Page 33 of For Real

It was a night not easily left behind.

I lay awake, long beyond exhaustion, tasting the sour remnants of adrenaline, blue lights flashing in my memory.

Somebody had said to me: “We’ll kill you if he dies.”

He had. His heart in my hand, his torso spread open like a Rorschach test.

I could still smell petrol, burning skin, and metal from the crash sites.

Marijuana smoke from the house.

Blood.

The next evening, I sat at my computer and logged into the usual places. I looked at my ticks and crosses, my lists, and after a moment I removed blindfolds, and then I removed gags. That would let somebody take my sight. Take my voice. I let the idea possess me slowly until yes, I felt something. A quiver of uncertainty. Fear, unfurling into something else entirely.

I considered breath play and then left it alone. I had no wish to become a statistic.

After a while, I fell into an exchange of instant messages. And an hour later, I was calling a taxi to take me to a stranger’s address. But halfway there, I asked the driver to stop and turn back.

What was I doing?

Just…what was I doing?

I sent my apologies, but received no response.

Which left me in bed, alone, still seeing blue lights, one hand on my largely disinterested cock, the other resting against my throat, where nineteen-year-old Toby Finch had touched me once.

* * *

For the next few days, I stayed at the hospital until nine or ten, sometimes eleven, at night. There was no shortage of things to occupy me there, and anything else had become almost unbearable.

Sleep came more easily when my body conquered my mind.

One night in early January, as I crossed the road to my house, I noticed an oddly shaped pile of shadows on my doorstep—probably either somebody else’s lost recycling or one of those charity collection bags. Annoying.

But then it moved.

For a moment, I was alarmed. And then disbelieving: it was Toby uncurling, getting to his feet, his hands tucked into the pockets of an oversized hoodie. And then I was frantic with a joy I had absolutely no right or wish to feel.3

It was too dark for me to be able to see much more than the outline of him—hunched shoulders, jutting-out elbows, weight resting a little bit defiantly on one leg—but even that was enough to stir me like a touch upon the strings of a long-silent harp.

I wanted to run to him, drag him into my arms, turn his face into the light—see the shape of his mouth, the colour of his eyes, his pointy chin. Because in that moment of recognition, all I could think was how truly and deeply I’d missed him. And while I had never expected to see him again, some unacknowledged part of me had nevertheless grieved and hoped and waited.

“What…” I managed. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” That was his duh voice. He shifted slightly, hands digging deeper, thin body growing taut and tense.

“Yes, but—”

“Look.” His head came up, the moonlight catching in his eyes, making them shine. “You’ve totally ruined me. And…and I think you should take some fucking responsibility for it. Or…or like at least fucking apologise.”4

I stared at him. Some rational part of me was wondering if I wanted to be angry or concerned about the teenage stalker waiting on my doorstep. Apparently I didn’t. “God, Toby, what’s wrong? What did I do?”

“What did you do?” His voice broke. “You were perfect. Don’t you understand? Fucking perfect. And you gave me stuff I’ve been wanting and dreaming about my whole fucking life. And also the best sex I’ve ever had. And now I’m just supposed to…supposed to…what? Settle for less than that? Pretend like nothing’s changed when you changed everything?”

His hands flew out of his pockets in a pale flash and covered his face. He spun away from me, and I realised he was crying.

Wordless and helpless, I watched his back shake. Then I came up the steps and put my arms around him. Toby. It was all I could think, his name gleaming in my mind like a talisman of hope. “I’m sorry.”

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