I came back to apologise. What for, I’m not exactly sure even now. For my outburst of frustration, for washing my hands of him and my responsibility for his feelings. For slamming the door with a shaking hand and not once looking back, content to listen to restrained whimpers as if they don’t mean a fuck to me because it’s not my problem. It’s never been my problem.

Then I remember that the guy I’ve just callously walked on out without so much as a backward glance and a screw you is supposed to be a friend; someone who’s made this rollercoaster of a year just that little easier for me to stomach and someone who deserves a hell of a lot more respect than my selfish attitude has afforded. Who made it easier for me to get to grips with life thrust in at the deep end under the harsh media spotlight, gave me all the slick PR answers to easily roll of the tongue when all I could stutter were little more than bemused and confused words. Who taught me how to work the system, how to please hungry reporters and demanding team bosses while all the time keeping my feet firmly on the ground so the lure of big money and the promise of a millionaire’s lifestyle don’t finish my fledging career before it’s really started.

And what did I give in return? A simple fuck it, I’m not bothered.

Christ, I’m a bastard.

So, I still have a lot to learn. I can deny it until I’m blue in the face but I can’t escape the fact that ignoring it or raging at him isn’t going to somehow make everything normal again. Get our little piece of sanity back by pretending this hasn’t happened is no longer an option, and I guess I owe it to him to talk through this, to account for myself in the hope that he won’t completely despise me.

But now I’m here, I haven’t a fucking clue what to say, where to begin, even why he would possibly want to see me now. Standing like an awkward child, shifting nervously from foot to foot, waiting for someone else to speak, for someone else to make that first tentative step to make sense of this whole bloody mess and somehow make it right again.

He must realise I’m there because he cautiously lifts a bowed head to catch my gaze, immediately turning away to hide the tear-stained face he doesn’t want me to see and I know I’m in far too deep. Rejection hurts, it feels like someone purposefully ripping out your heart from your chest and casting it aside, but it’s only a goddamn side-show to what he’s going through. And how do I tell him it’s fine, that I understand when we both know that I’m far from knowing even a tenth of this? Hating the show of weakness he thinks his tears represent, even more because of the audience.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-- I’m sorry,” he mumbles, blocking out the tears with a deep breath as he rests his chin in his hands, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. It’s as if he’s afraid that by meeting my gaze he will lose his struggle for composure, his battle to grab back the aloof nonchalance he often uses on others - as if by now I can’t see through it for what it is.

“What the fuck have you to be sorry about?”

I snap back and he looks up at me, ocean blue eyes salted with tears, looking like some lost child. Completely out to sea, alone and drowning. And I wish, not for the first time, I knew what I’m supposed to say, how I should react. I don’t say I’m sorry, what’s the point when he will only be able to see through my half-hearted attempt at understanding what the hell we’ve found ourselves in the middle of. Instead, I reach out, initiating an consoling embrace he is initially nervous to succumb to then slumps in to my arms, softly weeping while I try and murmur words of sincere comfort. As if anything I say now can make things better, but I try anyway even if it’s nothing more than to ease my guilty conscience.

What makes me respond? I don’t know. Guilt? Mild curiosity? Genuine affection, it can’t possibly be, though at the moment not even I would discount that. But whatever it is makes my arms tighten that little bit more around the muscular torso resting against my chest, hands slowly journeying down his spine to rest on the folds of material where his overalls are tied loosely around his hips. I have to bit my lip to stop myself laughing out loud at the irony of the situation. Here I am trying to comfort the guy I’ve just brushed off with no intention of reciprocating what he feels, yet contemplating what it would be like if I did, enjoying the sensation of his body close against mine just for what it is, not caring who it is that’s stirring them.

And I can’t help but wonder how he would react if I had said yes, if I had told him I needed him badly. And so it’s cruel to even think it, but wondering what would he do if I let my idle hands travel further down his back to stroke his perfectly moulded ass, to bring him closer against me. Would he jump away in surprise or simply sink into my arms in complete compliance if I leant over and kissed him? Is this situation arousing him as much as it is me? Should I mess him up further just for a cheap thrill, to satisfy my own curiosity, to reaffirm his … dependence on me, on my recognition of him or is it something else entirely? What have I to lose? For the sake of a few awkward weekends then I’m out of here and it won’t matter at all what goes on in this room. Or will I be awaking demons to haunt me for the rest of my career?

Discarding the million and one questions, I don’t let my brain make that decision, acutely aware of the growing throb of my body and unwilling to pass the upper hand to him. Fingers wrap themselves in his hair as I lift his head from its resting place on my shoulder and my lips seize his in a hungry kiss. On instinct, he tries to break away, shocked, but I don’t let him off that easily, the fingers knotting in the soft strands holding him against me until he melts into my embrace, submitting to the lips crushing his.

