Writer's Block Delight
Take one blank page, add two glasses of wine, a splash of mild insomnia, a big helping of iTunes on shuffle, sprinkle with slash, smut and cuss words, to taste, and post on before you regret it...!
WARNING: SLASH & HORRIBLE LANGUAGE
Randy and whoever you want it to be. I couldn't decide. Written late last night and early this morning - apologies for any mistakes, utter cheese and horrible metaphors and cliches. Writer's block is finally defeated (I'll be back with Garden of Eden soon, promise...!)
I lean back against the booth, the rotten leather digging into my neck. I can feel the foam and the solid wood underneath. I stare blankly at a damp patch that's slowly forming above the clock that rests at ten to two, and has done for the past hour. The blackness of the damp, the mould, is slowly creeping out from behind the rusty metal, fanning out, forming a halo of gloom around the dead clock.
I'm not sure how long I've been here. It was dark when I arrived and it's still dark now. All I know is that I had to stop because I ran out of gas. I was running on fumes for the last five miles. The dim light of the diner came out of nowhere – the only light along the dusty road that I'd been bombing down for god know's how long. Anywhere is better than back there. Even if I have to slum tonight on the backseat, or worse, the plastic waitress' couch.
She made eyes at me the minute I walked through the door. And like usual, I felt myself go red, giving the completely wrong idea. She pandered to my every need for the first ten minutes until, bored, unsatisfied but not embarrassed (unlike me), she chose her next victim. The potential offer of the couch, however, still stands.
She comes into view briefly, her blonde and black streaked hair grazing the bottom of my eye line as I stare out the damp. And back again, this time closer, until:
"More coffee, sweetie?"
"We close soon."
Silence. I pull my gaze away and stare at her. She grins, her too-white, too-perfect teeth glinting at me, a complete contrast to the dark bronze skin. I can see the mark on her neck where the make up ends and the pale skin is revealed. There's an ugly streak down one side of her face where the make up's either run with sweat or she's wiped it off by mistake.
"What you doing all the way out here anyway?"
I shrug, realising that we are the only people left in here.
"Awfully long way from anywhere."
"I guess." Not far away enough.
She cocks her head to one side. "I got summat stronger under the counter. You look like you need it."
"Coffee's fine," I hear myself hiss.
She shrugs this time and wanders away, picking at a hole in her tights, that grows with every tut she utters in frustration.
I jump. My phone is buzzing across the table. I frown, hit silence and then after a moment's pause, turn it off.
They can fuck off.
I curl my hand around the coffee cup and raise it to my lips. Luke warm coffee and a cold mug. Not quite the perfection I was after. Chewing my lip, I put the cup down and push it away slowly. I catch the real time on my watch – almost one. Almost time... for what? Bunking down in the backseat? Searching for a flashlight in the trunk and stumbling along the road to siphon some gas from somewhere? And then what? Go back? Go back there?
Tears prick. I cough. They sink back down, defeated. What do they say? Sticks and stones? Bullshit. Some words cut deep. Worse than ever. Worse than anything – worse than a bottle of whisky, some pills, a blade. You can't take words back. Ever. No matter how many times you apologise, they always linger, somewhere deep in the back of the mind, creeping forward every moment of every day, no matter how many times you force them back into hiding. Drink, pills, a blade – there are ways back. Words are different.
Different – that's one word. Strange – that's another. There are worse. Ones that keep screaming at me from every angle. Sick; twisted; wrong; bad; fucked up; not right; messed up.
I thump the leather seat. The waitress jumps and shoots me a deadly look. I get up and head for restroom.
I piss and stare at the wall, that tells me that Charlie promises to show me a good time if I just call – don't be shy! I wonder if Charlie is a guy or a girl. Not that I'm tempted in the slightest. I have someone who makes me promises all the time – and then leaves me when they promised they'd always be there, no matter what, nothing can break us, no-one can tell us otherwise. Was I the stupid one, the naïve one? Promises get broken – I bet Charlie broke a few. No good times for someone. Definitely no more good times for me.
I zip up. Car, walk or couch?
I walk slowly back into the diner – the lights are dimmed, plastic waitress is drumming her fingers on the counter, pissed off, the coffee machine whirring behind her. She stares at me and rolls her eyes.
In the corner, in my booth to be exact, is someone with their back to me, hood up, hunched over.
My sneakers squeak on the floor. They turn.
I can't move.
He pushes his hood back. I swallow as I see the tanned skin, the shorn hair, the pale blue eyes.
"I've been driving for three fucking hours. Your phone was off." He picks it up off the table and waves it at me. "Why?"
I finally manage to move. I take the remaining few steps and slip back into the dent in the leather I made earlier. "You left me."
"You said you'd be there. And you weren't. You said it would be fine. And it wasn't." My voice cracks on the last bit.
His hand brushes against mine. I snatch it away, my skin burning. His eyes widen. "What happened?"
"You already know."
He shakes his head. "I wanted to be there."
"Why weren't you?"
"You want to hear my poor excuse?"
