Thursday, November 6, 2014


I'm always awake before him and can only go back to sleep once he's gone. All I want is for him to touch me when he lays there peacefully, caught up in a dream or a nightmare. I sometimes take his hand and place it between my legs to see if it wakes him up and when it does he fucks me in slow motion as if we're both still asleep.

Lately he's been gentle in the way he speaks to me, in the things he says and how he holds on to me when we stumble back from restaurants and bars late at night. He asks for permission to call me between lectures and lets me pick out shirts for him to wear.

This morning, just as he's about to leave in something close to black from McQueen, he stops for a second in the doorway. The sun has yet to come up from behind the building across the street, air smells of gasoline and dust. "Avy?" he says, almost whispers, his back still turned against me. "I don't want you to be unhappy".


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