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November 2nd, 2007
10:11 pm
Vale fed tonight.
He can go without for a few days, but he's been running on fumes recently. I could see it in his sluggishness in the afternoons, how long he was sleeping, and how much paler his skin was already becoming. Something had to be done, and it was either me or some random stranger. Since Vale doesn't particularly enjoy attacking random strangers, and since I didn't want him to do that, either, the choice was rather obvious.
The movies and the stories lie. The act itself...
Christ, I can't even bring myself to say it. I'm acting like a child and I'm not even sure why. Other than, perhaps, because it was less intimate in the act, and yet more powerful in its effect, than I'd been imagining.
He drank my blood. He sank his teeth into the artery in my thigh and drank my blood directly from my body. The reason that the movies and stories lie is because the act itself isn't particularly exciting or erotic. A quick pinch, really. Some licking. There was no magic involved, no direct line from his teeth to the pleasure points in my brain. I certainly didn't spontaneously orgasm. Well, not from the blood-sucking, at least. That part was about as erotic as donating to the Red Cross.
( I was nervous... )
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/sad.gif) hungry
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November 1st, 2007
12:39 am - Halloween
Vale made cookies that were only harder than rocks instead of burned, so, emboldened by his imagined success, he decided to cook dinner for me. I'm not sure why he thought it was necessary. I'm also not sure why he thought he could manage it. What the hell does a vampire know about food? It's not like he can sample it for taste. Watching him attempt it was rather amusing, at first... until I caught the distinct odor of burning from the red sauce in my All-Clad frying pan. Don't look for Vale on FoodTV anytime soon.
I did manage to save the red sauce, mostly by the simple act of transferring it into the correct pot and bringing the heat down from the maximum setting. How I managed to bring two men into my house who can't cook worth a damn (but are determined to ruin every pot I own in the process of proving it), in the space of as many months, I don't know. I don't think I look as though I'm underfed. There must be something about my kitchen that temporarily deranges them. Yes, that must be it - I can see the same effect on Red whenever she steps into my kitchen. "Hm, a stocked refrigerator and cookware worth more than I earn in a month. Must... feed... man!" It's inevitable, I suppose. Except Red actually can cook, and I can trust her with roughly $1000's worth of copper core.
Vale is far more tactile than I would have suspected him of being. I had most of my attention on the sauce when his arms came around my waist and I could feel the side of his face pressing against my back, into the hollow between my shoulder blades. "Are we going to have to call it a DOA?" he joked. I was a bit preoccupied, so instead of responding, I picked up one of his hands, pressed his knuckles to my mouth, and returned his hand to its previous position. He was quiet for a moment, then his hand came up, stroked down my chest briefly, and he turned away and took a seat in the atrium, leaving me to it.
The manicotti turned out fine, even if I was the only one eating it.
Long after dinner was over, after all the children were bribed with sweets, the doorbell had stopped buzzing, and I was checking the house to make sure everything was locked, I turned around and found him right behind me. He lifted himself onto his toes, reached his arms around my neck, and pulled my head down until I was nose-to-nose with him.
"You avoided it last night," he told me, "but I don't see why I should let you get away with it." He did sultry at least as well as he did polite, which was to say, very well indeed.
"I have no intention of taking advantage of you," I said bluntly.
"Wonderful, because you're not."
I wasn't too sure about that. He'd come to me from a bad situation, a sickeningly ugly experience, and I didn't want to hurt him further. I remembered everything he'd said on his blog, every word he mentioned about sex, and submission, the men who didn't really care about him and the men who took without giving. I didn't want it to be like that. I also couldn't rid myself of the nagging suspicion that he was still trying to "pay" me, still trying to use his body as a means of assuring his safety. My hesitation wasn't a matter of pride... or at least, not my own pride. I like Vale. He deserves better than what he's accustomed to recieving. I tried again. "This isn't necessary - "
"Forgive me for interrupting, but it is, in fact, necessary," he said. Light as a cat, he hopped up and I found myself cradling his ass in my hands, his legs wrapped around my waist. "Or are you all talk, no action?" he continued, a little smirk touching his mouth.
Oh, no, he didn't.
( I carried him up the stairs... )
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October 30th, 2007
10:55 pm
Vale is... cute.
