Page 26 of Glitterland
“Ha-ha, wanking the way to the dark side is.”
“Shut up. For the love of Jesus fucking Christ on amoose, shut up. I’m trying to get off here.”
He fell on top of me, howling with laughter. And, somehow, in that ridiculous tangle, his hand moving awkwardly against my cock as he snuffled hysterically against my ear, and me yelling at him, my body shaking with frustration, amusement, pleasure, bewilderment, so much bewilderment, I did, in fact, get off.
***
And After
It was long past midnight by the time I convinced Darian that his proper place was in the guest room, not my bed, and that “because I don’t do that” was the only explanation he was getting for the arrangement.
“What abaht Brighton then?” he asked, hovering on the threshold as if he believed this was a negotiation.
“An accident.”
I ignored his big, wounded eyes and retired for the night.
But of course, I couldn’t sleep. I found myself wondering what it would be like to have him here with me, the sleek warmth of his body curled protectively about mine.
My thoughts circled like vultures. Non-specific anxiety clawed at me. I felt too hot, too cold, too trapped, too lonely. Tired and cruelly awake.
The night was a vast plughole, an endless spinning of the self through ever-narrowing circles.
It had been (don’t say it, don’t spoil it) a good day. I tried to rationalise it as the result of physical satisfaction but, in other more abstract ways, I had, almost without noticing, been something close to…
Happy.
My heart stuttered.
There was little I feared more than happiness, that faithless whore who waited always between madness and emptiness. My moods, when they were not sodden with medication, could turn upon a tarnished penny; happiness was merely something else to lose.
Words and images drifted through my thoughts, catching at me like briars, fading into smoke.
This wasn’t safe. My world was one of only broken images, like I was standing always on the threshold of a mirror, unable to tell the reflection from the real. The shining city and the blasted heath—the truth lay somewhere between, a thin grey line, slender as the edge of a knife.
And I’d known this mirage before. These shimmering moments. But they each had their price that must be paid. Looking back brought little comfort, only pain. The memory of light only made the present seem darker.
This would hurt on the other side. Because it always hurt on the other side.
I knew I should protect myself.
I wished I could sleep. I wished I could stop thinking.
But my mind has always been its own enemy.
7
Morning
Somewhere in the greyness of dawn, I drifted into a dream-studded semblance of slumber, only to be woken a scant handful of hours later by the unfamiliar sounds of somebody moving around the flat. My first, drowsy thought was that a burglar was using my shower, and then I remembered.
Darian.
I buried down into the duvet and grimly attempted to force myself back to sleep in the hope he would have left by the time I woke up again. Unfortunately, the endeavour was not a success, and I was left with no choice but to get out of bed.
I knotted myself firmly into my dressing gown and padded into the kitchen, where Darian was eating a bowl of Weetabix and readingHeatmagazine. He looked repulsively cheerful for someone on the wrong side of noon. His hair was a marvel of engineering, shaming even the quiff I had witnessed in Brighton. His jeans were very tight, as was his T-shirt, which was black and had the words “Show Love” written on it in silver, hard-to-read letters. His shoes were exceptionally pointy.
“Morning, babes,” he said. “I ’ad to go to the corner shop cos you ’ad nuffin. And guess what?”
