I’m pathetic.

Fucking… pathetic.

For someone who’s supposed to *notfuckingcare* about anything…

I’m a goddamn failure at it.

Justin is only trying. Pushing at me over and over to try and take money from him. Ragging on me for not letting anyone help me. For being a fucking stubborn asshole.

God help him, he’s trying. And I’m about five seconds from… from…

I wanna say wringing his neck. I wanna say cutting him down. I wanna say going out and picking up a trick and fucking him in the backroom of Babylon.

But…

Hmph.

No. I guess I’m about five seconds from fucking giving in.

*sigh*

But I didn’t give in, and instead his mother is walking around the loft. Surveying it, wandering around, cautiously peeking in the bathroom, imagining, no doubt a hundred things a mother doesn’t want to imagine about what her son does here. She’d be fucking floored if she only knew the thousands of things we *have* done. I mean, I did at least have the presence of mind to put away the toys and slip the clasp on the cabinet. Usually that’s reserved for Gus’ visits. But… Jennifer’s poking around my house, and well…

Yeah, that’s just a little too close for comfort.

I just fucking hope she doesn’t ask me why I have hooks screwed into the ceiling. Jesus-fucking-Christ.

I hear the thump-thump-thump up the steps and brace myself for Justin to come in. I know he’s going to be pissed. Fuck, I already know everything he’s going to say.

Went through this before. Went through this with Mikey a couple years ago when I was being sued and I thought I had to sell the loft then.

Yes, this is my home. This is my place. And I can’t fucking imagine living anywhere else. But what the fuck else am I gonna do? I can’t pay my bills. I can’t start my own fucking agency – I tried, and none of the clients are interested in coming in right away. None of them want to pay my retainer, when they’ve already paid up the ass to Gardner.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK, why was I so fucking good at my job?

I was actually looking forward to working for myself. Actually thought it could be pretty fucking cool. No one to answer to, no one to report to—except myself. I think I’d do a kick ass job at running my own agency.

But.

Big fucking but.

Now I’m on to Plan B.

So Jennifer’s wrapping up, and Justin’s looking at us back and forth, with probably no fucking clue why his mother and I would be having any kind of conversation. And then I break it to him. Tell him that I have to sell the loft.

Fuck. It hurts saying it.

Jennifer leaves, and still Justin’s looking at me… with like, disappointment or something. I don’t know what it is. And I don’t know why he cares so fucking much. Christ.

And then it starts. The ‘why’s’. The ‘there-has-to-be-another-way’s’. The ‘I-thought-this’, ‘I-thought-that’.

But I’ve gone through why. I’ve gone through every other way. And I’ve thought every fucking thing, and this is what it comes to. I could get a lot for this place. And I can still buy something. Cheaper. Or rent.

God. Rent.

Fuck.

I walk around this place, my home, trying not to really think about saying goodbye. Justin’s trailing after me. He’s stopped trying to figure out the why’s, and started in on the ‘why did I’s’.

But this isn’t his fault. No fucking way. I listened to myself as I always have. Maybe having him around made me care more than I would’ve. But. It was my decision, through-and-through.

My fucking grave. And now I have to lie in it.

I tell him that it’s not that bad. Seriously. I don’t know why he cares. Yeah, he’s lived here a lot, and I understand that it’s his home too. I get that. But, fuck, life will go on. I get ready for another string of ‘what-about’s’, get ready to grit my teeth and start looking in the classifieds for an apartment to rent. Get ready to sell the remainder of my shit.

But.

Fucking Justin.

He reaches out to me, grabbing my arm and breaking me out of my trance as I remember all the things I’ve put into this place. Into my home.

“It’s more than that,” he says, and my eyes fall from the skylight to his face. “It’s where we made love for the first time.”

And he says it… so completely seriously, so completely fucking honestly…

I can’t help it. Yeah, he’s maybe kidding a little, inside. Yeah, he’s just fucking with me, pushing me, to see how I’ll react. Yeah… he’s also being totally serious. Honest.