I know this is wrong, I’m doing the most fucking awful thing I could possibly do to him. I can feel the desperation mingled with longing in the way he holds me, the way he kisses me with the fierce urgency from finally experiencing what he’s craved for for all these torturous months. But that’s not stopping me from responding, from enjoying his reaction as my hand slides up his t-shirt to caress heated skin. If anything, it makes it a thousand times worse. Getting off on the fact that he’s completely crazy about me, that this arousal in him is all my own doing.

Since I found out how he felt, I can’t deny I haven’t for a brief moment thought about this, how it would feel to touch him, to be touched, be kissed by those full pouting lips. And even now it’s not an issue of supposed sexuality, what I am, what I’m not. Call it open-mindedness, call it what the fuck you like. It’s just about now, about how I need this just as much as he does. For different reasons, yes, but still a demanding urge to satiate this intensifying desire. Clashing lips break only briefly to let a hoarse groan escape my throat as I pull his body hard against mine, feeling his hardening arousal slide roughly against my groin. So fucking horny it hurts as I grasp his all too willing hand and lead it down my chest, closing my eyes and letting out a low moan when it sweeps across the appreciative bulge in my overalls.

Damn you, Ralf. Damn you, you bastard, for making me feel this good; tainting this arousal with the ever present knowledge that I won’t be able to avoid my responsibility if I go through with this and the even worse realisation that I couldn’t care less, that this feels far too good to let my conscience get in the way. I need to hate him more than anything I’ve ever felt in my life, but I don’t even have that as a refuge, as somewhere to place the blame other than on myself.

My fingers relinquish their tormenting hold on his hair, instead snake down his face and I can’t help but delight in the slight nervous tremor the gentle touch elicits from him. In response, arms envelope me tightly so we’re almost crawling into each other’s skin, barely conscious of our laboured breathing in our frantic exploration of one another’s mouths. I don’t know if the thought that we are in such a public place has even registered in his mind, that the motorhome isn’t exactly the most discreet of places for this hopelessly unprofessional, not to mention insane, behaviour. It crosses mine momentarily, little more than a fleeting glimmer before becoming the least of my worries.

I want him to stop, I need him to. Not because I don’t want this because, oh Christ, the only thing on my mind is releasing this excruciating tension. But because I don’t have the willpower to stop it myself. Completely oblivious to the fact this is just my selfish curiosity, every inch of his touch expresses a desire he’s longing for me to reciprocate, and there’s still that inner voice screaming at me to do the decent thing and stop this before I crush him any more than I already will have.

But I can’t, selfish me thinking only of myself yet again and the pleasure I know that he will oh-so willingly give me. I can’t summon my arms to push him away nor break my lips from his. I’m only just able to steady myself, my outstretched arms propping me up against the table behind me as his hands travel teasingly down my chest to my hips, the mere matter of thin cotton separating our skin. Then his lips leave mine until we are holding each other in a penetrating gaze, our breath quickened in arousal as I wonder pointlessly how far he’s going to take this. Ask a stupid question … I get the reply I need when hands work around my ass and roughly pull me even closer and on their own accord my arms lock around him.

And now I’m left wondering who’s playing who as I stifle a groan at the pressure of his body against mine, vocalising the intensity of my pleasure as his kisses, so different and decidedly masculine, travel teasingly up my throat before finding my lips, letting our tongues duel and caress. His frantic murmurings of love and adoration both enrapture and damn me, and I force his lips back on to mine to shut up the reminder of my wicked dishonesty. Does he realise I can’t love him, that I’m lying to him even now by perpetuating his hope? But now I’m not even sure of my own feelings, apart from the overwhelming physical desire warping what I was certain I believed. And I’m no longer aware who I’m lying to when all I want is for him to satiate what he’s roused in me, or whether this is still a curious and selfish desire I want to satisfy.

An animalistic groan rings loudly in my ears joined quickly by another exclamation of pleasure rising from deep down in my stomach as my body automatically arches up to the rough contact of his body grinding against me. Cursing into the air, I gasp for breath now all too painfully aware of the extent to which he’s driving me insane with ecstasy and confusion. I can’t think of another time when I was so unconditionally at the mercy of such pleasure and at this moment who’s providing it seems utterly irrelevant.

Eyes closed, my skin flushes ever more at the faint brushing of heated breath against my cheek and when he speaks his voice betrays an even more desperate hunger, an arousal heightened by a fusion of emotions for once allowed to surface.

