-Contains language and sexual themes-
Monotony. Countless lives concluded if four simple syllables, the word as dreary as the lives that live it. It's not displeasing to the ears, but it has little significance - little emotional weight. Just because it's not dreadful doesn't mean it's something easy to endure.
I'm not going to deny that I enjoy my work. It's rewarding and I get to impact other's lives. The workload is quite heavy but the payload is too, when the economy is taken into account. I got to realize my youthful ambitions, and I'm aware of this. It almost makes me feel bad about my boredom, but the knowledge never lessens the drive within me; the craving for more. More excitement, more achievement, something sinful and devious to keep me on the edge of my seat during those innumerable hours of essay marking and syllabus writing. I wanted to live, live more that I already did.
As a child, I was lucky enough to appreciate the joys of fine literature. The wonders of Orwell and Austen, the genius of Hardy and Dickens, the enthralling tales of Shakespeare and Wilde. And now, as an adult, I get to instil that same passion in others. It seemed like the perfect profession in my youth, and now I have to agree it suits me. In several short years of teaching I'd become a senior literature professor – the freshmen in awe of my knowledge and interpretive skill, the veterans enchanted by my passion and aptitude for teaching. It all seems so perfect, so idealistic. Surely an intellectual could find great delight in the sharing of his knowledge? I feel as if I should be satisfied, and the fact I am not concerns me slightly. Am I greedy? Unrealistic? Driven mad by hours of correcting papers and spilling over lesson plans?
I just needed a form of escape, something to take me away from everything. Something to make me feel alive.
I'd begun dating in the spring, eager to find someone to entertain me. Relationships had seemed like such an excellent idea, but I'm not certain whether years of reading classic romances had raised my standards unrealistically high or if there was just a shortage of decent men. It naturally wasn't a success. The others were often pleased with me, appreciative of my looks and figure albeit being slightly intimidated by my intelligence. I'd never felt overly interested in any of them, they'd all seemed so bland, so repetitive. They were a dime a dozen and their lack of intrigue bored me to death, but their affections were never unnoticed.
As a boy that was ridiculed over his appearance, to be told you are handsome is invigorating. As a child mocked for his aesthetics, to be deemed attractive is liberating. As a teenager that struggled to come to terms with his sexuality, to be regarded as sexy and special by the gender you like is exhilarating. The flattery was more enjoyable than I'd like to admit, and it filled me with this confidence I'd never had before. It reaffirmed my self-respect, and helped change my opinion of myself for the better. As someone that was always an 'ugly duckling', the concept that I was desired was oh-so-thrilling.
Eventually I left the dating scene, feeling as if I was resigning myself to a life of solitude. I figure, if love will come my way it'll find its own way there. Trying to force it seemed pretty futile at that point. Sure, there was some one-night-stand material but my search for someone legitimately engaging seemed to be drawing up blanks.
One particularly lonely day, the tribulations of rewriting test papers had gotten too much, I'd decided to take a much needed break. The pent up aggravation had my fingers drumming on the table, bottom lip clenched between idle teeth. I craved release, and I had a few ideas of how to achieve this. Locking the door to my office, I'd gotten out my personal computer, eagerly anticipating a little 'me time'. I'd been so preoccupied by the fuss of preparing for finals that I'd lost touch with my body, neglecting myself in favour of managing my rapidly accumulating workload.
As I'd loaded up one of my favourite websites, an advert for a webcam site had caught my eye. Maybe it was fate, or perhaps I'm just looking onto it too much, but that doesn't change the fact it was what got the ball rolling. I can't help but wonder how differently everything would have turned out if I'd just ignored it, but it'd captured my attention, and before I'd fully known it I'd clicked on the banner.
I was greeted with images of several men, all in some stage of undress. They all seemed quite attractive, but they were hardly something special. I was drawn to one man in particular, a burly brunette with a heavily tattooed shoulder, posed suggestively by the poolside. I clicked on his image; curiosity peaked by the unfamiliar situation.
