Running the Hills

Six months ago to the day. That's how long it had been since I had seen Mike. I remembered the date exactly, mostly because the image of my digital bedside clock is burned into my mind's eye, the electric blue numbers, denoting the date and time that my life as I knew it ended.

I can still hear the door closing downstairs, the distinctive sound of Shannon coming in, dropping her keys loudly in the small porcelain tray by our front door, the mail following them, softer, flat. I remember the moment of sheer panic that took me, not so much washing over me, or enveloping me - one moment I was laying there, basking in post-orgasm bliss, mind dulled, every muscle relaxed, feeling Mike's hard body on mine, his hard cock buried up inside me, the next moment I was absolutely, totally paralyzed. The adrenaline that surged through me that moment had the reverse effect that adrenalin is supposed to. Normally it should allow a person to handle an unusually difficult situation, provide that extra burst. In this case I was overloaded. I went from total relaxation to total and utter brain lock instantly. My mind emptied, I nearly blacked out.

I could barely see Mike above me, looking down, panic in his face, but confusion as well. He knew something was wrong, but he hadn't quite grasped it. When you live with someone in the same house for years, you know every single sound, whether made by a person or just something that emanates from the house or the environment. You know exactly what it sounds like when your girlfriend comes home. Mike didn't know. He just knew something was wrong, but I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I felt him slowly draw out of me, and the pain and sudden emptiness stirred me. I pushed him off me, violently, rolling out from under him as he started to speak, and I turned to him and slapped a hand over his mouth, pointing desperately towards the door, shaking my head. I saw recognition in his eyes a millisecond before we both heard Shannon's voice from below, "Baby? Are you home?"

I pulled my hand away and looked around the room, barely able to think. Our clothes were everywhere. The bed was a mess. The room must have reeked of sex and man and sweat and cum. I could feel my own cum drying and sticky on my stomach, and I could feel Mike's hot cum leaking perversely from my still clenched asshole. At any other time I would have relished the feeling, would have masturbated to that sensation a hundred times down the road, but right now it made me want to scream, but I couldn't. All I could do was to frantically grab at clothes, throw them at Mike. He was doing the same, grabbing for clothes, mine or his, it didn't matter, grabbing them and looking around at the same time, trying to figure out where he would go. I heard her again, "Babe?"

Mike stared at me, hard, his muscles clenched, his jaw tight. "I'll be right down Sweetie!" My voice was barely a squeak. But her footsteps were already on the stairs. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I grabbed Mike and pushed him towards the bathroom, then grabbed and pushed him back towards the bed, to the floor, trying to get him to roll under the bed, desperate, my mind screaming, my blood pounding, and then Shannon was in the doorway and she saw me, standing naked, she saw Mike, naked on the floor, clothes scattered everywhere. She stood there for a long, long moment, staring mostly at Mike - it was almost funny, the expression on her face, I could see her mental contortions on her face as her mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing. No one spoke, Mike just laid there, half under the bed, and then I saw it click in Shannon's eyes and she made a soft gurgling sound and retched once, hard, nothing coming from her body, then again, and then she was on her knees, vomiting onto the bedroom floor.

Mike left quickly, not saying a word, and I wanted to leave too, not with him, just to leave, to run away, but I knew I couldn't. So I stayed, I got dressed as Shannon emptied her stomach and then collapsed to the floor, broken, sobbing. I tried to put a hand on her heaving shoulder and she nearly ripped my fingers off, her eyes flashing. I backed away without speaking, gathering my clothes, and went downstairs, still naked. I stood in the foyer for ten minutes, trying to think, piecing together everything that had happened and that was about to happen. Shannon was friendly with my family, but particularly with my younger sister. My sister would know. My parents would know. Our friends would know. I could feel my heart racing, and I almost had to kneel down, my head was so weak. My life was over. Everyone was going to know, everyone. And they did.

Shannon told my family everything. She kicked me out of our house when she finally made it downstairs. She didn't wait to hear anything, and I don't know what I would have said had she listened. She told me to get out, I did. I think I wanted to leave as much as she wanted me gone.

I checked into a motel, went back the next day, let myself in and grabbed some clothes and personal items. I got a call that evening from my sister, and then from my mom. I didn't answer either. My mom called five more times that night.

And six months later, I'm living in a one-bedroom apartment in Alexandria. I haven't seen Mike since that day. He called a couple times but I didn't answer. I've been avoiding everyone I know. I finally answered my mom's call a couple weeks later after she had left a few sobbing voicemails, but she hung up as soon as I said hello. Shannon and I spoke just long enough to arrange for me to clear my stuff out of the house one day while she was at a friend's house.