“I.I… oh god, if you knew how much I’ve wanted this …” his voice tails off as his lips kiss their way down my neck, and all I can do is moan in helpless response as a hand strokes my rigid cock through the layers of overalls. His other words are completely lost on me as a panic I can’t shift sets in. I had  to do it, carelessly play a dangerous game, thinking I was too smart for anything or anyone to catch me out, and now I’m spiralling into a pleasure I can’t prevent, and stopping now is the last thing on my mind. Sod the consequences, sod my conscience when the only thing I can think of is how fucking amazing every touch and every kiss that I’m receiving is.

I don’t realise that my overalls are being untied from around my waist until I feel warm hands peeling down my fireproofs. My eyes snap open at once and meet his wide sapphire eyes sparkling, their intensity heightened with the earlier spilt tears, staring back at me as he sits back on his knees and looks up at me with a passion that frightens me. Idly, he tauntingly passes his fingertips over the straining fabric of my underwear and my panic shatters with the forcefulness of the sensations it sends throughout my body. God knows what I groan through gritted teeth when those warm and talented hands ease down the rest of my clothing and come to rest softly on my hips.

And all I can do is maintain his poisoning eye contact, from trusting cerulean eyes that despite brimming with potent lust, are strikingly naïve and beautifully innocent; I can’t help wonder what he sees in mine. Can he see anything in them, any of the fucking caldron of emotions swirling around inside me?

Then I want to hurt him when he smiles at me, one of those oh-so rare ones which light up his face when I know he means the emotions behind it; to turn that guileless smile into a contorted grimace of delicious torture more fitting to twisted exchange. I hardly have chance to think though as his fingers hook around the waistband of my underwear and slowly run them down my legs towards my feet. Blushing uncontrollably at being so openly displayed, I barely know what to do but he takes another decision from me and my legs turned to jelly when those soft lips find another use and begin to kiss up the inside of my thighs, then teasingly across my taut stomach before brushing gently down the shaft of my erection. Murmured obscenities leave my lips in gasps and I stare down in amazement as he chuckles delicately at the state he’s worked me into, making me groan in frustration when the hands caressing the inside of my thighs stop their teasing exploration and still themselves on my hips.

A delicate kiss on the tip of my cock and I can’t stand the torture any longer, no longer caring what I’m feeling or what I should be feeling. I let my tentative grasp on reality slip away under the wet heat of his mouth as I urge him to finish this now. And the only thing I know is that while I feel this, nothing else matters. Barely able to support my weight, through the mist of intense pleasure I feel his arms tighten around my hips, taking me deeper as I rock more and harder against him. Fingers knot in the waves of his soft hair, tightening, pulling more incessantly at the roots with every quickening of my breath as my rational mind switches off and incoherent words leave my lips on their own accord.

And then he sends my already tumbling world into freefall when he pulls away from me. Flushed and confused, like an addict I try to claw back at him, aching to be touched, desperately needing the sensations he has plunged me into. Yet, all I can do is stand there on shaking legs, grasping the table behind me as if my life depended on it, caught up in intense heat and staring at two crystal blue, cool eyes watching me, looking up and staring right into mine as he sits, almost contemplatively, back on his knees.

For an agonising few seconds, I wonder whether he is smarter than I’ve given him credit for, whether he is playing me as callously as I’m using him. Now I am just waiting for the tirade of abuse, the volley of anger and betrayal to hit me, accusations towards my lies, my insincerity, my willingness to toy around with his emotions for my own cheap thrill. But all he does is stare at me, expressionless, waiting for my next move, waiting for me to make the right choice. Or the wrong one.

But I can’t think straight, not when he has me on the verge on orgasm, when I’ll say anything he needs me to say to keep his hands on my body. He must know I will choose the latter, to gladly lie to him, feign any emotion he wants to see in me so long as he finishes this now. Yet, is he content with that, he knows my lies but that’s enough? Why stop the twisted game now, why let truth rear its ugly head? I can’t damn myself any more than I already have, so I beg him not to stop. Pleading with him, telling him in so few words what I’m sure he wants to hear, how I need this so much. And in a state of delirium, I shock myself further as he stands up, his body so close to mine yet with those torturous few inches distance.

I kiss him.

Cautious. Brief. Yet, a kiss none the same. And he is only marginally more surprised than me.

The smile he returns shows me he thinks I’ve made the right choice. Convinced of my sincerity, a smile without that permanent underlying melancholy and unfulfilment; a smile free of the weight of deception and unrequited desire.

