Track 10: Sexo, pudor y lágrimas (Sex, Shame and Tears)
Me quieres ver grande You want to see me bigger
a pesar de lo débil que soy
y si toco hasta el fondo
me sacas de nuevo.
despite the weakness in me
and if I hit rock bottom
you pull me out
You want to see me bigger
One day all this will stop being fun. Scott knows it but for now it still is, so he stays over a corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips and watches Mike dancing between a guy and a girl, hips rubbing against each other but Mike's eyes are on him.
"Would you rather be blind or deaf?"
Scott takes the offered joint, taking a drag and keeping the smoke until it makes his eyes water and Mike looks kind of like an illusion, just an illusion of dirty blonde hair and green eyes and long legs.
"Dunno, man." He says after the smoke clears of his throat, voice still raspy-rough in that way that always makes him smile and he turns, leaning against Mike. "What 'bout you?"
Mike's arms are around his shoulders and Scott leans back, pressing his back against Mike's chest and closes his eyes ignoring that he's two hundred percent certain of every bit of his body where Mike touches, breathes, exists and he is happy about it because it's all about the pot making him that conscious of just about everything.
"Deaf." Mike says after another smoke and Scott feels the warm breath smelling of pot against his cheek and closes his eyes, smiling as Mike gets the joint near his lips, tasting tobacco and pot over his fingers where his tongue almost touched them. "Definitely deaf."
There's a silence, one of those meaningful silences that seem to follow Mike wherever he goes or at least wherever they both are and Scott takes a big drag of the joint until he almost feels it burning his lips and throws what remains to the floor, moving his foot to step over it, this, whatever.
"'cause getting high wouldn't be as fun if I couldn't see."
Scott smiles again. "Yeah man, I hear ya."
It's not sex, Scott tells himself, panting, keeping his groans from being heard or even existing, if he's just rubbing himself off against his best friend's body. It's not sex because Mike is passed out after another narcoleptic attack and Scott's just hard and it's really like masturbation, and masturbation has never been real sex, and it's not sex even if he's pressing his face against Mike's neck, repeating to himself that it's not real, it's not sex, it's not love.
He's not a fairy, he's not Superman, he's nothing. Scott repeats this to himself constantly, usually when there's a client fucking him or when a client says that he wants to see him fucking, usually fucking Mike and Mike is so warm and moans so prettily that Scott kind of finds himself almost wanting to have him on his back to look at his face to see each gesture that Mike does when they have sex..
He's terrified by the fact that, whenever Mike touches him, he becomes something… and he finds being something addicting. So he repeats to himself, hands over Mike's hips, he's not a fairy, he's not Superman, he's nothing.
One day all this will stop being fun. Scott knows this and Mike is looking at the darkened Idaho sky with a cigarette over his lips, perhaps thinking poetry that will never exist or perhaps wondering if the fall would hurt. But for now, Scott is more than willing to ignore all of this, just for another minute, another hour, another day.