My defenses spring up, and I bounce back some meaningless words about rimming him and fucking his brains out. I can’t deal with that other shit right now. Don’t want to think of the thousand memories I have in this place that makes it more than stainless steel counter tops and imported Italian fixtures and makes it a home.

No… don’t want to think about that.

And I expect him to either laugh at me and push me away, or to get angry with me for being so fucking heartless.

But then he does neither of those things.

Just purses his lips, biting back a tiny smile that finally spreads across his face… lets a humm slip through his lips. He nods. He fucking knows me.

Blinks. Stares at me. Deep blue eyes locked on mine. Challenging me. Just… fucking keeping me there, and he smiles a little at my words, and knows I don’t mean them, and smiles a little more because he knows that maybe I mean something else…

And…

“It was love to me,” he says, and suddenly I have no words. No fucking response to give him. Because maybe, just maybe…

The smile slips from his lips and he’s totally serious. Fucking serious like he’s never been serious before.

And I wrap my fingers up into his soft hair. And I feel his warm pulse beneath my thumb. And I feel his neck expand and collapse with air.

And I pull him to me, and kiss him.

Maybe it wasn’t love for me too. But maybe it was more than just a rim job and a fabulous fuck. Maybe it was something else.

I can’t smile anymore and I can’t think anymore and I do what I know, what I want, what I feel… I put my hands on either side of his face, and his fingers find my waist, and his touch is strong, and confident, and holy fuck it felt good not to push those words away. It felt fucking *good* to let those words pass by and hang in the air, and it felt good to hear them. Felt good to let him think it and let him know that it was true. And let him know that no matter what, if that’s what was true for him, I’ll never, ever take that away.

“There can always be a first time somewhere new,” I breathe into his face.

He smiles. “True,” he says, lips brushing against my skin. “Wouldn’t be the same though,” he whispers, his fingers scrunching up my shirt in his fists.

We kiss, a soft, tentative kiss. Then harder, then more, and more and more more more more more oh fuck, more… I pull off his shirt, and his fingers tear at the bottom of my tank top, yanking it over my head, and I slide my hand into the front of his jeans, feeling his full cock waiting for me…

And it’s a warm fall afternoon, the sun streaming in, beating down on the hardwood beneath my feet, and it’s full of light and so totally different…

So completely different from that first night, but so very much the same…

I remember that night, remember certain things, remember everything and nothing at the same time. Remember tasting bubble gum on his breath and knowing I had to be imagining it. Remember the scratch of his watch against my bare shoulder as he reached up to put his arms around me. Remember the way he almost fell over when I opened his pants and cupped his cock in my palm for that first time.

Remember all that so well, and remember feeling different and dominant and arrogant and like I wanted to take him. Have him. Knowing that I *did* have him and that I *could* take him and riding that fucking rush of power at knowing.

I wonder if he’s ever felt the same way about me.

He pulls his lips from mine, and presses his head to my chest, fingers shaking a little, and I wrap my arms around him. Feel like he’s going to lose it, like he’s just teetering. I don’t want him to get freaked about this. I don’t want him to hurt over this. I don’t. I fucking don’t.

I grab him tightly around the waist and lift him up, his cargo pants bunching up in my grip. He laughs suddenly out loud as he feet leave the ground and it makes me smile to hear him. Feel his hard cock pressed against my belly, and I walk carefully, carrying him up the few stairs to the bedroom, then throw him down on the bed.

He grins up at me, blond hair cascading out across the sheets, and I slowly start to unbutton my jeans, pulling my cock out to show him, stroking myself to full hardness. He runs his tongue across his lips, and sits up on the bed, but I push him back, climbing on top of him, holding myself over him, as he wriggles out of his pants.

He looks up at me expectantly. Confidently. So unlike that first time that I’d hardly believe it was the same boy. But of course he’s not a boy. He’s a man. He knows what he wants now. Knows what’s coming, what’s going to happen, what it’s going to feel like… knows that I’ll cry out when I cum, knows that I’ll pull his hair in ecstasy, knows every fucking move I’ll make just like I know every fucking move he’ll make…

And that’s just… so good.