I don't really know what else I'd expected. It was quite literally a webcam stream of the guy masturbating, reclined in his desk chair with his eyes on the screen. I wasn't sure of the whole thing was for me, to be honest. I understood the appeal, knowing that this was a real man performing for your personal viewing – but it was a lot more simple than I'd expected. There was no elaborate setup, no dazzling show or complexity to the whole thing. It was merely a guy and a camera - who seemed to be enjoying himself quite intensely, might I add. There was a chat on the left hand of the screen, filled with many people talking to each other, sending requests and complementing the guy. I attempted to post something, but a pop up screen had come up prompting me to pay for the pleasure of watching the channel. Really? I'm not exactly stripped for cash but I don't see why I'd pay five bucks a minute when I could easily watch all the porn I can ever dream to process for free online. The others seem to disagree with me, however. The chat would continuously grow longer, the view counter ever increasing. Were that many people honestly paying to watch this? No insult to the guy but he was hardly Hercules… but he must've been quite smart too, to be able to make a profit from such a trivial thing. Surely.
The very next week, I'd found myself looking at a registration form for the site. I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing, but it's not as if I'd never been in questionable Skype calls with guys before, it couldn't be too different, right? It seems like such a dodgy concept, like such an uncivilized thing to do, but that somehow seems to add the appeal. It's the same basic principle, the same energy. The same excitement. A lapse in the dreary blur of the day. Stimulation.
A break from the boredom.
It makes me proud sometimes, in this sick way, to watch them throw their hard-earned money into the garbage disposal. I wonder if I'm a bad person for thinking it, and hell – it's not as if I really need the cash. I guess it's all just a fucked up reassurance, a stroking of my ego. Sometimes its pathetic watching them obsess over me, waning rhapsodic about my ass or my eyes or something equally as inconsequential as I entertain them... Then there's the shy ones, reluctant at first, on edge as they find solace in my attentions. It was all so pre-defined, so repetitive that it had all smudged into a long blur of 'please's and 'thank-you's. The same guys filling the same holes with the same bad habits.
It was still relatively early days when he'd come along, unusually quiet but with this strange light in his russet eyes. The pools of liquid chocolate absorbed my every move, swirling irises darkened with sinful lust giving the illusion of being stained with rich coffee and molasses. His strange air, mysterious and unexpected, intrigued me greatly. There was something about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The way my face heats as he watches me and the fact he has a pretty hot cock doesn't seem to help, either. I guess this is why I look forward to our sessions, perhaps why I told him my name, even when I wore to myself I wouldn't let this get personal.
I knew I would screw up, that I would get to involved. I always do.
I don't know what it was that had caught my eye, what had been so remarkable about it. It was just a stupid banner on a stupid site. Another pointless advert.
I usually knew better than this. I'd ignore the click bait claims and sometimes even chuckle briefly at the preposterous claims of 'grow your cock five inches in just three days!' and offers of free iPhones with the purchase of dodgy Viagra pills. Well, I used to be much more careful with my money too, but that was before; back before him.
I'd always thought that these websites were stupid, but at some point I'd grown an unfortunate fondness for them. Every now and then I'd indulge if I found someone I found visually appealing, spending limited amounts every now and then on cliché twinks and stereotypical flamboyant sluts with inflated egos. It wasn't really something I was proud of, but between infrequent one-night stands it was strangely thrilling. I'd briefly dabbled in the minefield of dating, but I'd given up on all those stupid pricks long ago. I need someone right, someone interesting. I wasn't getting anywhere with the whole thing, so I'd given up altogether. It was too much effort anyway, trying to please people. I don't give a shit about any of them and they knew it. No-one had ever caught my eye. Not like this.
I'd been in the mood for something different, someone different. I'd casually browsed local guys, looking for someone in my area. This was when I first saw him. His looks were distinctive, the vibrant scarlet curls and shimmering forest green eyes made the others look monochrome in comparison. There was something about him, something intriguing; drawing me in. I bet it was those fucking eyes. Curse his fucking gorgeous eyes.