I'm sure he prefers to think of himself as knife-edge sharp, elegant, with his catwalk wardrobe and expensive haircut. The truth is, he's about as adorable and cuddly as a tiny blond plushie. It's easy to see how he can live off his looks - he's certainly got them to spare. I can't believe how smooth his skin looks, or how soft and gold his hair is. It's as if he's air-brushed. I'm sure he'd glitter like pure gold in sunlight. As it is, he glows under the softer light of lamps and candles. I can't wait until I see what he looks like under strobes and neon. The reaction he gets from the locals in the club should be amusing.
Something else that's cute is how demure and polite he's being. I have to respect the amount of control he has over his facial expression - he's very good at remaining aware of my gaze at all times, and he's all smiles, pleasantly surprised, very happy to be here, isn't it lovely? But there's been a few instances when his awareness slipped, and his expression faltered. It's understandable, really. If the culture shock he's feeling right now is anything akin to what I feel when I visit my aunties in Louisiana, in a town where there are only two streetlights and the nearest thing to a restaurant is the BP over on the highway, then I'm surprised he hasn't said anything yet. Right now, he's willing to be pleased. It almost makes me want to say or do something to piss him off.
We did go out to eat, to the local Outback, which is the closest place I could think of that doesn't need reservations and still serves a decent rare steak. Vale's not bad at all when it comes to pretending to eat and drink. I take some of the credit, though, I probably ate at least half of his dinner as well as my own.
Wichita, like most cities, is prettier at night than by day. I'm sure it's quite placid compared to L.A. but the river and the parks are pleasant to drift through. Huh. Romantic dinner and a moonlit walk by the water. Jesus, next I'll be bringing him roses.
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07:50 pm - Guests
My house is not safe for vampire residence.
I was informed of this in no uncertain terms at roughly one o'clock this morning. Fortunately, although the mall was closed, I had enough aluminum foil stocked in my kitchen to block the windows in my bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. It was incredibly tacky and it meant that Vale was locked into only two rooms for most of the day, but he was ready for a hot bath and a long rest by the time the sun rose and I had to leave him. I left work early in order to spend a small fortune: heavy thermal curtains from Penney's, black paint at Lowe's, not to mention new lamps and all the finicky hardware required to sun-proof a house with more windows than I'd ever really paid attention to before. And what's more, I had to make certain there was enough to overlap - not so much as a single ray of light can be permitted to sneak in through a stray crack. Figuring out what to do about the atrium was the hardest part. There aren't any commercially-available drapes that would extend from the high ceiling to the ground. I finally had to settle on a pair of extra-large black tarps, and tack the edges down. They can still be drawn back much like drapes, but there's no denying that the effect lacks something in the way of elegance.
Well. There's no way that Vale will be able to trust the weather enough to leave the house, and Wichita closes its shops and clubs earlier than L.A, but at least we're past the equinox and night will fall quickly. We'll figure something out.
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October 28th, 2007
09:15 am
It's a bit of a let-down, the week after the full moon.
I'm no longer so certain that everything Ben told me of the wolf is true, but if so, I have about a week to remember what being completely human felt like. He explained it as a recycling curse: The new moon, being the time of new beginnings, starts the cycle. Then the moon begins to wax, and as it does so, my strength waxes with it. The full moon brings the curse to a crescendo, and I change. For one night, I'm nothing more than my animal nature permits me to be. Then the moon is waning, and so is the curse, until the new moon begins it all again. For the rest of this week, and half of next week, I'm little more than the man I've always been. Or at least, that's what he told me. It's not quite true. I'm definitely not the man I was before.
This week was supposed to be a time of rest and recovery. Thanks to the machinations of the monsters surrounding me, it's actually a time of learning and planning. I have absolutely no doubt that Biddle's unnamed alpha won't be wasting his time.
This, I suppose, is my life now. Everything I do, all the plans I make, the life I live, will be centered around the moon's phases. Around the plans of others. However, I've never been one to passively react.
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October 27th, 2007
03:16 pm - Full moon
Ben had chosen the location.
It's a simple truth that Kansas is flat. It's a prairie state, after all. There are no deep forests here, no mountains, no true hills. To eyes unaccustomed to the view, it would seem to be a barren place, flat and empty. We who live here are resigned to the jokes, the insults, and the bewildered contempt we get from people who live in busier states. And while some Kansans agree with that attitude, and cannot wait to leave, there are also some Kansans, like myself, who listen to the insults with a smug inner certainty that other people are idiots. There is no way I could ever move to another state; the grimy canyons of city towers holds no more appeal for me than the claustrophobic closeness of mountains and forests. How in the hell could I possibly breathe in a place without the wind, the grass and the sky?
