need to rehabilitate myself. But it was a good thing that I was able to turn to it at last.
Of course, as soon as I thought about that, guilt started to torture me. Then I changed to my best shirt and went to Babylon.
***
Em apparently had talked to our friends already, so nobody asked any questions. I tore my best friend from Drew Boyd and dragged him to the dance floor, and we set it ablaze. Latina classes I had been taking with Blake had sank in: my ass had learned to live its own separate life and was rotating as a double star in the blackness of space. After such a demonstration it was not hard for me to hook two machos at once and take them to the VIP-room. Let the first one lick and the second one suck. I am generous, and my beauty is enough for both of them.
And I do not want to think about Blake anymore.
And I do not want to think about Blake anymore.