I slide my legs between his thighs and sit up, pushing his legs open wide, brushing my hands up and down the soft hairs on his calves, his cock bobbing up, a bubble of pre-cum lacing the tip. He wriggles around on the pillow and reaches up for me, grabbing my hands in his, pulling me closer… I lean over him, pushing his legs up onto my shoulders as I do…

“Fuck me like the first time,” he whispers into my face, and a chill slides down my spine, remembering his innocence, his beauty, his trust. Remembering that fucking scared look, that pretense, that false bravado. Remembering silly words about TV shows and video games, and not hearing anything from him.

Not listening to him then.

Not… caring then.

I reach over and take a condom between my fingers, tearing it open with my teeth, and I pass it to him silently. I watch as he rolls it on me and smile to myself in anticipation—not just of the fuck, but of *this*. Loving this. Really loving this. So fucking different, so… I don’t know what, but it’s amazing to know that no matter what I do or what I have, I’ll always have this. I have him. Here, waiting for me. Wanting me. Always fucking wanting me.

Maybe he won’t want me forever.

But I think I’ve learned how to let him want me now.

I lean over him, and pull his calves over my shoulders, and start to push in… he’s clamped down really tight, and it *does* feel like the first time. Does feel like pushing into a virgin ass—his virgin ass. Does feel like taking him. Claiming him.

Needing him.

His head tilts back, and I know it hurts, he’s resisting me on purpose, to get that feeling. To remember that feeling. What it felt like that first time…

I brush my hand along his belly and whisper his name…

His lips move, barely, almost silent words leave his lips…

You remembered my name…  he whispers…

And it makes me smile. Makes me like this little game we’re playing.

Then he releases, lets go, opens wide and I slide inside him, deep inside him, deeper than I expected to go… we both gasp in surprise at the intensity, hold onto each other for a moment, kisses littering each other’s faces, tongues bathing our lips.

We know this too well now to ever possibly pretend that we don’t… the game is forgotten and we start fucking slowly, me pushing into his body, watching his face change with every thrust… he holds onto me tightly, pulling me into him as I leave each time. Dragging me back to him, slowly, tensing his whole body with the effort of holding me inside.

I slow to a stop, and cup his face in my palms, holding inside him hard, feeling him convulse around my cock, tight contractions that send waves through my body. His eyes are closed and I kiss his forehead, his skin so hot and dry beneath my lips, he feels like he’s burning inside.

Slide my lips across his brow, touch each one of his eyes and down his nose, just brushing skin on skin, and feeling him quiver with me inside… I reach his mouth and he parts his lips and opens his eyes, looking up at me, and I almost see that boy, almost see that look of wonder and amazement, almost see all that, but know I’m imagining it…

Can’t stop kissing him, just like that night, can’t take my lips from his face for more than a second, then have to reach down again and touch him again, hear those little gasps leave his lips as he begs for air, legs crushed down to his chest, body bent in two, letting me take him.

Slowly slide out of him, and slowly slide in, start fucking again, and reach for his cock, hot and hard, ready to shoot. Feels familiar, and I stroke him lightly, squeezing the tip, the way I know he likes… he reaches up for me again, pulling at my hair, and dragging me to him, we rock together, barely separating and it’s too much, too hard, too intense, his ankles cross over my neck and hold me to him so hard, so fucking hard, and all I hear are his high pitched breaths echoing in my ears, hand on my ass, pushing me inside him, and oh God, I feel the tingle and burn and oh…

Start to cum, and through the rushing and roaring and sudden escape, through the gasps and cries and heavy breaths, through the tight grip on my hair, my legs, through the mashing of my face into his neck, the smell of his sweat heavy in my nostrils… through all that…

I feel love.

And I can’t ever… give that away.

But it’ll be up to me to prove to him, that this place, this bed, this home… that none of it is important.

That *this* is what’s important. Not just the first time. Every time.

That we’re important.

And no matter what, that’s never going away.