Page 84 of Manhattan Tormentor

The one vulnerability I have grabs my tired mind and I allow images of him to filter in.

Deep cerulean eyes.

A rasp in the back of his throat when he laughs.

The confident way he wears comic book t-shirts. And looksgooddoing it because it clings to his trim physique.

The utterly devastating sounds of his climax.

I let it pass through my mind, driving myself mad with want and tiredness.

I sigh, crashing back on the couch. I’ve worked hard these past few months and I can’t falter now I’m almost ready.

Insomnia kicks my ass, night after night, taunting me with my shit. Showing me what I gave up because of how much of a prick I am.I was.

It’s become my own tormentor.

How ironic is that?

Be better.

Get my shit together.

Winmyguy.

It’s the same thing that’s gone around my head for months. And while I sit at a student bar nights later, with a bottle of beer to my lips, a girl at my left tries to grab my attention.

“I don’t date.” I tell her after she’s asked if I’m going to a frat party.

“Why not? You’re hot.”

I half-smile, a little of my old cocky self in that grin. I look at my clasped hands and think of him. It’s always him mining away at my memories and the words come out of me.

“Because I’m in love with a guy.”

“Oh, how sweet!” she exclaims and my head comes up to see her bright smile. “What’s his name?”

It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud.

The world didn’t end.

I’m not judged or vilified.

This stranger is happy for me.

“Sage,” I answer.

This isn’t love what I feel. It’s too pedestrian. It feels bigger, a word in the English language not invented yet. Strange that loving someone for the first time hurts me the most. It gives me strength too.

Talking to the unknown girl is the first time I’ve breathed easy. She lets me go on about Sage, encouraging me to go for it.

Nights later. “What are you getting gussied up for?” Asks Bates. He’s plowing through cold fridge pizza.

“I’m not gussied, fuckface.” Am I? I run a hand over my hair and twist a cap on backward. I’m wearing cargo worker jeans, a t-shirt half tucked in, and a black jacket with a gray hoodie attached to the neckline. Not gussied at all.

He chuckles, shoving food in his piehole.

“You’ve changed shirts three times. I know it isn’t for the darling Stepford wife. So who is it, did you hook-up with one of the honey’s from your photography class?”

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