Then he gives me my undeserved reward, sliding down my screaming body and capturing my painfully swollen erection between his lips. My eyes screw shut as things blur and spin, aware only of the few more seconds of burning ecstasy before the inevitable end takes every breath out of my body, forcing his name from my quivering lips in a rapturous cry.

I can’t stop my body shivering, from the after-shocks of climax, from the sudden cold chill breezing across my exposed body, or from the gradual realisation that I have done precisely the thing I was utterly sure I would never do. My head pounding by a million and one accusations, I sink bonelessly to my knees in a mixture of shock and exhaustion, letting his arms pull me against his comforting body. My breath slowly comes back to me, yet as the frissions of pleasure fade and die they are only replaced with stomach-churning guilt, merely increased with every one of his soothing words. Burying my face into his neck, fear hits me harder than my orgasm did. I have never felt so out of control, so fucking screwed up before in my life, and it’s killing me. Rational thoughts team up with my panic in a double assault. The realisation that he can effectively own me, how one careful malicious comment from his lips to listening ears could rob me of any decent career if I’m not exactly what he wants.

But most of all, it is the fact that no-one has ever made me feel just so high or come so hard before, and how, feelings aside, I have to have it again. So eager to please, so utterly devoted, the knowledge I can take from him, can experience exactly what he has given me now scares me fucking stupid. Because I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t be longing for him to do it again, to touch me, jesus, I would even fuck him on the floor right here if he touched me like that again. And that is what is killing me, causing tears to sting my eyes, the fact that I’ve lost my self-assurance, lost what I thought I knew with absolute certainty.

Then in a moment of startling clarity, I pull sharply away from him, out of his protective arms. An embarrassed flush erupts across my cheeks and my hands shake as I make a move to cover myself up from his appraising gaze. Unable to meet those confused eyes, in my babblings I spill everything out. And I tell him everything, every emotion plaguing me, caring little for hurting his feelings in a bid to ease my conscious. I tell him I meant everything I said before I left, that coming back here was wrong and nothing but a selfish curiosity. How I kissed him for the same selfish reasons and how now I can’t cope with what’s going on in my head. 

My voice tremors in a confusion edged with a resentment I can’t disguise. I must be hurting him, but I can’t lift my head to see the pain in his face. For Christ’s sakes, I’m destroying every little hope I’ve built up in this room yet I can’t stop the words flowing, tempered with rambling apologies for not feeling the way he does, for not understanding and for hurting him, and most of all for not loving him.

The silence after my words finally dry up is the worst though, as I wait for my confessions to sink in to see the full extent of the damage I’ve caused. Nothing but a haunting silence. I glance a look to his face, and my fears seem realised when he can’t even look at me any more. Instead, his head is bowed, cocked slightly to side, his eyes closed so I can’t even gauge his thoughts.

Then, with a slight crack in his voice, he asks me a question that almost knocks me over in surprise.

Do I hate him?

I must have heard it wrong, yet again he repeats it, softly, barely audible, but this time more confidently. He looks me straight in the eye, and this time I have to answer his question. My silence will no longer be enough for him.

Honestly, I don’t. How can I hate him? Resent, yes, anger, yes. For the way he’s messed up my carefully arranged life and thrown me in the turmoil, I want to lash out at him, hurt him. But it isn’t hate, doesn’t come close.

But I don’t love him?

I blurt out no too quickly to his second question. I knew he would ask, yet still it throws me further into a spin. I know I don’t love him, but then I don’t know what I feel, unable to describe this. Oh, give me a fucking chance, what does he expect from me? Love and verses? Christ, I can’t give him that and he fucking knows it.

It takes a few seconds to realise that I angrily snapped out my last thoughts, but rather than hurt in his eyes, I see calm resignation. Then, again surprising me, he leans over to me and kiss my lips, undeterred by the fact that I neither stop him nor encourage him even when his fingers stroke along the contours of my jaw and he murmurs words I don’t understand in-between his kisses.

He pulls away slightly when my body involuntarily freezes under his fleeting touch, and the hand stroking my face instead upturns my chin and forces me to hold his gaze. I want to laugh out loud. After everything I’ve told him, his eyes still radiate the same doe-eyed adoration, still trusting, still full of longing. I want to tell him that this is ridiculous, ridicule him for being so completely passive, shout at him, hit him, remind him that I’ve just broken his heart and stamped on it and all he can do is kiss me as if I’ve just told him I love him.

“Whatever you want, Jense. Anything you want, no pressure.”

I don’t want to listen to this, I can’t listen to this. His words echo in my ear, promises that we can just forget this ever happen and he will never hold it again me, that he only wants what I want. All backed up with soulful eyes brimming with sincerity, with care and love. Does he really? Does he really want what I want because I don’t even know that myself.

