It's easier to do in the dark what's not right in the light. (Closer, Mike Mangione)
His soul split in two, and he found himself watching his own body from the back of the room.
He -- the Other -- was masturbating. The kind with no restraint or... or intellect. It was obscene and visceral, nothing but blood and guts and instinct. He Who Watched moved closer, making no sound, disturbing nothing. Here, the Other seemed even more animal. There was no god here. No god stronger than what is, no force more powerful than flesh writhing in the dark.
The back of the chair was bent as far as it would go, but the Other never stopped pushing. 'Break, oh gods, BREAK!' his body screamed, but never will it relent. Warhorses powered the Other's legs, muscles stretched taut and sweating, and his feet tried to dig into soft earth but instead were met with floors of mold and old wood. These forces, and the many tangible shadows prodding, pulling at the Other's flesh, opposing him from all sides exhilarated his senses to even greater heights, to even deeper dimensions, and he pounded on his blood-gorged cock even harder.
His arm -- the Other's left arm -- the one part that remained human reached towards the monitor. He Who Watched felt it at once, and saw it for what it was. There on the monitor was not a beautiful, smooth boy, standing by the pool with nothing on but a pair of skimpy black trunks and a smile. Not just. It was beauty itself -- beauty and all its lines and curves and order. The hungering, ravenous thing that was the Other wanted nothing else but to possess that beauty, that order, to take it into itself, to dominate it and at the same time be enslaved by it. 'Mine,' wordless it whispered into the gloom, into the cold, pitiless light. Envy was seething, vibrating the still air. 'You are mine. I want you. Please. Please. I love you.'
It was agonizing for He Who Watched. This Other, he realized, who is thrall to his senses, completely free of shame, free of gods -- completely, utterly free -- could be the purest, most genuine thing in all creation. There were no lies here. No words. Just blood and flesh and inertia and movement. He Who Watched stood vigil for a few seconds more. And at one precise moment, three things happened at the same time: the twin souls merged back; he came; he wept.
The universe, pure and free mere seconds ago, once again coalesced in its centuries-old cage of words. He, breathing and blinking back into a world of logic and language, was once again bound -- his name and its string of histories settling onto his forehead, into his chest. The glasses he was wearing felt heavy nested on the bridge of his nose. The fatty flesh on his back stung where the grooves of the plastic chair dug deep. His legs and feet ached. Shame blanketed his heart -- thick and wet and throbbing. He was a nerd jerking off to a beautiful boy over the Internet. 'I love you,' he said, more than a few times. The world be damned if he won't do it all over again.
