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“You're not a monster,' I said. But I lied. What I really wanted to say was that a monster is not such a terrible thing to be.
Worship of the threat is instituted to avert it.
It is Rome as imagined by a fascist, white and pure and perfect.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr Jones?” I freeze, but only for a second. I let him catch my frown. “God no, Mr Shaw. What a thing to say. I’m a Christian, you know.” He’s smiling genuinely now. “Of course. As am I.” But as I turn to walk away, I hear him say, “May God lead us away from sin.”
“Cassius Jones, ponce and sodomite.
Grief and the horrors of my mortal life apparently are best soothed by men.
“I would tell you flirting would get you nowhere,” I whisper, “but I’d be lying.”
am my father’s queer son. I am not the one he wanted. Their golden boy is dead, and I am all that is left, and here is a pretty boy showing me attention, and that is all it takes for me to want him. Has there ever been anyone so pathetic?
Leo leans in. I do not move. But he doesn’t kiss me. “Do you want to go to bed with me, Mr Jones?”
I look at Leo, spy the hungry, vigilant look in eyes. I want to be beneath him. I want him to fuck me; I want to be a whore who thinks of nothing but the pleasures of the body, and the only pain I will ever feel is the thrill of taking a man inside me. There will be no death. No blood. No monsters in the night. I will lose the very sense of myself to tangled sheets and sweat.
“Keep scripture out of your filthy cock-sucking mouth.” “Why? There’s plenty of room for both.”
“Leo,” I say, more calmly than I feel. “Leo, darling, stand down.” Leo does, almost immediately, to which Bellamy snorts. “Fucking dog.”
I want this. I also never want to be touched. I want to be fucked like an animal. I want to drag my virginity from the gates of hell.
I have a priest in my ear calling me a sinner, and a devil on my shoulder desperate for the intimacy. For the love. God, is it such a sin to want to be loved?
My body knows, and it responds with no easy coping mechanism; no detachment, no simply shutting down of the nervous system. Instead, it practically orders me to fuck. To have every anxious thought railed out of me.
Duty before cock—God, it should not be so difficult.
“Are you a godly man?” He leans himself against one of the courtyard pillars. A little breeze moves through his hair. “For you, I could be,” he whispers. At this point, I think I would be forgiven for reaching out and kissing him.
“Do you want to know what true sin feels like?”
I want to fuck as much as I can. Can you blame me?” A sigh, the kind of noise I expect of a man who truly doesn’t give a shit.
Perhaps I feel guilty because it is expected.
Don’t leave me here.”
Bellamy, I don’t say. For my arm. What I did, and how I look like because of it. And I’m sorry that you have to see me. And I’m sorry I can’t be perfect anymore. And I’m sorry—
Perhaps the loss of my arm is punishment for what Leo and I did in there. (Maybe it was worth it.)
