From Fat to Skinny

He came over my house today. We were home alone…

Our lips merge together. He seems to squirm and shudder underneath me but kisses back eagerly. He strains his neck to keep our lips from separating. The bed springs protest as our combined weight presses down on them.

His teeth bite at my bottom lip. A familiar sensation strains itself in my pants. He moans and the syllables vibrate down my throat.

His wrists are so thin I can pin his arms over his head with just one hand. I break off the kiss and pull back, staring down at him with lust raging in my eyes and pants. He looks so beautiful, sweaty with desire and squirming a little, as if he knows his clothes are a barrier to our flesh.

His own eyes are a murky blue-gray, half lidded and commanding me to keep going. My free hand cups his chin and I dive back to steal sweet air from his chapped lips. He whimpers pleadingly and bucks his hips impatiently. The friction is fucking fantastic so I oblige.

The hand cupping his face drops down to the fly of my pants. At first I fumble with it, fingers gone stupid with hormones, but he presses encouraging kisses to my lips and cheek and jaw line and I manage it and slide my pants down victoriously. My erection, freed from the denim, now pushes against the fabric of my briefs, which are infinitely easier to divest of one handed.

I bite down on his neck, teeth teasing his flesh, and for my efforts earn a breathy "oh fuck yes" that sends shivers up my spine.

He's still wearing a button down shirt and vest. His suit jacket sits forlornly in the desk chair, crumpled. I hastily work the buttons, letting go of restraining him to deal with the offending clasps, but eventually, panting, he shifts back and undoes them with practiced speed. However, he pulls the fabric away from his flesh with tantalizing, deliberate slowness. His pale white skin glistens with sweat. Bones show sharply, strong divots and protrusions the demarcations of his frame.

God help me but I actually find that hot. I crane my neck to press reverent kisses to his jutting collarbone. The taste of salt covers my tongue. My hands feel redundant if they aren't pressed against his sides, touching every inch of his flesh, running up and down his slender arms. He throws his head back and pants up at the ceiling. His fingers twist in my hair, pulling slightly on the roots. The sharp pain slices through the fog of lust and makes everything feel that much more real. I rake my fingernails on his back, fingers clawing at supple flesh and unyielding bone. His shoulder blades twitch.

"You're fucking amazing," he says. His voice sounds far away to my ears, almost drowned out by the sound of blood flooding a certain extremity.

I run my hand softly along his side and back, feeling his ladder like ribs and notched spine. His breathing hitches as my fingers tease their way into the waistband of his pants.

The tuxedo pants are a rental, with an adjustable waist, which makes it exceedingly easy for my fingers to slip by. I can feel his hip bone clearly under my palm. He's quiet, holding his breath. I nip at his jaw, his lips, and he returns them automatically.

My hand is down the front of his pants. My fingers brush through the coarse hair and make first contact with the warmest part of him. He shivers at how cold my fingers are.

Something doesn't feel right. He's gone still, not even reacting to the gentle kisses I press futilely against his lips.

"Are you okay?" I ask him.

He doesn't say anything. His eyes are half closed and he nods mechanically.

Ice water floods my veins, chilling me to the bone and boner. I hastily remove the offending hand.

"Oh fuck," I stammer. "Seb, I--"

"It's fine," he says. His voice is flat.

"Shit, no it's not. Jesus. I-- I'm sorry, I should have--"

"Keep going," he insists. "It's fine!"

"Look, I don't think--"

"What?" he demands, the words hot and vicious. "Remembered you don't like pussy? Can't stop thinking that you're fucking a girl with penis envy? Can't ignore the fact there's some very important machinery missing?"

The venom to his words hits me like a ton of bricks. I step back. He rises up, propping himself on his elbows and glaring daggers at me; his voice steadily climbs in volume and pitch.

"You wanted it until you remembered!" His voice cracks as he yells, sounding shrill and girlish. His cheeks flame with either embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. "Keep going, damn it. Just stick it in there and fuck me damn it!"

Suddenly I feel lost at sea. I can see a pit of snakes in his mind, a minefield, and I don't know how to traverse it without destroying everything. I swallow hard. A chill runs through my body. I want nothing more than to pick up my pants and get to the root of it but at the same time I'm scared. Jesus fuck me but I'm scared. Carefully, I say, "I don't think you really mean that."

He falls back against the bed and grinds his palms against his eyes, trying his damnedest to erase the tears before they can fall.

"But you were so eager and ready until you remembered I don't have a penis," he whispers. His voice is soft and tear soaked.

I pray silently that my blind fumbling won't make things worse. "I stopped because you stopped."

"I just want to be normal," he whimpers. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you're stuck with a basket case. I'm sorry I can't give you what you want. I'm sorry. You can do so much better, Marcus, I'm sorry."

I lie down next to him. My shoulder presses against his, my leg lines up with his. There's so much wrong with what he just said. I don't know where to begin. He never calls me Marcus. I'm Midler or babe or doll. I've never been Marcus. He is broken, I'll admit, and I sure as hell didn't know that when I jumped into this feet first but I really don't care. I love him. I want the best for him and I want him to be happy.

"I don't want anyone but you," I tell him truthfully. "And I don't want to hurt you. That's why I stopped. Because it seemed like you were the one who didn't want to keep going."

He moves one hand to stare dully at me, some unfathomable emotion in his eyes.

"And I'm fine with that," I point out. "I want you to be happy. That's what would make me happy. I wanted to pleasure you, not-- not-- not molest you."

His lips twist into something that could be construed as a smile, or some dim mockery of it. His laugh escapes, shaky and staccato.

It's so fucked up but I laugh too.

Because we're so fucked up.