Sure, he was a new member and his photo was unusually modest, but that just seemed to fuel my curiosity. It's not often you come across someone that looks dignified. I booked a private session that evening.
I'm still yet to decide if that was an excellent idea or an awful one.
There was something about him, something rare and intoxicating. The lustful gleam in his emerald eyes, the sinful curve of his hips – verging on feminine. The Ass, oh god, his ass was like nothing I've ever seen. It's an instrument of pure evil. No one should be allowed to have a body like that, something that can drive me so hopelessly insane. That light dusting of perfect freckles across his cheeks and his shoulders, that sweet crimson blush that spread to the tips of his ears and the aroused flush that danced across his chest, sweat slicked and vivid as blood on parchment. Fuck, it all did something unspeakable to me, luring me in like some kind of beastly siren. That faint trail of ginger hairs dipping below his navel, tracing the line down to the parting in his jeans, temptingly drawing my eyes down to the bulge of his Terrence and Phillip boxers. The very same as a pair I own – albeit a few sizes smaller – which had very quickly become my favourite. My fingers twitch desperately as he would undress, begging to caress the creamy skin of his thighs, to cup the flawless orbs of his ass roughly in my palm. The way he parts his lips, panting in anticipation as he curls his hand expertly around his weeping length has me chewing at my own, compelled to explore his alluring mouth with my own, to taste our shared breaths and to nip at the tender flesh of his bottom lip. God, even those little sounds he makes drive me to the edge, his rapture-induced mewls and sighs scalding my flesh with the palpable heat. I've never experienced anything quite like it, never has someone had such an effect on me. I can't help but indulge, my cock throbbing in my hand, leisurely strokes driving me mad as I watch him mirror my movements, pupils blown and eyes fixated on my crotch. Again and again, each session leaving me more dependent on our interactions, addicted to this feeling. The cycle repeats itself as I get deeper and deeper, obsessed with the mysterious, beautiful man. I know it's probably not the best thing to have on your bank statement but I'm beyond caring, impassioned late night sessions and technicolor dreams of fucking him giving way to everyday cravings and daydreams of his striking eyes, his affectionate caress. Shit, I'm drawn to a moth to a flame and it scares me, quite frankly. I try to separate myself from such human vulnerabilities to create this illusion that I'm strong, that I can cope… but this one man had come along and ruined it all.
He destroyed my reason and control, my safety net. He fired me up in ways nothing else did – he made me happy, he made me angry, and fuck, he made me cum harder than I ever believed possible. I don't even know why I do this to myself, honestly. I dig myself deeper and deeper, always coming back for a taste. It sticks to the back of my eyes like iodine dye on a microscope slide, his name in big bold letters. The taste of the syllables linger in the back of my mouth like a tantalizing promise, an unsung melody. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. I moan it again and again until it begins to lose meaning. I come crawling back again, I always do.
It's just not fair. It's all just fucking torture, plain and simple.
Perhaps I really am obsessed.
It's been a few days since he went dark, planning on going to spend the weekend with his mother in Colorado. Just being aware he's in the same state has him constantly on my mind. It's infuriating.
The torrents of hail ring loud through my apartment, beads of ice loudly bashing against my windows as I sit idly by, thoughts drifting to familiar places. Fuck this, I need a drink.
I contemplate going down to Skeeter's bar, but I know full well after last weeks 'incident' I'm probably not going to be welcome back there for a few weeks or so. The local stores will be shut at this hour, and I doubt the solitary beer in the fridge will suffice. This leaves one option, and to be honest I don't really mind. I could do with the drive.
I jog across the car park, eager to get out of the frigid air and into the slightly warmer interior of my hunk-of-shit car. The rapidly falling ice resonates in my ears as I drive, lights cutting through the darkness and wipers frantically clearing my frosted windshield. It's a journey I take often, and I eventually find myself outside the grocery store out of reflex. The place doesn't seem overly busy, and I reach the alcohol isle quickly, the destination becoming second nature. I spend little time deliberating, grabbing a bottle of relatively cheap whiskey and a six pack before heading toward the snacks, more than eager for a sharing pack of Doritos.
