InsaneJournal

Current mood:

scared

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.