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There are about a ton of writers out there on the internets who can write fluffy, sappy romances. I am not one of them. But I think there's enough of a gay factor for me to post these up here, if not, apologies.




What It Takes

His room is pretty much the worst shithole you'll ever see. He probably knows what's under every pile of dirty clothes, hidden by every dustball or magazine. But all I know is the bed and the area around it.

The grey ceiling that isn't paint but solid rock. The crappy little light. How it almost looks blue in the gloom, how his stubble starts and then stops because the stark shadows cut it off and how it's cold. The mattress that's like laying on a rock (laying on his floor) no matter how much it's been used.

How he's sitting up, staring straight ahead. How even though we seemed pretty close last night neither of us is talking. Or touching. Or even looking.

I get up first, maybe because I'm closer to the edge of the bed. I grab my briefs and my jeans and pull them back on, scratch my head, and end up in his bathroom. My hands clutch the sides of the sink, and I glare up into the mirror. I've got a little stubble too. Just like him, I look a little mean, a little mysterious.

For all we know of each other this is a rented apartment. He doesn't live here. These aren't my clothes. I'll go home, gel my hair, and go yachting. He meets his kids and his wife. He pays the bills, for all we know. Maybe not.

And without that deception, neither of us would be here. It's the blurred story made up from what we say to each other, half lies and half truths that slipped out, together with our own fantasies. It's what keeps us together.

I'm really a dentist. Or an archeologist. Or an artist. But he doesn't like to think of that because it makes me real. To him, I'm something more rugged, more manly.

He's not a person but a fantasy. A composite image of everything I've ever wanted to be. The half of his growing beard (the one he might just shave off before greeting his fiancee) that's stuck in the shadow is the part I pay attention to. The part that's on the streets at night.

My job changes depending on the night. What he does for a living depends on how I feel. (He's a drug dealer. He's a hitman. He's a serial killer. He's whatever it takes to keep me coming back.)

I shove his toothbrush in my mouth and start brushing. This part of everyone's daily ritual that isn't important to him or me in the night, but today I'm running late and I'm using his stuff.

This doesn't ruin the fantasy. He is still looking straight ahead, staring at the rock wall in his bedroom. I'm not brushing my teeth. He's not going to make an omelette once I leave. (Don't let it in your head that he's a person.)

From halfway across the apartment, his voice. "Do you love me?"

My response is indistinct, muted through the toothbrush in my mouth. This jars him. (Don't let it in your head that he's a person.)

He repeats. "Do you love me?"

I spit. Paste and saliva miss their target and dribble down my stomach, into my pants. I wipe off the residue with my hand, go back to his room, put on my shirt. Plain white t-shirt, no bands or logos or anything recognizable. "No."

"Good."

My shoes on, I head towards the exit of his apartment. As the door clicks shut behind me, I shut out the sounds of pots and pans getting knocked around. I head down the metal stairs towards my car, clasping my jacket shut against the cold.

I don't go home. (Just don't.)




Soulmates, in theory

I have a theory.

Soulmates. Those oft-sought, rarely-found dream lovers who agree with you on damn near everything but don't argue about what they don't, who could never think about cheating on you, who value you over work every time, who no matter how long you're with them you never get tired of seeing their face. Those shining stars, those blooming roses. The one-in-a-millions.

There are, last time I looked it up, 6.5 billion people on this planet.

Barring the potential for future interplanetary romances or time travel, one-in-a-million, that's about 6500 people who could be your soulmate, who you could spend the rest of your life with. It's all a matter of which one of them you happen to stumble upon. Or not, hey, there are plenty of people who get divorces or never get married or whose loved ones get hit by buses. It happens.

So I am in a diner, considering this. Again. I think it's a wonderful theory but I can never quite explain it to people. They don't get it. I don't think they want to.

Something dawns on me, then. I'm gay. My numbers are not entirely accurate. I feel it is most important to fix this, so I do the math quickly. Okay, removing the female gender from my calculations, I have 3250 males wandering the planet with the potential to be my everything.

This is somewhat unsettling.

Let me explain this with examples.

That man that just rode past this diner on his motorcycle? If he hadn't eaten a hot dog before he left the city, if he had waited just a little longer to satisfy his hunger, he may have stopped in here. He may have started talking to me, we may have exchanged e-mails, and we may have spent the rest of our lives in each other's arms.

But it's not only their fault, their mistakes.

If I had driven just a little faster? If I had entered this diner before that couple, I may have been seated by Andrew instead of by Carly, and he may have spilled water on me, and somehow in the future, we may go through our work days waiting until we could go home and see each other.

But, in all probability, it would not have worked out that way.

3250 into 6.5 billion is .0000005 of the entire world population.

The likelihood of running into a specific .0000005 is not much.

The amount of romance novels depicting such relationships are therefore rather misleading.

But I'm not bitter. No.

Because, even though I do not have a soulmate, I have something you don't.

I have a theory.

This is something different and I'm glad to say it's a good different. After reading both story I was always surprised by the outcome or simply the way you described the characters behavior and attitude without over doing it.
Over all great plot, characters and writing skills. 3nodding
I'd love to read more,do post it up~ surprised