Share pack? What a joke.
It was only chance I'd looked up when I did, and once my eyes met that familiar mop of vivid curls the floor fell out from underneath my feet.
What? Why is he here? Did he see me yet? I doubt he remembers me but what if he does? I'm hardly dressed up nicely, with my tie off and my shirt crinkled and partially unbuttoned. I run a hand through my dishevelled hair, hand tightening around the handle of my basket in shock. Fuck…
Fuck . I swear he's even hotter in real life.
He begins to turn and I dart sideways, concealing myself behind a shelf of ready meals. Holy shit, what do I do? There's this freaky feeling in my chest and I can't figure out if I'm going to throw up or jump for joy, but the way my heart hammers against my ribs in anticipation doesn't leave me guessing over what I'd rather do. I'm tempted to go up to him, but I have no idea what to say. I inwardly scold myself for that stupid idea, frustrated I'd even contemplated such a thing. How exactly would I start a conversation? 'Hello, I doubt you remember me but I pay to watch you strip, so do you wanna go get some coffee?'
Stupid stupid stupid. Damn it, Eric. Get a hold of yourself.
He puts a pot of sauce in his basket before turning away, moving to a different section. Without thinking, I check my surroundings before advancing, sneaking up between the shelves like a wannabe FBI agent. I know it's a crazy idea, and if he knew he'd probably call security or something, but I just can't help myself. One quick look at the redhead and reason flies out the window.
I don't know what it is – lighting, a bad webcam, the limits of a two dimensional screen, but in person he takes my breath away. A quick glimpse of those forest-green jewels has me itching to know him, the silhouette of his incredible ass lessened slightly by his jeans. They are relatively tight, but he seems much more modest than I would have envisioned him. The thought that he's a regular guy that buys frozen pizzas and spaghetti sauce seems so alien, so obvious yet so unexpected.
Even Greek Gods appear to have to grocery shop like the rest of us, apparently.
I wonder what he's say, what he'd do. I don't even know what his normal voice sounds like, instead growing accustomed to breathy moans and seductive mutters. Would he sound as nice as his ass looks? Damn, that would be impossible. No-one can be that amazing, right?
I begin to paw at a display conspicuously, pretending to be vaguely interested in carrots to deflect suspicion. My hand shakes a little as I handle the orange produce, overwhelmed by the insane predicament. God, I just want to run up and kiss the shit out of him.
Wait, NO! Not cool. I need to get better control over these thoughts, seriously. It can't be good for my health.
Suspense mode fully engaged, I subtly follow him further, keeping to the shelves in case anyone looked my way. I clutch my basket possessively, relying on it as an alibi if anyone was to question my intentions.
Okay, this is not good enough. If I'm going to make any kind of headway I'm going to have to think of something, and fast. What can I say? As I watch him rifle through packs of dried curry powder a sudden burst of inspiration comes to me. Perhaps I should ask him where the foreign foods section is, that'll have to impress him, surely. Who can resist a guy with cultured tastes? It has to be worth a shot.
He picks up a yellow packet, looking at the calorie information as I begin to make my approach, so absorbed in the joys of stupid bloody soup mix that he doesn't even notice me coming in his direction. As I reach him I stumble slightly, shoe slipping in a damp patch and causing me to lurch. I knock his elbow, sending the packet crashing to the floor and causing my cheeks to light up like fucking Christmas trees.
He scoffs at the movement, rolling his eyes as he reaches down to pick it up and god damn, any thoughts of being remotely coherent are lost in that moment as he bends at the hip, giving me the most spectacular view of his ass. Oh god, all the times he'd driven me crazy with those perfect orbs of flesh and now here they are, right in front of me. I can barely contain the urge to grab them, to savour the feeling of the flesh in my palms.
"Enjoying the show?" He snaps accusingly, throwing me from my trance as he stands up promptly, turning to face me.
Unknowingly, I respond with the first thing that comes to mind.
"I always do."