I had given up finally, and called in sick. There was no way I could have concentrated on my work, or managed to get through an entire day without snapping at someone or otherwise making everyone in my office miserable. I couldn't sit still to save my life. I had meant to spend the day in mental discipline, something I'd cobbled together from everything I'd read on lucid dreaming, spell-casting, meditations, and the like. I had no idea if it would work or not, but Ben had told me that he'd concentrated on keeping one thought in mind on the last full moon, the simple thought of finding me, which had given him a sense of purpose instead of the usual wolfish instinct of running and hunting freely. It had worked for him, and I was hoping it would work for me, especially since I was starting out with the much more simplistic thought of just not killing anyone. I hadn't expected it to be so difficult, but then, I also hadn't expected the thought of murder to ever bring me such a sense of joy and satisfaction.
It didn't help at all that I had the image of a tiny blond staked to an empty beach preying on my mind.
Ben didn't try to talk to me. He had his own battles, I supposed, and only spoke long enough to tell me where we were headed. He'd decided on a place west of Wichita: Cheney Lake, where there was something close to a forested area, and a great deal of empty land just beyond. I knew the area well. It's a favored place for campers and partiers, and I looked at him as though he were crazy, but he pointed out that it's October, most of the people had already moved to warmer, dryer ground. We arrived just as the sun was sinking into the western horizon. And somehow it shocked me to find out that someone else had arrived first. Or rather, several someone elses.
I recognized Caleb immediately, of course. From Ben's descriptions, I thought I could pick out each of the five girls: the two huddled in the back were likely Bridget and Terrie. Stephanie was the curvy one, with her hand on the little Mexican girl's shoulder - Lupe. Lisa was the leggy blonde with the sly look to her eyes. I didn't know the other two. One, however, smelled of wolf. The other reeked of dust and old blood, and when he moved his head, I caught a flash of his eyes. A vampire.
( A growl began, low in my chest. )
Ben is gone. I don't know, and don't care, where he went, or what's happening to him. That fucking treacherous little bastard had best not show his face here again. I meant what I told Biddle; I'm not playing games with the rest of the city's monsters, and I'm not jumping to Ben's tune any longer. I'm done with him, and with them.
Current Mood: sore
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October 26th, 2007
12:21 pm
Ben doesn't understand why I felt the need to tear up my kitchen at such an ungodly hour of the night, but cleaning it up again helped to settle me down... a little.
Always before, when I thought of violence, it was impersonal, calm, a simple release. Rather like sex with someone I don't care about. All the emotions and impulses were contained inside of me, with only consideration for what I felt. My anger, my arm moving to strike out, my release from temper. Always before, I could prevent myself from acting on the emotions. I struck only to defend, and even then, only enough to solve the problem.
I can see now that I was never, truly, a violent person before.
Now, I have no concern for my own body; I already know it will move and act the way that I wish it to. Now my focus has moved outside myself - the rip of flesh, the stench of feces from dying bowels, the sight and sound of prey screaming and trying to escape my wrath, blood in my mouth and nose. Cracking bones and soft wet sounds. Unsatisfied rage and the desperate desire to make the daydream a reality.
I wish I could say that it was only the wolf feeling these things, that the wolf is something outside of myself. Like some sort of multiple-personality disorder. It's not. It's not a matter of the wolf vs. the man, as I'd previously assumed. "The wolf" is not a reality. It's just a body I'll wear for only a few hours one night, every thirty days or so. This rage I feel today? Is in answer to a great wrong, that I am not in a position to correct. The violence I feel? It's not the moon talking - exacerbating, yes, but this isn't coming from outside myself. When it's all said and done, this is very much coming from me.
I feel as though I could paint a town red tonight.
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October 22nd, 2007
01:42 pm
I touched Ben's face this morning, the place where my fingertips had left a bruise. It's already healed, but it's still vivid in my memory. I asked him if it was true, that werewolves heal slower from the damage left by other werewolves.
He gave me The Look again, the one which lets me know I asked a stupid question. He never actually says I've been stupid. He doesn't have to; The Look says it all.
Then he told me that, no, damage is damage, or my shoulder would not have healed as quickly as it had. I reminded him of the bruise on his face, the bite on his shoulder, neither of which were as serious as my own wounds but which still seemed to take so long to heal. He said that, in both cases, it wasn't that the damage had healed slower, but only that I had caused more damage than I'd realized.