I've been with two other men since then.

Both I met off Craigslist. About two months after that day, I answered an ad for a "Str8 guy for cock." Sounded like me. I was still thinking of myself as straight. I ended up meeting up with this guy, a little younger then me, much more experienced. I stroked his dick, he sucked mine, I wanted to scream. I came home and took an hour-long shower, woke up the next morning seriously contemplating suicide. The feeling wore off before I did anything about it.

About two weeks later I posted an ad myself, going into detail as to what I was looking for. A fit handsome guy around my age, maybe a little older, athletic, strong, not "gay-acting" - whatever the fuck I thought that meant - with a nice cock. I was basically looking for Mike. I didn't find him. I got about two dozen replies, I answered a few, I met up with one. He came over, good-looking guy named Steven, insisted on being called Steven, not Steve. He was in great shape, great body, nice thick cock, big enough, but it was so fucking weird. I felt myself being attracted to him, but he just totally rubbed the wrong way, just seemed off somehow, and I couldn't relax, couldn't get comfortable. He kept pushing me to let him fuck me, kept calling me "Baby" and telling me how he was going to make me his bitch, but all nice and softly and gentle, but it made me want to throw up, it felt so wrong. I ended up stroking him off so he would cum and leave, and he did, buttoning up and getting out of there before I could even ask him to go. I didn't even get to cum.

And it's six months after that day, and my phone rings and it's Mike. I turn away, leaving it lying on the table, picturing him, his naked body, remembering how it felt to have him on me, in me, thrusting, and I feel myself responding for the first time in a long time. I grab the phone, my heart pounding, and whisper, "Hey."

"Hey," he says, softly, apologetically. "How's it going?" As if we had just spoken last week.

"Not bad," I lie. "What's up with you?"

"Not much. Same old." His breath catches.

I pause, blood rushing to my head, decide to let him have it. "Must be nice, the 'same old.' "

I hear him swallow through the phone, measuring his words. "I tried to call. To apologize. You wouldn't answer."

"An apology doesn't do much, does it?"

"It's all I could do. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Yeah, well, so am I, Mike, so am I." Part of me wants to hang up, and if it had been an old-fashioned phone with a satisfying clanging bell and a big old plastic handpiece, I might have, but touching an imaginary button on a screen doesn't have the same effect, so I waited.

"I don't know what to say, except to apologize, as often as you'll let me. I can't imagine what you've been going through."

"Shannon kicked me out. We're through. I've barely spoken to my family. I haven't spoken to my friends. I assume they know, but I can't face them."

I hear him sigh. Neither of us speaks for a minute. We both just sit there, listening to each other's breathing. A couple times I hear Mike about to speak, making the small noise that you subconsciously know means a person is about to say something, gathering breath to talk, but he stops each time. And I know that he knows that I know what he's doing, that he's trying to tell me that he wants to say something but he wants me to go first, and finally I do. "Make it up to me. Buy me a drink."

I never knew you could hear a smile through a phone.

We meet at a bar in my new neighborhood, a place I've gone a few times to feel sorry for myself, kind of a dive, but a respectable dive. I walk in and see Mike's already there, a half-empty beer in front of him, sitting in a booth by himself. I can stop from thinking that he looks good. He's wearing a short-cropped beard, salt-and-pepper, and his hair is the same. Olive green t-shirt, tight around his broad shoulders and chest, and jeans. He stands up as I walk over and smiles, shakes my hand. I can see the veins popping in his forearms. We sit, and he speaks first. "How are you, man?"

"Okay. Really. I'll survive."

"What are you drinking?"

"Shot and a beer." Always heard guys say that in movies, and suddenly it sounds like exactly what I need. Mike smiles, seemingly knowing my thoughts, and ambles to the bar, bringing back two shot glasses of something dark and a pint of something darker.

"Cheers." I lift my shot, he does the same, we clink glasses and I toss mine back, shuddering just a little as the fiery liquid slides down my throat, a lovely burn in its wake. "God, good, " I manage, reaching for my beer.

"It'll put some hair on your chest, that's for sure," says Mike, as he gulps his shot down smoothly, barely reacting.

"You must've been drinking this for a while now then, huh?" I can't help myself.

He grins, big, straight white teeth, full lips. "Guess so, yeah. Want another?"

