be still (goldenglitter) wrote in boysex,
be still

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Oh my god. I feel so vintage.

Warning: drugs + religious imagery

When he does cocaine it's all about sex. It's about makeup and feather boas and his loose tongue always falling out of his mouth. It's about his rough voice trying to whisper "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me" into my ear. It's about his fingers dragging over his bare stomach and his thumb sliding up and past his lips. It's about Daron, trying to look pretty with white dust falling from his nostril.

I stay with him when he goes on his binges. I don't know why. It makes me sick sometimes. To see his pupils dialate and his fingers twitch and to hear him speak the most random and nonsensical things into the night air. It scares me, utterly petrifies me until I have to study the carpet or my shoes or the blank hotel walls or anything that's not him.

He gets insane and says things that rattle in my brain for hours. I can't ever make sense of them, no matter how hard I strain. He says things that aren't true. He presses his tongue flat against my cheek and licks me up to my ear. He whispers "I love you, Shav." and I feel sick because he's lying. He's a fucking strung out, lying, sack of shit.

But still, I'm here to watch over him. Just in case he goes crazy. Just in case he vomits in his sleep. Just in case he kills himself and I have to explain it to the fucking cops.

He's standing on the bed, bouncing like a fucking toddler, and screaming. He's screaming "Oh my god, I feel so fucking good." His eyes are open wide and twice the size they should be. His bottom lip quivers and he gnaws on it until he draws blood. The muscles in his bare chest are twitching. He's fucking buzzing out of his mind.

And then he gives me that look.

He fixes those eyes on me and licks his lips. That look. The look that makes me do anything he wants. See, I pretend to want to take care of him, but I'm really only here to fuck him. It takes nearly a gram of coke for him to get there, but when he does...

That's what I'm here for.

He falls back on the bed. Looking like a mockery of some ancient religious relic. He's in his 'Jesus Christ' pose that doubles as his 'fuck me' pose. There's something so inherently evil and seductive about it. About him, sprawled out on the bed, with his leather pants already unbuttoned and sweat rolling off his chest.

He says "Come here, Shavo." He says "Come fuck me, Shavo." He says "Come, Shavo."

I don't catch up with myself until I'm on top of him. Naked skin against naked skin. Sliding on slick streams of sweat and tasting coke residue on his skin. He breaths in a way that isn't like breathing at all. It's jittery and jiving just like the rest of him. He's out of his fucking mind. He's saying things like "I bet you'd fuck me twice as hard if I was really Jesus Christ."

I fuck him twice as hard just to keep him quiet.
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