by Trisky
"I'm not sleeping, I'm daydreaming with my eyes closed."
"What are you dreaming about?" I tickle his ear with my whisper, mercilessly pinning him to the couch with my entire body on top of his.
"I'm dreaming about how nice it would be if I could breathe again and live to see the rest of this day."
He squirms underneath me, but makes no motion to push me off, just to shift behind me, instead of under me. He loves it when we do this, he'd do it every night if I gave him the choice, just lay here and do nothing, but feel each other's chests rise and fall. It is kind of relaxing in its own way, that certainty of someone's breathing patterns falling into rhythm with your own. He likes to lay his hand flat on my stomach and feel it move up and down, it makes him so content it's almost like he can't believe I let him do it, each and every time. It's really not so bad, all of this, this stuff he insists on, once you do it one time, it gets easier every other time. I would never tell him that or he'd have my balls in a sling, even further than he already does. I put up my normal fuss and fight and eventually he gets over it, just as long as I indulge him every once in a while. He's really not that hard to please, I like that about him. He makes my life simple. Well except when he's being a pain in the ass or pushes things too far, which is the other half of the time and then I wonder why I even bother, why he's worth all the aggravation. He'll usually do something stupid at that point to break the ice, like give me that "why are we having this conversation when we could be fucking" look and I have no answer, and I forget what he did to piss me off in the first place and we commence with the important things and forget all about it, until the next time. He puts up with me, to a point, and for that I'm more grateful than he'll ever know, and I'll forgive him anything, as long as he keeps finding some way to keep trying, to make me try harder.
"Brian?" His voice is muffled somewhere at the base of my neck.
"I'm daydreaming, leave me alone."
"Well I hope whoever you're dreaming about has a nine inch cock and the charge of a bull."
"I've never fucked a matador before, that might be kind of hot...without the bolero."
"Will wonders never cease, there's someone you haven't fucked after all."
"On second thought, he might run in the other direction when I come barreling at him, and I don't do sissy boys."
"You do me."
"Yeah, but you're more ox than lamb."
"Gee thanks. Just what I want to be known as, a castrated animal."
"Anytime..."
Any second now...
"Brian?"
And he's off! Making a wide turn around the ring, flying at the red cape, but wait something distracts him, the sun blinds his eyes, he shields them and sees the matador rise from the ground triumphantly, golden rod protruding from his pants, drawing grasps from the crowd and silencing his young steer.
"Earth to Brian."
The golden rod dims substantially.
"Yes, Justin?"
"If you were going to be daydreaming, what would you be dreaming about?"
I know the answer to this, I know what he wants to hear, you Justin, always you, and only you. Well that's crap, I might not be allowed to fuck other men in his presence, or in this loft, but my mind is off limits, no matter how close by he is, if for no other reason than for the sake of my sanity. I must have been insane when I agreed to those terms, or so goddamn horny and distracted by his golden rod, I didn't know what I was saying. None of which explains, of course, why I've continued to follow along with these demented practices, or why I guilt trip myself into purposefully thinking of other men, just so he doesn't have the satisfaction of being right, it is him. Always him. I can get cock anytime I want, I don't need to spend my time daydreaming about anonymous offerings.
"I'd be dreaming of goldenrod." From the fine tips of hair on its head to the wispy strands on its toes.
"What is that? The holy grail of cock?" His laugh runs from my neck, all the way to the tip of my rod. It's a tingly feeling, like when he crushes his body on my hand when he's sleeping on my arm and I try to get the blood flowing through my veins again. I love that feeling.
"Aren't you the artist around these parts? It's a color, somewhere in the yellow gold family." He rests his chin on my shoulder. I don't even have to look to imagine the expression on his face, contemplating my answer.
"Why would you be dreaming about that?"
"Why do you always have to ask so many questions?" Avoid, avoid, avoid.
"It's the only way I get any answers! So don't answer the question with another question and I won't have to ask any more." Push, push, push. He pinches my gut and I seize his hand, wrestling him for control of it. He puts up a good fight, landing me on my back, only now he's really stuck to the back of the couch, until I decide to move. Sucker. But he gets what he wanted, me facing him, so he doesn't have to talk to the back of my head and he can scrutinize my face when I respond, add it all to his little arsenal of vulnerabilities. He always gets what he wants. There must be some kind of voodoo in that golden rod.
"It's relaxing, makes me think of a sunrise. Peaceful even." He closes his eyes and I can almost see behind his eyelids right to his brainwaves, trying to picture me thinking about a sunrise. He has no idea what I do when I'm awake at sunrise. He doesn't need to know, he knows enough.
"I like you much better when you're being honest," he affirms to no one in particular. "You wouldn't be daydreaming about colors, though I could see you daydreaming about golden rods, especially if they're attached to certain golden oxen ." He's smirks, satisfied with himself, glad to have fashioned me back into a Brian he can deal with, the one always in pursuit of the ultimate fuck, the one who can't get enough of him on that journey. The one who would never get up at 5:30 in the morning and watch him sleep soundly without a care in the world. I will never be that person to him, and he's okay with that and that makes it so much easier. If he doesn't expect it of me, then I can't let him down. I can only fail myself and I'd much rather do that. It's better that way.
"Didn't we already establish that oxen have no balls? What would be the point of that daydream?" I can feel his hand making slow, tentative gestures at my waistband and I'm no longer sure whether I'm still daydreaming or not.
"Forget the animals Brian, close your eyes, focus on the rod." I do as told, rays of goldenrod whirling about behind my eyes, a smattering of sunlight drifting in through some window I can't see, but I know is there, and he's laying there lost in a dream world, but I feel a hand kneading it's way through my midsection, relaxing my breathing and it shakes my concentration.
"Your rod or my rod?" I ask, because he would expect nothing less of me.
I feel lips tracing my jawline and a thumb tucking the short strands of my hair behind my ear. "Did anyone ever tell you, you talk too much?" I laugh in spite of myself, and I can feel from the way his mouth gets wider on my skin, that he's laughing as well. I feel warm, bathed in a golden light that's not there, but that's burning me from the inside, and I'm sure he can feel it when he touches me, but he doesn't seem to care. He just continues kissing and massaging, climbing on top of me, calming me into submission and he doesn't have far to go. I'm already there.
I lift his head from my chin with both hands, cradle it in my grip, open my eyes to his surprised stare and I just search his face.
And the goldenrod triumphs again.