By Mickey M.
© June 2003
It's not love. It's fascination. Obsession. It's want, pure and simple.
I want you.
I want you so badly some days, it shivers along my skin like electricity; makes the blood pound through me hot and hard, so hard I can't always hear myself saying why I can't have you.
Let me touch you.
Do you know how beautiful you are? Young, sleek, golden child, with your body flexing and rippling in ways it shouldn't know yet, but somehow does. Are you aware of the eyes – others, but mine too – that watch you, constantly? That burn dark with hunger I can't assuage?
Wanting you is bad enough. If I touch you I become a monster, the sort of thing your mother's probably warned you about. The monster who lurks near playgrounds and parks, waiting. Wanting.
Except I think I'm already that monster. I didn't use to be, but. I live with you. You're always around, and I have access to you. Access that fuels the fire, makes my blood sing and my skin tingle.
I touch myself, thinking about you. The way you smile shines so brilliantly, the flash of slick, pink tongue when you lick your lips. How your mouth forms a perfect O. How it would feel, wet and hot around me. The way you'd look, on your knees or stretched out under me. How every muscle would ripple and the quiet sounds you would make, pleasure or desperation
Touch me. Please. You know you want to.
You're my friend. I try to think of you as my friend, as the kid who hangs with me. No, I try not to think of you as a kid, because that just reminds me that I want you – and I don't know if it's because you're so young, so innocent, so…pure. You're untouched, and sometimes when I look at you, I want to change that. Take that innocence away.
Defile you.
You make me want things it's wrong to want.
I want to fuck you. Sink in and feel you groan and give over. Feel your body shaking and shivering around mine. Come all over you, not just in. Smear it into your skin.
I love you, but I hate you, too. I hate this feeling inside me, this absolute need that fills me, heats me, teases me, and feels so good; hate how much I love it sometimes. Warmth…I get so warm, thinking about you. The way you look when you dance, your head thrown back, hips swiveling and thrusting. Your long, long legs and big hands – huge, for someone your age, a sign of the man you'll be someday. The way you strip off your t-shirt when we play basketball. All that golden skin, shining like the sun's touched you and burst through. If it's warm enough, I can watch droplets of sweat trickle downward, over your shoulder, down your spine. I blink, close my eyes, turn away, because I want to hold you tight, immobile, and lick each droplet up. Feel you shiver beneath my touch, aroused and scared and uncertain. I think about the way you cuddle up to me and drape yourself all over me, your body language open and friendly, loving and comfortable.
How long would you remain open and friendly, loving and comfortable, if I took your hand and placed over my erection, the one I feel like I have now, twenty-four-seven?
I want to make you touch me so badly I shake with it.
Your skin is so smooth, so soft. C'mon, baby. Just touch. Yourself, me, both. Wanna see. Wanna watch.
I watch you, all the time. Do you ever feel my eyes on you?
Sometimes, I want to lay you down and bite into you, swallow you down piece-by-piece, because then you'll be mine forever.
You can't ever possibly be mine, because by the time you'll be old enough for me, you'll have someone else. Will I even want you then? Is this obsession because of who you are, or what you are? Is it the boy, or that you're a boy? I don't know the answer for sure, and the unknowing scares me.
It's good to be scared, because it keeps me from acting.
It still lets me watch you, though. And want you.
It burns me so bad now, but in a few years you'll be safe because I won't want you.
Then we can just be friends and it won't hurt. I hope.
Will my eyes turn elsewhere? They've never – not really, I don't think – turned before. I don't know for sure. Maybe slipslidding here and there, but it's always been a passing fancy, a pretty girl or boy in a freeze-frame moment that was gone when I blinked.
Not you. You're always here. Always around.
Come play with me, be my friend, trust me.
I'd poke my eyes out, if I thought it would make any difference. Cut my cock off. Sear my lips and tongue. I don't want to hurt you…I just want you. But it's not my eyes, or cock, or lips and tongue. It's my brain. I could be deaf, dumb and blind now, and I would never forget how you shine, the beauty and innocence, the boy you are hiding the man you'll be.
I'd still want you.
I want you so bad.
Stay away from me. Please. I won't touch you. I can't touch you.
Can'ttouchcan'ttouchcan'ttouchcan'ttouchcan'ttouchcan't—
~fin~