Sunday morning after a Revel party at Musro that a sliver of Avatar and glasses of Stoli managed to merge into a blur of inconsequence. Somebody’s half naked in my bed. My tongue is dry and my lips are scraped. Battlescars. A friendly, playful battle yet a battle nevertheless. My arching back as my skin tried to escape your moist lips, your hands pulling at the sheets and trying to push my head away as I explore the spots that make you scream and beg me to stop, as we go back and forth, giving as good as we get.
Beware the tempting glow of twinkling lights, the soft undercurrents of gentle emotions threatening to pull you in and under. Never forget that it’s part of the game. It’s all part of the game. Just a game. Fun, yes; but not meant to last. Tell yourself to snap out of it, that it’s not you, it’s the chemicals talking. Rid yourself of his scent, scrub yourself clean. Every kiss, every touch, every lick, every suck, every bite didn’t matter. It never did. It never does.
Don’t feel too comfortable lying in his arms, arms that you know have and will hold other boys like you, feeling just like you. Did you think you were different, that you were special, instead of a random pick right out of a line-up of other boys like you, thinking just like you? Every man is broken. Every man is broken. Repeat it until you get it right.
We’re all just running on empty, desperately scrambling, chaotically clutching to floating debris of our identity. Chasing fulfillment any way we can, strained arms reaching out greedily, lengthening, beating each other down.
Every man is broken. Get it right.