He didn't say it in so many words, because he doesn't do that: accusations are never voiced aloud. Only hinted at. But I could hear the truth in what he didn't say. I really had nearly broken his jaw that morning, just as I'd threatened to do, I just hadn't realized it at the time. I've left real damage on his body, and I've done it more than once.
The idea of it makes me sick.
It's not the idea that I can be violent that sickens me. I grew up ghetto, I've been in my share of fights. But being in a fight, and raising a hand to someone whose body I've taken? There's a universe of difference. Yes, he attacked and betrayed me. I suppose it could be argued that, in doing so, he waived the right to expect me to keep myself from raising a hand against him. To keep him safe, not only from harm, but also from fear. It could be argued, but that doesn't mean it feels right.
It feels an awful lot like what Caleb would have done.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/sick.gif) shamed
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October 21st, 2007
03:24 am
I've been... twitchy. My temper has been getting chancier, I'm restless, more aggressive, and I'm randier than I've been since I was a teenager. It's a progressive thing, and Ben tells me that it will get worse before it gets better. He advised me to schedule time off this week from work, but I'm not going to live the rest of my life scheduling a week off every month, sometimes twice a month. Not to mention, I wouldn't be allowed to live like that. Since I have no intention of letting this ruin my career, I'll just have to learn to deal with it sooner rather than later.
Of course, it hasn't helped that I hadn't laid a finger on Ben in over a week, and he's been under my nose constantly since Wednesday. Literally. I can smell him. Constantly. I can't even escape it at the office, because the scent lingers on anything associated with him. I can taste it on the roof of my mouth. No matter where I am in my house, I need only lift my nose, and I'm barraged by the musk/sweat/shampoo/skin scent of him. It's worse than my hearing; at least I can learn to tune out random noises. I can't tune out his scent, and it travels straight to my dick.
Since today was a gorgeous soft autumn day, I opened all the windows in my house and pulled Ben outside to help me set up Halloween decorations. That wasn't enough, so I decided we'd do some basic yard maintenance. Then I dragged him grocery shopping with me, which I don't actually like doing and which he's not particularly good at. I've been trying to get the scent of him out of my nose all day, yet I haven't been letting him out of my sight. Hoping for a distraction and a release of excess energy, I suggested that we hit the club. I can't quite decide, now, if that was a mistake. I'd forgotten that Ben was feeling the moon as much as I have been lately.
It started out well enough. Arriving together didn't mean we had to stay joined at the hip, so he left me for the dance floor, I made sure to set up a tab for both of us, and I took my drink and myself off to find people I knew. I hadn't thought about what I was doing: a crowded club filled to capacity with sweating, dancing, drunk, horny young people, grinding together on a too-small dance floor to music that is designed to make people even more excited than they would otherwise be, which is saying a lot. The scents, the music, the alcohol, the voyeurism... It all combined. Still, I probably could have kept it all together, but then I drifted too close to the floor. Ben's shirt was off, he was drenched in sweat and gleaming under the lights, and his eyes were sleepy and wicked as he spotted me. The boy can dance. I have no idea how much time I lost, mesmerized by the play of lean muscle under smooth golden skin, the rhythmic motion of his hips, the way that the light of the dance floor fell on his ass, emphasizing how high and round it was.
Yes, I'm fully aware that he was trying to play me. I just didn't care. If he didn't mind being used, maybe it was time I stopped minding for him.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/hot.gif) hot
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October 18th, 2007
03:44 am
I'm not even sure if I'd just dreamed it.
"I like it here," he whispered.
Ben had avoided me the rest of the night, trying to be in any room but the one I was in. It had been annoying as hell, and I'd finally decided that I'd had enough. There was a guest room that Ben could use. I was taking myself to bed and catching up on the sleep I'd been missing the last few nights.
A few hours later, I blearily opened my eyes to a shadowed room, the clock on my bedside table reading "too fucking early o'clock," and Ben snuggling next to me. "I'm tired of being alone. I want to feel safe again," he was saying. He moved, straddling my hips and leaning down to brush his lips over mine. In that vulnerable state between sleep and wakening, I let him. The cool, smooth fall of his hair brushed my cheek, over my shoulder. "I love this house," he continued, "the way you smell, your dog, your arms. I want you to love me madly. I want your heart," he leaned down and kissed my chest, "your strength," his lips ghosted over my scarred shoulder, "your body." He nuzzled his mouth against that soft spot just behind my ear. "I'm so lonely for you."
