5. Addiction / Fag

BEFORE YOU START READING THIS STORY, YE BE WARNED.

This story contains homosexual relationships and semi-graphic references to gay sex.

5. Addiction / Fag

“I think this is what is going to kill me. My addiction to you.”

He had me pinned against the wall, the same spot he had shoved me to when I had opened the door for him, only to be attacked by hands and tongue and teeth.

“I'm not an addiction,” I replied, jaw clenched at the speed of the assault, bringing my own strength into it, “I'm just a fad you're going through.”
He pulled me closer and bit my shoulder, licking what would later be (purple, painful, wonderful) bruises, pushing clothes off. I grabbed his shoulders, pushed us towards the bedroom.

“Whatever this is,” he groaned, bucking against me, “it's still going to kill me.”
Quickly, come on, where's the lube, more, finally, finally.

He hit something in me, and I gripped his back so hard he would have scratches that would still be red in the morning (mine mine mine).
“You're not just a fad, you're an obsession. I can't stop thinking about you, about us, about this.”

Bite, lick, suck.

“You are my drug. And that makes me an addict.”

And we melted into the bed, clutching at each other in relief. But I knew then, as I know now, that none of what he said was true. He may be an addict, but I was just a temporary fix.

Not enough.

I met him in a bar. I had been dragged out drinking by my friends after a particularly bad day at work.

He had walked over to the bar in confident strides, all dark and mysterious, pulling off a black leather motorcycle jacket. Your typical bad boy. I'm a sucker for a bad boy in leather.

My friends had abandoned me at the bar to go dancing, but I wasn't in the mood.

He was charming. He came over holding a beer in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other. Told me to pick my poison.
I took the beer. He grinned and inclined his head to acknowledge the fact that while I might not be dressed in biker leathers, it didn't mean that my lanky frame and bright tie defined me.

“Good choice.” He held out his hand, “Jack Rodgers.”

“Landon.”

He gave a low chuckle, “Keeping your last name close, away from the stranger. Nice move.”

I took a swig of the beer, “Gotta be careful.”

He sat down on the barstool opposite me, “Yes you do.”

I know it sounds like something from some cheesy chick flick, but we clicked.
We talked for hours, until one of my friends tumbled into me, completely blind chance sloshed, sobbing loudly about his boyfriend having an affair with a woman. The drama of the gay community – when oh when will the drama end?

“Want a cigarette?”
He proffered the pack, the image of (burnt, blackened, human) lungs partly covered by his hand.
“Don't smoke, sorry.”

“That's good.” he said, “Takes a strong man to resist that, with people like us.”
I didn't ask what he meant.
He looked at the pack for a long moment before taking a single cigarette out.
“Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
I did mind. I do mind. I don't like the smell of smoke when it hits the back of my throat and makes me cough. I don't like the taste of it when it melts into my saliva from someone else's tongue.

But seeing Jack smoke would cement the image of him in my mind, and it went with the bad boy image. It was sexy.
“Of course not.”

He gave one of those side smiles I had come to associate with (imminent, hot, rough) sex.
“Yes you do.”

He put the packet back in his pocket, pulled out a lighter and lit the cigarette.

“But you don't want to say so in case I decide that I'm not interested any more.”

He took a deep drag and blew the smoke out. I could see why people called it a plume.

“I'll have you know, Landon, I'm interested. I'm very interested.”

It didn't take long for us to start going out.

Well, I say going out like we were going on dates. We got together and had sex. Fucking amazing sex, but that is all it was. At least at the start.
At the very beginning, he would leave about ten minutes after we were done, but as our (relationship, hookup, dependency) thing progressed, the longer he would stay, until one day he just didn't leave.
He stayed for a week. He was respectful of my dislike of smoking, as well. If he wanted a fag, he would walk onto the balcony – once stark naked, after a particularly bruising session. He would make me breakfast before I went to work, he would come home two hours after me and he would crash into my world in a whirl of leather and kisses and cigarette smoke, knock me off my feet and push me onto the bed. For a week, until the Sunday morning.
He told me he was going to visit his mother.

I didn't believe him. Who would? But I did nothing.
He came back, mid-afternoon, smelling of flowers instead of smoke.
We watched a DVD and went to bed without having sex for the first night since I had known him.
He spent a couple of nights at his place, then came back with that disarming smile of his, bottle of tequila in one hand and Indian takeaway in the other. I never even finished my dansak.

He did the same thing the next Sunday. Said he was going to visit his mother and he would be back by four.