My lips move on their own accord and before I know what I’m saying, words leave my lips. I want to know why, I want to know how he can still love me after what I’ve done, what I’ve just told him. The smile he gives me doesn’t quite reach his eyes but the kiss he plants hesitantly on my cheek does.

“This is all my fault..I’m sorry. I..I shouldn’t have pressured you, shouldn’t have put you in this position. Not when you’re the only real friend I have here.”

Taking the blame so unequivocally, without question, the look of pained acceptance undoes what little I have left of my self-control and rational thinking. And this time I can be just as surprising, kneeling besides him, listening to the quickening of his breath as I let my hand pass slowly and with purpose down his stomach, then setting into a taunting rough rhythm on the inside of his thigh.

I can’t believe how much he wants me, how one little touch creates that beautiful whimper escaping from his parted lips, before reality snatches him back and he looks at me, wide-eyed and dazed. Don’t ask me what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t have to love him, I do care for him, and I just know I owe him this, and his bewilderment gives way to shock realisation as I gingerly capture his lips with mine. Heart-felt apologies slip out from my lips in-between kisses, murmurs for him not to put me on a fucking pedestal seem lost on him because then his arms pull me closer and we end up in an entangled heap of the hard floor, his tongue frantically exploring my mouth and hearing him moan in rapture as I return it with passion.

And when my kisses brush across his navel and I unravel the knots keeping his overalls fastened and his body hidden from my prying eyes, I make him unconditionally mine by closing my fist around the pulsating organ trapped by restrictive nomex; feeling the way his body arches up against my touch, the sounds of my name being whispered in lust, increasing in volume from scarcely audible whimpers to unashamed cries of pleasures. Begging for more, I give him what he groans for, feeling the layers of fabric in my grasp give way down his body in one fluid movement.

A moment’s hesitancy isn’t enough to stop me repaying him for all the shit I’ve put him through, even when he gasps I don’t have to do this if it’s not what I’m sure I want. The fact that it could make it worse, that this could cause even more hurt, is far from my mind. A glance to the door of the motorhome shows no-one is in earshot when he lets out a strangled cry of arousal as my tongue licks his cock from base to tip before replacing my hand with my mouth and hearing his groan of approval. Slowly arching his hips, working a slow rhythm, I can hear him struggle to breathe as his self-control breaks and his thrusts become wilder, urging himself deeper and swearing violently. Caressing his skin, drawing circles on his inner thighs that work their way up his legs to stroke the quivering muscles of his stomach, reducing him to incoherent guttural cries of pleasure, I pull off his aching cock and, with a last kiss on its tip, he screams my name as I sink my lips back over his erection and he climaxes breathlessly, moaning in satisfaction.

A look of pure contentment stretches across his face as lies stretched out in a crucifiction position, eyes closed, a thousand little aftershocks running through his body if it’s anything like what he reduced me to. So softly I barely hear it, he murmurs my name until I lean over him to meet brilliantly vivid eyes that flicker open at me and before I can stop him his arms are around me, his lips tenderly kissing mine. His tongue runs across the flesh of my lower lip purposefully, tasting the residue of himself on my mouth, before delving back inside and I have to forcefully drag myself from his grasp for fear of succumbing to the all too easy urge to beg for his mouth back on my body, for him to relieve me of the growing tension forming again in my groin and my stomach.

Because it would be so easy to lean over and kiss him, to let him roll me on to my back, to pull off these damn overalls and let him take exactly what I know he wants from me.

Yet, I can’t. I can’t because I don’t know what I’m feeling or doing. I can’t because I don’t love him. But most of all because he loves me, and the guilt that I might never feel the same, even if I tried for his sake, would haunt me every time I see him.

Strangely, he smiles when I tell him I can’t give him the immediate relationship he wants and I can’t stop myself from laughing aloud when he tells me that it’s enough that he loves me. How can it possibly be enough when I’ve seen how the past months have been a torture for him? Yet, his quizzical look turns to another smile and this time he pulls up to my feet, rearranging his overalls, before turning back around to face me.

“Just admit to me you enjoyed what I did to you, that’s enough. If this is just a casual fuck between good friends then that’s more than I thought I’d ever have of you. I can wait.”

This time I can’t lie to him and I don’t have to. Yet again, he has been my apologist, disposing of my guilty conscience. Giving me an unburdened responsibility to choose what I want from him and either way he will accept with complete compliance.

And as he smiles to me, it doesn’t seem clear to me which of us is in denial.

~ The End.