My body felt heavy, unresponsive, except for my dick. Already half-hard, it had filled out so quickly and fully that it ached. It took a great deal of will-power to fight sleep, lift my arms...
... and push him off of me.
"Julian?" he questioned.
"No," I mumbled.
"You're already hard," he pointed out, and I could hear the ghost of a laugh in his tone.
" 'll live." I reached up, pushed my hand through his hair, and let gravity tug his head down to my shoulder. "Shhh now."
"We'll both feel better if you let me..."
"Nuh. G'sleep."
He was already awake and about when I woke up, and neither of us mentioned it. So I'm not even sure if it really happened.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/tired.gif) sleepy
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October 17th, 2007
11:39 pm
I'd come home intending to let Brenda out for a moment and grab my gym bag, since it was Wednesday, but that plan was shot to hell. I made tea instead. We sat in the atrium and talked.
It probably was a dumb question, and I don't blame Ben for looking at me the way he did, but he answered me seriously. "No, my name's not Benji. It's Benjiro. Caleb really is as racist as he seems. He didn't like my name, and thought it was funny to call me Benji. He said I reminded him of that dog in the movies - I could do cute tricks, but otherwise, I was just small and scrawny and ugly. He likes to say that I'm a stray that he picked up and no one else wanted."
He paused, and looked into his tea. "It's not true," he said mutinously. "I was loved, I was wanted. I was beautiful, popular in school, my boyfriend loved me, and I was going to succeed. He ruined that. He ruined everything."
Apparently, Caleb was as stupid on four feet as on two. Ben and his lover had been making out in a park when Caleb found them. He'd savaged them both, but the lover had died while Ben hadn't. He'd found out later that wolf-Caleb had mistaken Ben for a girl, and that he'd deliberately killed the boyfriend. That was why Ben's scars were on his lower leg, where I hadn't noticed them before, and where, if he'd been a girl, Caleb wouldn't have had to see them when he was fucking him. Caleb was more of a breast-man than leg-man.
Shamed, marked, and with a secret he couldn't tell his family and friends, Ben had tried to hunt down the one who'd done it to him, only to end up being beaten by Caleb at their next meeting. Caleb had stolen Ben, literally; he'd thrown Ben's unconscious body into the back of his truck and moved his entire pack, hightailing it out of Ben's hometown. Ben had tried to leave - at first.
"Why didn't you?" I wanted to know.
( He glared at me sullenly. )
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/shocked.gif) surprised
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10:20 pm
I came home this afternoon to find a surprise on my doorstep. An unpleasant surprise. In fact, it couldn't have been more unpleasant if it had been presented in a burning paper bag.
There was a battered truck sitting at the curb in front of my house, and Ben sitting huddled on the front step. I could see the bruise on his face from the driveway. Also sitting, cool as you please, on my wrought-iron bench on my porch was a complete stranger, smoking a fat cigar with beefy arms stretched out along the back of the bench and beer gut extending into his lap. The flannel-shirted red-neck fucker flicked the butt of the cigar into the hosta bed and stood up even as I was pulling into my driveway. I turned off the ignition, rummaged around beside the driver's seat, opened the door, and got out.
"Come here," I said to Ben.
He made to move toward me, and the piece of shit that was fouling my porch said, "Sit yer butt down, faggot, I didn't say you could go nowhere."
( Oh, hell no )
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/awake.gif) awake
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October 16th, 2007
07:28 pm
I hate inspections. There's not one form or file or machine or person out of place in my department. I didn't hire Joey, my assistant, because of her winning personality, I hired her because she's scarier than I am, more anal about details, and can be counted on to remember anything I happen to forget. Even if I were inclined to let something slide, Joey would come along behind me and make sure it became un-slid. Between the two of us, my department has never been in better shape.
I never have a good day when the inspectors come along, poking and prodding into things that aren't their business, thinking they know more than I do. It unsettles my personnel, irritates me, and puts Joey into a temper. It's a necessary evil, emphasis on the evil.
As if that wasn't enough? I've been distracted all day. I've been reading complete crap about lucid dreaming and spell-casting, none of which sounds helpful. I've been coming up empty on any meaningful information on werewolves. As the icing on the cake of a very shitty day, I've been getting voicemail messages all day. I can hear him breathing and background noises, he's just not saying anything. I hate that kind of game.
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09:18 am - Meme survey, random
( Long random meme )
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/okay.gif) blah
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October 15th, 2007
10:52 pm
Red's aunty is a witch.
"Stop calling me that," she said irritably.
