I haven't had an orgasm for eight years now, and sometimes I think it will drive you mad. You take the helmet off now, unless things are really horrid (and when they're that bad, Erik,...when it's on, I cant muster the strength to look at you, let alone force my way through), so it's everywhere like this Virginia fog, a miasma of guilt, and hope, and aspiration.
I'm tired of choking on it. So I am letting you in. Live it. Take it. Feel it. Feel the stuttering in my chest as you claim a liberty no one else dares, and pick me up with easy strength out of the wheelchair. Let my fingertips trace the testament into the sinews of your throat. Let me hold on to you as you hold onto me. Let me have your heavy-lidded magnesium starlight eyes, let me have them the whole length of your villa...all the way out to the hot tub you bought for me.
Throw me onto the grass. Yes you heard me, I said throw. I won't break. I won't break. It doesn't hurt, you see? Touch the sound I make as the wool slides up across my aureola...and then make me take your thumb into my mouth.
Take the rest of it off. All of it. Slow. Then watch me for a while, sprawled out and naked on your lawn. I like this part the best. Being watched. I love reaching out, and seeing my youth's chimera embrace you, manifest only because you will never be able to help it.
See me. Show me. Know me. Shed your own clothes with all that killer's confidence and throw them at my useless feet. Stand before me, expectant and still and waiting.
Feel the sweet tearing of my teeth into my lips, the water in my eyes, the gag I try to swallow, as I moan around the five languid stabs of your cock.
I am weightless in the water. Not dead like stone, but your buoy or a dream. You're kissing me, and Erik, you are a fantastic kisser. Your chest is against my chest, your fingers wage a war with my hairline, and you're getting off by rubbing against my navel.
You're the quietest man I know, and you want me so badly, you're making noise.
Hold me. Hear me. Mark me.
And Christ...you do.