"The truth or the lie?"
"The lie is that... that there is no lie. I was scared."
I scoff. "Scared? What about me?"
"I told you it was a poor excuse."
I frown in reply. He pleads with me silently, his eyes begging. I want to cry. I want him to see how fucking hurt I am. But somewhere in those eyes of his, I know he already knows. If I show him, it'll be like this forever – I'll be the wimp's wimp and he'll be the man's man. Unequal for the rest of our time.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. I literally feel my ears prick up. Sorry?
"It must have been hell. I know. I know you probably wish you never told them. I wish I had never pushed you to do it. I wish I had been there when you did. But... But they know now right? We don't have to hide it."
"You didn't see their faces."
He reaches for my hand again. I flinch, but let him. "It'll be okay. I promise."
"Promise?" I look away.
"Okay, so I broke a big promise. But I swear to you that I won't ever do that again."
"Break a promise or leave me to hang?"
He chuckles. My lips twitch despite of myself. "Of course."
"Are you two gonna have more coffee or did I switch the machine on for nothing?" Plastic waitress is towering over us.
Randy flashes her a smile. She practically melts in front of us. "Sorry... Here," he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few notes. "Sorry for the trouble. I'll get him out of here, I'm sure he owes you for a fair few cups. Take this."
She smiles back, stuffing the bills into her pocket. "No problem," she drawls, her tongue visibily curling around the words.
"C'mon," Randy murmurs as she makes her way to the kitchen.
I follow him out of the diner, his hand wrapped around mine.
His car sits on next to mine.
"What happened?" he points to it.
"Out of gas." I frown. "How did you know where I was?"
"I didn't." In the faint glow from the lights in the window, I swear I see him blush. "I just drove where I would have gone. I didn't think you'd leave the state though."
"Why did you stop here?"
"Luck. Fate, whatever you want to call it."
"You needed coffee."
"That too," he grins. Every time he does, a pound of weight slowly eases off my shoulders. I feel a little more free. I feel like myself. I forget the words. "Get in."
The truck smells of him, enveloping me instantly. I accidentally sit on his hoodie, casually thrown onto the passenger seat and forgotten. I tug it out from under me as he starts the engine. Dropping it on my lap, I reach for the seatbelt and then, unable to just sling it over my shoulder into the back, curl my hands around the soft material and let the scent seep into me.
"Right or left?"
He doesn't bother indicating, just rolls the wheel and hits the gas. I watch the diner fade into the distance and then stare at the darkness ahead.
"Where are we going?"
"No point going back. Not tonight anyway."
"Do such things exist out here?"
I laugh. "Who knows."
"Guess we'll find out."
"That didn't work out so well last time."
Our last roadtrip resulted in stopping to fill up with gas twice and returning home; we'd pick the one route with nothing. Just our luck.
My smile subsides as the memories of being squashed close together in the back, the seats pushed down, the front seats forced as far forward as possible, our feet pressed against the trunk door, fade away.
"I don't think I want to go back."
"You don't. Not there anyway. You can come to mine."
He reaches over and grabs my hand through the hoodie. He squeezes it tightly. "Come live with me."
I shake my head. "You don't want me living with you."
He slows. "Motel," he points to the right. Vacancies glow, making me squint as we turn. Randy kills the engine and jumps out. "Wait here."
I watch him head into the office, the old guy greet him, they joke, they smile, Randy writes, they talk, old guy points, Randy nods, takes the key.
Move in. Simple as that. I wonder what new reaction that'll provoke. My mom crying. My dad shouting, swearing, all up in my face, his sweat, his spit hitting my face. My brother doing the same, hurling the abuse with laughter, not quite understanding but thinking it's the right thing to do nonetheless. The dog cowering in the corner. My mom clutching at my t-shirt, her tears staining the material, stinging on my skin.
My dad's probably packed up the boxes already. Probably putting them outside with the trash. Maybe my mom will sneak them back in. Probably not. He probably made her help him.
"Catch." Randy chucks the key at me as he gets back in, pulling out of park and heading the few hundred yards to our room for the night. I place his hoodie back on the seat before I close the door.
He let's me unlock the door, pressing his chest against my back as he reaches inside to flick the light switch. Orange glow highlights the double bed, the TV, the chair, the bathroom door. So simple it hurts.
"Dunno about you, but I'm fucked," Randy whispers, his breath hot on my ear. My heart ceases to beat for a second. My stomach clenches and I feel faint. His hands grasp my hips, pushing me into the room so he can kick the door shut behind us.
I stand there stupidly as he brushes past me, a lingering hand trailing down my arm, heading for the bathroom. My foot twitches as he pisses and then reappears, topless. His discarded jacket and t-shirt land with a soft thump on the chair. His belt buckle clinks loudly as he undoes it. The leather slaps against his jeans as he tugs it free. Every noise is amplified, making my ears ring. The button pops, the fly zip scratches, denim on bare skin.
He frowns at me. "You're not gonna be shy are you?"
I shake my head.
"C'mon then," he grins.