We were sitting in Red's living room. I don't really like Red's new house, it's... girly. There are flowers and candles everywhere I look. I can't sit on what little furniture she has, because I'm afraid I'll break something. Her glasses and coffee cups are sized for delicate little womanish hands instead of hands like mine, which are the size of platters compared to Red's. Being in her house is like visiting a Zen monastery decorated by Betty Boop. It practically screams, "Boys suck, stay out!" And there are no doors in her house, except in the bathroom! There are two things that make up for how uncomfortable her house is: Red's cooking, and the fact that Red's aunty is a witch.
I have to say, she doesn't seem the type. If the woman owns a single sexy article of clothing, I've never seen it. Hell, if she even owns anything that isn't black, I haven't seen it. Her hair is cut off as short as any boy's and is dyed black, she wears black eyeliner in thick lines around her eyes, and her skin has that whiteness that only comes to someone who actively hides from the sun. Nevertheless, I haven't seen anyone less Goth or witch-y since I stopped going to Church. She makes no attempt to hide her age, her weight, or her emotions, nor does she make any attempt to draw attention to herself. She looks like someone would much rather be sitting in a room by herself than interacting with her fellow human beings. I can't say I've ever taken much notice of her before.
It occurred to me now that I should have felt blessed by that.
I never would have asked this woman for advice if I'd had any options. I can't trust the vampire; he may not hide the fact that he's a liar, but that doesn't exactly make him honest about anything else, and I can't shake the feeling that he has an agenda. Other than the corpse, though, I have absolutely no acquaintance with the magical types. I've heard that there's a thriving magical community in Wichita; I've never seen it.
"Oh, fine," she said, and if the expression on her face was anything to go by, she'd said it under extreme duress, which probably had to do with the look on Red's face. "If you want to hear it, then I'll tell you about magic. On one condition... two, really."
( I raised my eyebrow. )
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04:50 am - Unhappy
I've been in love before. I've also broken up with men before. I'm quite intimately acquainted with the feeling of wanting to scream, or claw something, or maybe just cry. I'm a big boy, though. Men like me don't get to cry.
I remember Mike. Big man, an inch or two taller than me, and that's hard to find. The only other time I've broken away from my normal type of businessmen in suits with quiet voices and soft hands and college degrees. Mike was in construction, so there was nothing soft about him. He drank Budweiser instead of Glennfiddich, preferred grilling in the backyard to reservations at any restaurant, and never tried to hide the fact that he was booboo'n, even going so far as to take a can of air freshener and a magazine into the bathroom with him and issuing a warning to the household at large that An Event was about to occur. He told me, a week after meeting him, that I was in love with him. All my friends liked him. I adored him. He was phenomenal in bed. He made me laugh, teased me mercilessly, was big enough to match me rough-housing, and wanted me to talk about my feelings. Or, if not my feelings, then anything at all. He liked to hear me talk.
He also liked fucking one of the twinks that used to hang around me at the time.
Even that didn't hurt like this hurts.
It's not so much that I was already in love with Ben. I haven't even known him long, and part of that time, I didn't want anything to do with him. It's just that... I could have fallen in love with him. The allure was indescribable. There are a lot of gay men who find femininity in a man disgusting, demeening. I only find it disgusting when it's obviously faked, when the man in question is only doing it to get attention. Ben had the kind of feminine traits that a boy might pick up from an exceptionally genteel mama - as though he were well-bred, well-born. As though, if he'd been born a woman, he'd have been the kind of woman who was a natural lady, the kind who likes wearing dresses and arranging flowers, who doesn't swear, ever. The way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he smelled and laughed and even the way he cried - I liked it. I had discovered that I liked talking to him. I definitely liked fucking him.
But this isn't like cheating on me. What Mike did hurt, yes. He'd looked me in the eye, smiled at me, and fucked someone else behind my back, made the same promises to someone else that he'd made to me, but meant it that time. He didn't jump on me under the cover of darkness, damn near rip my arm off, leave me bleeding and broken and changing into a monster for the rest of my fucking life... however long that life would be.
Oh, fuck. Sonofafuckingbitchfuck. Fuck.
I'm a fucking werewolf.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/scared.gif) scared
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October 13th, 2007
10:14 pm
Damned vampires. I've been up most of the night, thinking about what the little bastard had said. It seems obvious to me that someone so well-versed in self-deceit would have a talent for decieving others. Twist a truth here, splash a doubt there, and voila! A mind-fuck. Maybe it's a talent one must learn in order to survive being what it is, a kind of coping mechanism for a breed that must disguise its own ugliness. Maybe it's an inherent personality trait that's a prerequisite for becoming such a thing. Or maybe it's just a hobby.
