the start is better than the end: i haven't edited the last paragraph. any critique or comments definitely desperately welcome:
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are we still at the beach? have a hundred years gone by? the floor feels too soft. my legs are too heavy and i can't smell the sea. i can smell old clothes, baked beans and that incense (you claim came) from tibet. i smell you. i smell you on my skin. opening my eyes and the dim flicker of your lightbulb blinds me. forehead tightens. did i fall back into your bed again? taste of vodka and something else in my mouth. at first i hear you: your deep indifferent breaths of sleep. tilting my head i see your naked torso facing away from me, your modesty kept by the duvet thrown across your legs. your skin is almost orange in the dim glow, you have not turned into a monster, you are still the handsome boy who won me over. i watch your gorgeous hips, thin waist, strong shoulders settled in hibernation; and to watch you sleeping is to see a famous work of art in a closed museum. you are the mona lisa, you are the sistine chapel. unconscious, you seem more innocent than your wet tongue in my mouth (and elsewhere) did a few hours before. reaching my hand gently down, cautious not to wake you, i can still feel where you were inside me. i am not as pure as you: my veins stick out along my thin arms like warnings. my fingers touch my thighs, and downwards i bend my knees up and trace patterns where the duvet hides my body. earlier i fell against you, under you, into you; but now i am scared to touch. i want to fall back asleep with my head rested against your chest. but if i touch, you might disappear. you could wake up and leave the room: or you could crack into tiny pieces. i don't trust magic the same way you do. you are only a foot away from me.
i watch the ceiling, that bland magnolia terrain. i spy fluorescent plastic stars glowing slightly in the dim light: you must have been eight years old or so when they were new and out the packet. maybe you had trouble sleeping on your own, you needed an artificial sky; now you have trouble not sleeping with any boy who smiles at you. i imagine you back then: naive skin, hairless, baby teeth. no cigarettes choking your lungs; no spots across your forehead; no hair troubling your upper lip. the tenderness of childhood. i shift onto my side. staring at the ceiling, your plastic stars cascade against my naked skin. i close my eyes and imagine you, turned away, opening yours and gazing upon me. i strain my ears to hear the mattress shift as you turn over to run your fingers aross my side. you do not. instead you start to snore. i need to leave, i want to walk the empty streets; but i'm drugged by sleep, my body is heavy and your bed is warm. i want to wake you up on purpose. i want to prove you're not such a work of art. i need to address my issues: why do i only feel handsome when you're on top of me, when your eyes gaze down into mine like i'm the most beautiful creature you ever saw? do you do this to all the men? oh, i spread my legs like a good boy. i open my legs and drag you under. i walk the line between saint and slut and yet somehow it is you who decides when and where i can kiss you. it is you who keeps my legs apart. you are my commander: i swallow all of your evils.
be calm, be calm, be calm. be daring, david. slowly and shyly i move across the mattress. the bedsheets are fine silk against my shaking hand. this close i am warmed by the heat of your body mid-slumber. this close i can hardly breathe. this close i forget that a few hours before you were closer, faster, nearer, harder. sometimes when you fuck me, you're a stranger. we're reckless, combined, chained together, until you buck your head and your hips and groan that groan i know so well; but somehow, to be alone with you tonight, as you sleep and i lie awake, is something far more precious.
i inch across the bed towards you, cautious as a thief. the mattress is treacherous: any creak or squeak could wake you, and i prefer you when you're unconscious. i remember the night now: the sparkle of miranda's dress in the discolights; the vodka and the cider and the unnecessary rum; the clatter of smart shoes (and your contrary trainers) down the steps towards the sea. i remember spinning in circles. i remember falling to the ground in laughter. i remember miranda's wide toothy smile, and how maude swept across the dancefloor, drunk, oblivious, ecstatic. i remember my ninth cigarette because you lit it for me, your warm hands cupping mine in the cold air. you stretched out across the stony beach, pebbles scattering. we sat opposite the girls, the moon shone down, the city lights glittered; and i felt like i belonged to you. maude fell asleep in miranda's lap. her fringe danced timidly in the sea breeze. miranda wrapped her jacket over maude and gazed at us with a melancholy look in her amber eyes. "it's a beautiful night," she said, "and i'm a little drunk." you shifted and the comfort of your shoulder against mine disappeared; you threw a pebble at maude to wake her. we stood up shakily and walked home through the drunks and the sleeping homeless. miranda hugged me close as she and maude went their way at fisherton street. "careful, david," she muttered into my ear. we fell up the stairs to your bedroom. the moment the door was closed we fell against each other.
this is not important now. i can feel your arm touching mine, its hairs tingling against my own. your face is turned away from me. your chest rises and falls; my heart thumps so hard it must be breaking. nearer to you. nearer to you. i let my body untense, i let my hand unfurl - fingers brush against your hips - the sensation has me gasping.
as i lift up the bedsheets to crawl fully against you, like a homesick foetus, you wake up and throw yourself out of bed. "fuck's going on?" i shrink to my side. you're half-asleep, and suddenly standing naked before me. your flaccid cock slops from side to side as you stumble against the wall and smack off the light with an outstretched and angry palm. everywhere darkness; darkness but for your plastic stars, grinning from the ceiling. you crash into bed, muttering swearwords. i remain silent. your vague syllables and sleepy breaths tingle against my arm. "who's this?" oh no. you slide towards me smelling of our shared stink of vodka. "who dat?" you say. and then your hand is softly upon my cheek feeling for my bone structure - do you recognise my bones? my nose? - and, unbelievably, your other hand cups my face too. "david," you drawl, "it's you, oh it's you, it's you." you're drunk and half-awake but the words set me on fire. my mouth smashes into a smile i cannot control and couldn't predict. my body swings towards you without a thought, and your arms pull me to you. "it's me, it's me," i whisper. your mouth is against my mouth and your chest is against my chest. i feel our hipbones slide against each other: your cock curls by my cock: our legs fit together. your fingers draw those belated patterns up and down my back. you kiss my neck, mutter, "beautiful boy," and draw me closer to you. i shiver and i smile, fulfilled.
(my head fits beneath yours, beside your neck. your body cradles me. and it's better this way. this way you can't see that i'm crying. you wouldn't understand why i'm crying. "what's wrong?" you'd mumble. but nothing's wrong. i am just another boy to hold; you are just another boy to hold, too. everything is fine. i am in your embrace. it's all only fun. but can't you taste how desperate my hunger for you is? and this is why i cry.)