Again, I didn't believe him, but this time I followed him. He walked to the corner shop, where he bought a bunch of flowers. Instead of his bike, he took the Tube.

I followed him all the way to East Putney.
I stopped when he walked into a nursing home.

Well damn. He really was visiting his mother.
I went back home feeling guilty for doubting him and following him. What he did with his time was his own business. After all, we might be fuck-buddies, but it's not like we were actually together or anything.
He came back with the hugest smile on his face.
And then we were.

“I was sitting behind the counter today”, he said, sprawled on the sofa, watching me make dinner, “and all I could think about were your hands.”
I almost sliced through the chopping board.
“My hands?”

He sat up, one arm around the back of the sofa, drawing patterns on it distractedly, staring at me from under (black, gorgeous, soft) his lashes.

“Yeah. They're really soft. Except the fingertips, where you have calluses from typing all day.”

I continued slicing peppers, pretending not to be affected by this.
His tongue slid around his mouth, tracing under his teeth, licking his bottom lip.

“The freckles make me want to connect the dots with kisses until you can't stand it and grab my hair and pull me up to kiss you.”

His eyes were half-lidded now, as he imagined the scene, a smirk making its way onto his face.

My hands were shaking, and I had to close my eyes to stop his from drilling (intense, lustful, dangerous) holes into me.

“And your fingers. Your fingers are long and pale and elegant, as if you played the piano. You play me too, leaving burning fingerprints on my body. You stroke my skin and know exactly what chords will bring me to pieces.”

I was gripping the handle of the knife tight enough that I could see the (stark, painful, anticipatory) white of my knuckles.
He, on the other hand, was smirking more widely now, sure of the effect his words having.
“And note by graceful note, you bring me to the edge of insanity, playing me, toying with me, until that dissonant chord strikes and your hands hold me until the sound has faded.”
That's when I realised I was in love with him. Addicted to what he did to me.

He moved in after we had officially been dating for almost four months.
That's a quick move, you might say. I would agree. But the contract of his place, a tiny but expensive studio apartment in the middle of town, was coming to an end and, when he mentioned it, it felt like the right thing to do.
“Why should I find somewhere else to use when I can live with you and feed my addiction every day?”

I didn't know how to argue with that and frankly, it led to some delicious moments, so I wasn't going to.

We were exclusive, of course, so neither of us were looking at other dating options.

He was mine now. I would wake up every morning and open my closet to find leather and the slight smell of his cigarettes.
I eventually let him smoke inside – he was paying half the rent after all. He always made sure to smoke on the balcony when I was home, though, and to air the place before I got home if he did smoke inside. Still charming.
Having him around all the time made me happy. My psychiatrist friend called it social validation – if Jack was happy when I left the house, I would be for the rest of the day. I even got a promotion at work for the unexpected increase in my productivity the happiness caused.
We were together for eight months. Eight months. I hadn't ever been with anyone that long before. I felt like I could live with Jack forever, start the day with a kiss and end it with still-incredible sex, in a haze of happiness and cigarettes and Indian takeway and yeah, why not, maybe even love.

I should have known it was too good to last.

“Fuck, you taste so good. I could get addicted to that taste.”

I had just got home from work, expecting a quiet night in with Jack, who was supposed to be home in an hour. I was tired, the boss had told the department off for something that Accounting had done wrong, and I was in the mood for nothing much.
The smell of smoke was stronger than it usually was, it went up my nose, making me sneeze.

“You can taste any time you like, baby.”

And then this. I didn't know how to deal with this.

“I'm going to have to take you up on that offer, you know.”

I could hear Jack's sideways smile in his voice, and the creak of the mattress as they moved.
“Come on, come on, don't make me beg for it...”

“I kind of like it when you beg.”
I walked into the bedroom, pulling off my tie and throwing it to the side.
It took them five minutes to notice me standing there.

The guy Jack had brought home didn't even look phased. Jack grinned at me over the guy's head.
“Hey Landon. Want to join us?”

I shook my head and my voice went cold, “Get out.”

He smirked at me, rhythm still smooth.
“Can I finish first?”
I stormed out (bastard, bastard, bastard, slut).
When I came back, there was a battered packet of cigarettes on the table, and a lit fag perched on the edge of the kitchen sink.

That's it, really.
I had always known, no matter what he said, that it wouldn't last, that I was just a temporary fix, the morphine that fed his heroin habit while he tried to quit. But men like Jack don't know how to quit.
He put me out like the burning end of one of his cigarettes. Stamped me out on the pavement before taking a few steps and pulling another one out.
What can I say? I was just another fag in the life of a chain smoker.