According to the Farmer's Almanac, tonight is the last night of the new moon. It's already been a week of significant changes and if I let myself, I would become paralyzed with dread to think what will happen as the moon is growing. Regardless of what happens, I have only twelve nights left to do something about it. I can't afford to waste time panicking. I also can't afford to dismiss everything the little corpse has said, especially if there is any grain of truth in it.
But I still lay in my bed for most of the night, hopelessly awake, feeling cold and numb. Afraid. It was a long night, which might not excuse what I did the next morning, but may explain some of it, at least.
I don't have much of a backyard, and most of it is taken up with the atrium I'd had built. I had to knock out half of the back wall of the kitchen in order to open it up, and the atrium itself is smaller than a deck but a bit larger than a breakfast nook. It's full of windows and highly-polished wood and greenery, and I put in a tiny granite-topped breakfast table because nothing else would fit. The seats aren't quite as comfortable as my armchair in the living room, but the atrium is still my favorite place in the house. It's always a soothing, beautiful place on any given morning, and especially when brooding over hazelnut Gevalia while listening to the rain come down and watching Ben putter around my kitchen attempting to make waffles.
I had to admit, my kitchen made an artful frame for Ben's lithe, ivory prettiness. His hair was tied back, his feet were bare, and the rest of him was clothed in pale linen. The varnished wood and brick-colored walls suited him well. Actually, most of my house suits him well. He looks good here. He feels good here. As though he'd been meant to belong here, from the moment I'd chosen the house, the paint chips, and the swatches.
( It did all seem to point to Ben. )
Current Mood: sad
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October 12th, 2007
02:58 am - Anecdotes and circumstances
I am not a stupid person.
I'm a rational man. I prefer to look at empirical evidence rather than anecdotal. The reason I'm an atheist, and why I don't believe in angels, demons, ghosties and goblins and other things that go bump in the night, is not because I'm afraid to believe in these things. It's because I've never seen any reason to believe that these concepts exist anywhere outside the human imagination. I know that the imagination is a scarier place than reality can ever be. Nevertheless, since one cannot prove a negative, one cannot positively assert that it is impossible that these things exist; attempting to do so is merely arrogance masquerading as rationality. It's a highly improbable thing to happen, but if an angel were to walk up to me and slap me in the face, I'm not so arrogant that I'll refuse to take anecdotal evidence into consideration. As Sherlock Holmes said, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.
There are things that have been happening lately, and things that I've been doing, that are... odd.
One of my co-workers started her period today. Normally, that's not only not the sort of thing I'd have known, it's also not the sort of thing I'd care to know. And yet, I could swear I smelled the blood before she stood up and excused herself from the meeting.
Last night, I growled at Brenda. Growled. Not just a "grrrrr," I mean a literal, deep-in-the-chest, "get off me, bitch," warning kind of growl. The kind of sound that human throats aren't supposed to make. My poor baby gave me a look she's never given me before, and tore out of the kitchen with her tail between her legs. I had to rub her ears and talk softly to her for awhile before she forgave me.
Monday, one of my co-workers came into the restroom and used the urinal I had just used, while I was washing my hands. I've never had a problem with this man before, but just then, I had the strongest urge to punch him in the face.
I had sex with Ben Sunday night. Wait, that's wrong. I fucked Ben Sunday night. I hadn't thought I was really in the mood, but he smelled so good. Enticing. The bruise is fading, but you can still see the marks where I bit the hell out of his shoulder. He said he didn't really mind, but how can he not? And I certainly mind.
My shoulder is completely healed. I can resume my normal workout, including push-ups and weights. If it weren't for the scars and the fact that I had to pay for a few things that my health insurance refused, I'd think nothing had ever happened.
I've been smelling things, or else I've been paying attention to smells, that I've never smelled before. My hearing seems to be sharper. I have odd impulses. By themselves, each circumstance means nothing. I could be attempting to assign an extraordinary reason for ordinary things. Perhaps it was intuition combined with the fact of a small and enclosed conference room, leading me to believe that I could smell blood. Maybe I just lost my temper with Brenda; I have a very deep voice anyway. Maybe I've always been a violent lover, and Ben's submissiveness brought it out in me. Perhaps I'm in such good shape that I shouldn't be surprised to heal quickly. Maybe, perhaps, could be.