Tonight, right row, it feels... Well, in my dad's forever immortalised words, it feels strange. Am I now the one who can't cope with myself – with my choice, my decision, my preference, my lifestyle.
I watch Randy pull back the bed covers, punch the pillows into place like he does every time he gets into bed. If he gets up in the middle of the night, he wakes me up with the two thumps of the pillow before his body presses against mine once again.
He closes his eyes as I finally start to undress. Not as graceful as him, but I still fling my jacket and shirt on top of his and mirror him by leaving my jeans and sneakers in a pile on the floor.
He pushes back the covers for me. I start to shake. Words will never hurt me. Bollocks. Words swim around my head, as Randy's arm slides under my neck, his hand reaching for mine.
"You're tense," he whispers.
Do I tell him the truth? That all I can hear is queer, fag, gay little fucker? That his hand on mine is making me feel guilty, sick, horny all at the same time? That if we do fuck, I won't be here, I'll be there, my dad's fist raised, my brother jeering, my mum sobbing as I plead with them, cry in desperation, beg to be loved.
Randy whispers words that can't get through. He presses his chest against my back, his other arm curling over my waist, his fingers at the waistband of my boxers. "Relax... forget... It's okay..."
I'm crying. He wipes away the tears. He twists me in his arms, kisses my cheeks, lapping at the salty tears, his fingers slide through my hair, rub my scalp, slowly bringing me back to here.
His mouth finds mine. A soft, barely there, kiss. I stop thinking. For a second. I feel my body tense. He kisses me again, soft, warm, tender. So tender. I breathe.
"Open your eyes."
I stare at him, swim in the pale blue, drown and at the brink, he rescues me. Hot, heavy kisses, keeping me alive.
I let out a soft moan. He smiles against my lips. He's got me right there – where he wants me and where I need to be, want to be. A hand trails down my back, a finger grazes the elastic, outlining the lettering on the waistband of my boxers.
"Forget everything" he murmurs, the words vibrating against my lips. "Just you and me. No one else."
I grip my shoulders as he sinks to my neck, sucking, biting, hitting the spot instinctively, eliciting a groan, louder and throatier than the last with every nip. His fingers curl into my boxers, tugging them down as he kisses and licks his way further down my chest. My stomach muscles spasm as he makes contact, his hand already at my crotch, stroking, tugging, rubbing my cock. His thumb is tantalisingly painful on the tip. Is tongue on the join between torso and thigh.
Hot breath. Warm saliva. The satisfying heat of his mouth slowly, making me twist, buck, groan, scream all that the same time. His tight throat making it all too much to bear. His fingers dig into my thighs, his tongue flicking over and around my length.
His throat tenses around me, silently begging. I give in.
"Oh god... Ra-andy..."
He kisses his way back up, resting his forearms either side of my head as he hovers over me. He looks on the brink of asking me if I'm okay. So instead, I cup his face and pull him down to me. I can still taste myself on his lips, on his tongue. He settles between my legs and I can feel his cock hard against mine, pushing against the material of his boxers. His hand sinks between us, pushing his boxers away.
His mouth pulls away from mine for a second as he wets two of his fingers, dipping them between us, running over my cock for a second and then further down. I bite my lip so hard I swear I break the skin, that metal taste hitting my tongue, as he breaches me. He curls his fingers, trying to hit my sweet spot, desperation on his face as he tries to make me feel better, to make me forget everything.
He slowly starts to succeed. Sensory overload. His sweat sticking us together; the sound of his breathing, my breathing; the taste of him, me, trace of blood; his scent overwhelming me; and the look in his eyes as he watches me intently.
He obliges for a moment and then draws out. "Fuck... No lube..."
He looks at me startled. It's been a while since we were caught out. 'Are you sure?'
It's no more pain than I've felt before. In fact, right now, I'm craving the pain. I nod.
Slowly, he raises a shaking hand, spits on it a few times, practically gargling in attempt to wet his hand and then his cock, as much as possible.
"Just do it..."' I groan.
I hear the spit start to slick up his length, not much, but just enough. Enough for pain. Enough for a pleasure. The tip at my entrance makes my face screw up for a second. Inch by inch he sinks in, making us both hiss, groan, growl. I bite his lip. He bites back.
My cock is hard against his stomach, bouncing between us as he starts to pick up the pace. We push through the pain, clutch at each other. My legs spread further, as I pull him in. He slowly sits up, pulling my legs over his thighs, freeing my cock, letting me grasp it and tug myself into over-drive.
I explode on my stomach, as he pulls my legs higher, fucks me harder, groans into his own release, my name echoing around the room, drowned out by me crying out his name.
The bed springs creak beneath us as he collapses forward. I kiss his sweaty forehead, as he licks my drenched neck. He slips out of me onto the sheets.
In the silence that follows, I wonder if this is what makes all the abuse worth it. Is it worth losing my family for him? Is it worth making a go of it for real – no more sneaking around, pretending otherwise, not admitting the truth to anyone, not even ourselves?
When he looks at me. I think yes.