"Please." He slides out of the booth again and comes back with another round, and we clink again, tossing them back. The second one goes down smoother. I finish my beer. We've barely spoken, but our eyes keep meeting across the table, and he's doing the "almost-speaking" thing again. I feel the liquor creeping up my back, warming me from the inside, making me feel good for the first time in a long time. I want to feel this way more often. All the time. It's not just the liquor though. I can feel myself straining against my jeans, feel my face flushing. I glance up at Mike, and see him smiling at me, his eyes dancing. He somehow knows exactly what I'm thinking. I can barely breathe.

"Let's go." I don't know what he's talking about for a moment, but then he's on his feet and moving towards the door. Somehow my first thought is for the tab, then I realize he must have paid it when he got the last round. And he's almost to the door, so I find my feet and follow. He holds the door for me. I step outside, into the cool evening air.

"You live alone?"

"Yeah," I nod. "Nearby."

"I'll follow you." He steps towards a black pickup, looks pretty new, and I turn and get into my car, starting it up, my lungs desperate for air. Somehow I get home, pull into a spot, let myself in. Mike follows, not speaking. We get inside my apartment and I stop, feeling the alcohol buzzing me just a little, keeping me warm, and then Mike's behind me, his hands on my waist, pushing me down, bending me over. I whimper, "Yes. Yes." This is how it has to be. This is how it's going to happen. I reach for my waist, undo my belt, unbutton my jeans, feel him yanking them down off me, taking my black boxer briefs with them, cool air conditioning washing over my naked bottom, my legs, stepping out of my jeans, my lower half naked in front of him.

I don't look back, don't speak, I just find the wall with my hands and spread my feet and drop my head. I hear a spitting sound, repeatedly, hear Mike behind me rubbing his saliva over himself, and then more spitting, feel his fingers on me, in me, rubbing over me and I nearly collapse. I feel myself wet and cold, and then warmth as Mike rubs his swollen head against my asshole, and I feel myself losing control, unable to think, needing this, and then he's pressing against me, pushing, pushing, harder, harder, harder, and he pops inside and I pass out for just a moment, a tiny moment, he doesn't even notice, and then he's inside me and my knees almost give out. He's pushing into me, slowly, not all the way, taking his time. I'm whimpering softly to him, moaning, in so much pain but loving every moment of it, grabbing my cock with one hand and pumping myself slow and hard, feeling Mike's cock sliding up into my asshole, filling me. I feel tears running down my cheeks and I've never felt so good, so full, and I want to tell him but all I can say is "God, yes. Mike."

He grunts in response, and I feel him thrust forward, barely pressing hips against me, and my knees almost give out, I want him, more, deeper, he feels so thick, like he's bigger then I remember. I can smell him, his sweat, his body, his cock, and I hear myself groan like some kind of bear, unnatural sounds as he pushes into me. My hand is gripping my cock tightly, not even moving, just holding myself as Mike thrusts into me again and again, so slowly, moaning softly somewhere far behind me, pushing me forward just a little each time, his hips beginning to grind against me as he enters me completely.

As he moves up inside me all the way, he stops, his hips pressed tightly against my ass and I feel like I could die right now, and then he rears back, pulls nearly out of me, and then he's driving into me and I cry out in pain, and then he does it again and it feels so fucking good, hurts, don't stop, I'm crying now, moaning, grabbing at the wall, back at his hips, clawing at him as he fucks me, really fucks me. He grabs my hips, pulls me back against him, impaling me on him and I feel him surging inside me, hear him grunting, and I know he's cumming and then I feel him filling me and I call his name, over and over as he cums inside me.

When it's over, I fall forward as he pulls out, my body in so much pain. I lay on the carpet for a moment, and he's kneeling beside me. I realize his jeans are still around his ankles. He fucked me up against the wall without even taking his clothes off, hard, from behind, and it was exactly what I needed. I look up at him, want to tell him. He beats me to it. "I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like that. Not the first time."

I shake my head. "It had to be that way. I needed you to do it that way. I needed that, I needed you, but if you had given me a way out I would have probably taken it. It's fucking scary. All this. It's new and it's different and it's scary, and if you had given me time to think about it I would have walked away and hated myself for it. You needed to do that to me."

His hands are on my hips, running over my stomach, gently tracing his fingertips along the length of my cock. "Can you forgive me?"

I smile, feeling his bare legs nestling against me from behind, feel him laying himself down behind me, spooning my naked lower body with his, feel him pressing against me, his fingers wrapping around my cock, his breath in my ear. I feel his beard on my neck, his hand on me cock, and I smile, for real, for the first time in months. I turn my neck and kiss him, hard, and his fingers start to work on me, and I moan in his mouth, pulling back just enough to groan, "Fuck, yes, Mike. Yes."