Taken together, though? Coming less than a month after I was attacked by a dog-like animal that didn't really act like a dog, and certainly didn't look like any breed of dog I've ever seen before?
As I said, I'm not stupid. I just wish I didn't feel so ridiculous.
Current Mood: scared
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October 7th, 2007
12:30 am - Six random facts meme
Six things I never thought I'd bother telling anyone:
1.) My middle name is Edward. Which matches Elizabeth Mary and Theresa Ann. Mama had some old school ideas about naming kids. She said she wasn't going to send her kids through life having to constantly correct teachers and prospective employers when it came to how to pronounce our name.
2.) I like to cook. Mama didn't have the time or the inclination to wait on her kids hand and foot, so all three of us grew up taking on more and more of the household chores like cooking and cleaning. Since I'm the oldest - three years older than Elizabeth, five years older than Theresa - I'm the one who got started the soonest. Elizabeth and Theresa are the ones who continued on learning how to cook for a family, and they're hard to match, but when it comes to cooking something small and fancy, I've got them beat. I love the Barefoot Contessa.
3.) I was born in a small town in Louisiana. My sisters and I have the same father, but he never married my mother. After Theresa was born, Mama said enough was enough, if she was going to have to depend on herself to raise her kids anyway, she wasn't going to be at some man's beck and call while she was at it. So she packed us all up and moved us to a town where there's a college around every corner, yet she still have a fighting chance of keeping us off the streets and out of jail. And then she made sure that she didn't raise me to act like my father. She wasn't expecting me to be gay, but I do know how to accept responsibility.
4.) I usually top. It's not that I have issues about masculinity = topping and I have bottomed before, it's just that I'm not as sensitive as other guys, so bottoming doesn't do much for me. I also tend to attract guys who prefer to bottom, anyway.
5.) I hate cutting my toe-nails. It's impossible for a person to handle their own feet and prevent the nail clippings from flying all over the place, and I can think of few things as disgusting as nail clippings clinging to the mats in the bathroom, and there's no way I'd do it in a room that actually has a carpet. Therefore, I pay money to go to one of those salons that do pedicures. If someone has to clean up nail clippings, let them do it.
6.) I look incredible in drag. Especially in gold lame. Noxema Jackson, eat your heart out.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/mood/lierre/classics/happy.gif) amused
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October 3rd, 2007
04:12 am
Ben not only continued hanging out at the hospital until I was finally discharged, he also followed me home. I'm not sure why he's still interested. Yes, I'm buff and pretty, and yes, I have a hefty bank balance. That can't be enough. I haven't shown this boy a moment of true kindness, or even any real interest beyond one night of meaningless sex. There's no reason he should still be chasing me. Instead of exploring the other opportunities he could be finding in the rest of this town's community, he's sticking it out. I don't know if that's annoying or flattering, but he's been a handy little helper. He even attempted to cook for me. It was nice of him to try, and I actually did appreciate the gesture, but the next time he suggested it, I sent him on a run for take-out, instead.
Coming home was a bit of a shock. Apparently my absence unsettled Brenda, coming so soon after the fright she had over the strange dog in her territory. When I walked into my house, she acted as if I were a stranger, snarling and snapping, and then cowering away when I reached out to rub her ears. Brenda never usually acts this way. She's a friendly girl, obedient and smart. She's never treated any strangers I've brought to the house the way she treated Ben. Hell, she doesn't treat me that way. Either I need to socialize her more often, or less, so that she gets accustomed to staying by herself in the house. I hadn't realized it would affect her this badly. She got over it finally - I had to speak to her a little more sternly than I've done before, but she settled down. I'm not sure what Ben did, but she seems to have accepted him, as well.
The stitches came out on Tuesday, since I was healing too fast to allow them to stay in any longer. My shoulder had been mangled, or so I'm told - is it just me, or is it truly odd that the rips and tears have sealed into scars already? Ugly scars, maybe, but it's healing clean. There's no sign of infection, and both the doctor and the therapist have expressed professionally-understated shock that I'm recovering so easily. The prognosis was that I would need the sling for at least a month, and therapy to regain the use of my arm. It's only been a week, but I'm already back at work and although I'm still using the sling, it's pretty obvious that I only need it to remind myself not to over-exert, not to keep my shoulder completely immobilized. And I've exchanged the prescription pain-killers for OTC ibuprofen. I know I'm in good shape, but... damn.
Current Mood: okay
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