Hawke

by Jescie Hall

I'm one for charity, but I’m also realistic. Especially when being charitable means having to live with a tattooed, sex-crazed, ex-convict who may or may not be shooting drugs into his nose or whatever it is junkies do.

I have the desire to feel his lips on mine, the urge to kiss him becoming an undeniable reality. I’ve never felt this way before. This ache to touch him, to feel more of him. I wonder if he’s grappling with the same struggles.

A part of me was hoping I’d never see Hawke again. That in the aftermath of what happened, he’d decided it was best to hop on a jet and leave the country forever. Another small part of me kind of wished he’d come check on me, make sure I was alright.

That space beside him is calling my name like a snake, begging me to bite that apple, the toxic juices sliding down my throat just waiting to bring me to a sudden death.

I feel regret, but not because I didn’t enjoy it. I feel regret because it was one of the most amazing feelings I’ve ever felt and I can’t process that.

“Because I guarantee I’ll be thinking about you, wrapped tightly around me, cumming around my cock, as I jerk off in the shower tonight,”

“Because if I don’t get to be the one to make you come, I at least want to see your face while you’re thinking about me.”

I hate him for how he makes me feel. I hate that life isn’t simple anymore. I hate that he is the only one who can set me on fire, and I hate that he makes me truly look at myself for the person I’ve become. I hate that I feel raw and vulnerable around him.

The forceful aggression that’s oozing out of him has my head spinning. I don’t want to like it, but something deep within me craves him. I want him to possess me the way that he naturally does.

I want more. I need more. He’s the drug I never knew I needed. The high I never want to come down from. I’ve fallen. Deeply, irreversibly so.

I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the fact that the guy who’s known me less than two months has done something more meaningful than the guy I’ve known for years. Buying new shit is one thing, putting effort into knowing what I enjoy is another.

“I’m staring at the only thing that’s got me feeling things after years of feeling numb. The only eyes that have ever made me question myself and who I am in their reflection. You’re right here in front of me, yet we’re just out of reach.”

The feeling of the most intimate part of him touching me with no barrier is making me ache for this moment of pure connection.

I want to reach out and touch him, to soothe his every ache, to mend the broken pieces that make him.

We’re both putting part of ourselves out on a limb. We’re tiptoeing our way, but both unsure of taking that last step. We know we’ll fall, but will we fall together? Will someone hold on at the last minute, watching the other come to their end?

We are both in so deep, too deep. The depth we’ve succumbed to will drown us in darkness, both of us willing.

“For all of you who preach about being Christian and Catholic, to then sit here at your fancy dinner in your fancy house, trolling on people whose lives aren’t as privileged as yours, judging people who may have made bad decisions or mistakes when they had no help or guidance, you’re truly the worst. It’s literally disgusting to me.”

“Show me your scars, Cameron,” I say while my fingers caress his cheekbone. “Let me be the one to see them all.”

“Come on, let’s fuck on your motorcycle. There’s no one around. It’d be so easy to just slide it in.”

“You, my love, are the only habit worth being addicted to.”