domingo, 9 de junio de 2013

QUEER AS A CLOCKWORK ORANGE

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captionstojerkby: "Good morning." "Mornin'." In some sense, we...



captionstojerkby:

"Good morning."

"Mornin'."

In some sense, we met because we both were broke/cheap, because he didn't want to shell out for a gym membership and I didn't want to pay four bucks (or however much it is) for overpriced coffee at some cookie-cutter corporate coffeehouse. So instead I'm out here everyone morning, sipping my coffee and watching the sun rise as he runs up and down the stairs. 

He lives three floors down, I think—at least that's where he starts on the days I beat him out here, on the days when I can look down through the grating and see him bending over, lacing up. I don't know for sure, though—we've honestly never said much to each other except those short little greetings. There's no need to, really; even when the sex started it was largely silent, largely without words, largely just the polite thing to do.

Even so, I feel like I know him. I know that's weird, borderline stalkerish, but at this point our silence is so companionable, you know? It's like we've spent so much time together, him, me, the birds, the sun, the morning, the cityscape. It's not like we don't talk because we're shy—of course we're not shy; I give him a blowjob in broad daylight five days a week. It's because there's really nothing left to say.

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