Revolving Door

an excerpt



How is it that I knew-I just knew-it would be him standing on the other side of the door when I opened it? I play this little game, pretending I'm astonished, but it really isn't true; these meetings are as predictable as rain. Every time he splits with someone, he ends up here.

I try to look disapproving, but it's a lie; the speed of my heartbeat betrays me. All I can do is hope that I wear the mask well enough, and that he won't notice. He smirks and walks past me, into my apartment.

"Good to see you too." He laughs, his shoulder brushing along my chest. He smells good; he always does. He doesn't use cologne, it's just him-this incredibly perfect scent that men wish they could bottle and use for themselves. Confidence mixed with power, a dash of boyish charm, and a whole shitload of sex, that's him. My body responds to it, the scent memory stirring things inside, opening doors that I try to keep closed, but it's useless. He has all the keys.

I shut the door, locking it as if that will somehow keep me protected, even though the intruder is already in my home. Or maybe it's to keep him in-also ineffective, as he can, and will, turn the lock and go when he's through with me. Fuck. Here I go, already giving in to him, and he hasn't even made a move yet. I tell myself every time that it's the last, that I won't let him do this again, but it never works. He knocks, I answer, my body ready to lay itself open no matter what my head says, how it tries to reason with me, telling me that I can be strong this time, I can say no, tell him to go find his rebound somewhere else, and all the while my cock hardens in my jeans.

He turns toward me, that smile on his face; the one that first drew me to him, all openness and alluring innocence, but he's reeling me in. It's bait for guys like me, who so easily fall victim to false sincerity, because we want to believe. We want to think we're unique, special in some way, that we've somehow disarmed him with unknown founts of charm, and we bask in his blue-eyed admiration; boys like me who need someone else to tell us that we're worthy, because we've never been able to do it for ourselves. That's not a problem he's ever had.

He wears his beauty like vibrant plumage in an effortless swagger. I'm the perfect counterpoint to his lean and subtly sculpted body, his aristocratic, fine features. Fresh out of seclusion and insecure about my body, my looks, I worked to build up the muscle I previously lacked, to tame the cowlicks in my dark hair; learned to rely on the rugged tranquility of my features to hide my uncertainty, and to use the deep green of my eyes to seduce. I looked at him, gave him the best of my advantages, and he took over.

"So what was it this time?" I say. "How did this one disappoint you-did he want you to stay the night or something unreasonable like that?" The contempt in my voice is genuine enough, and I use it to reprimand him for what he's done to me, and to all the others who came before and after me. Then I realize that's partly why he comes here; that tiny piece of him that knows he's been a bad, bad boy, and craves a little smack on the ass before he's reborn in my body and sent on his way. Go, and sin no more. I smile, not as an answer to his devilish and disarming grin, but as a joke to myself. My body is his temple; I am his confessional. I wash away his sins over and over, like the benevolent redeemer that I am. Weird, that it's taken me this long to figure it out, and for a moment I think it's me holding the cards, not him. Then he plays his hand.

"No one's like you," he says. He tosses his jacket onto a chair and steps close to me, gently brushing a fall of hair back from my forehead. One fucking touch from him and I melt, my whole body giving over to him, softening, except for my cock, which has expanded into full size and is calling out to be set free.

"There's no one else who will put up with your bullshit, that's for sure," I mumble and weakly push his hand away, gamely trying to keep to the script we set up years ago, when this first started; I resist, he breaks me down. I wonder what he'd do if I threw it all away and grabbed him, covered his mouth with mine, took him right here, right now? Would it be enough to upset the balance, make him stop? The seduction is part of it for him, I know. He needs me to resist, so that he can win me over. It's his proof that he's been cleansed, that he's glowing and pure again. What if I took that away? My mind scans the possible scenarios, but they all end with him walking out the door, never coming back. And goddamnit, we can't have that, can we. So I push it away and return to what's written on the invisible pages laid out before us.

He laughs and hooks a finger through my belt loop, pulling me in. "That's what's so special about you," he says, and he runs his other hand through my hair. He has to lift his eyes to meet with mine, looking up just a little. This is the only way he looks up to me, the only dominance I have over him. A slight advantage of height, a more muscular build; it's a turn-on for him to exert his power over me. I fucking know this, but I never try to turn it back on him. "You know me, baby, like no one else ever has. Ever. It's always been you, Matt." His voice is hypnotic, soft and lyrical, like a siren pulling me toward my fate. It's me, yes, it's me, and it's always been you, Leo.

He's kissing me, now, softly at first, but growing in intensity as he tastes me and my mouth opens to him, pulling in the tongue that's teasing mine, sucking on it, tasting him, almost swallowing the fucking thing whole, only he'll need it later, and so I relent and let him keep it. I'm a junkie after a long dry spell, so anxious for my hit that I can hardly pace it, shaking as I dose myself, hoping that I've done it right and it's not too little. It's never too much.

I'm grateful that he's pushed me up against the wall, because I'm losing my sense of direction. I'm tumbling, falling, knowing that he's there to catch me. His mouth finds my neck as he opens my shirt, his fingers deftly dropping from one button to the next and pulling the material back to expose my chest. I congratulate myself on my dedication at the gym, wondering if he notices that I'm tighter, firmer than the last time, a discernable six-pack rippling over my abdomen, and my chest that perfect hardened softness of flesh over muscle. His hands slide over me, porcelain against my olive skin; a milky purity that hides his motivations, a counterpart to my own dark instincts. He lets out a little moan as his tongue teases my left nipple, but that's all the approval I get. I'm impressed, as even that much praise is a rarity, and I catch myself wondering if I'd done it all for him, in the end.

But enough of that, there are other things to think about, like pulling his shirt off over that head of curly light brown hair, touching him, smelling his skin. I nip his earlobe as his hands continue to explore my body, sliding around to trace along my shoulder blades, and I drag my fingers over his smooth, pale skin, my hands remembering every muscle, every curve. His body has always been perfect. I know he works out, but how he manages to keep it at the same level of perfection always astounds me. There's never the tiniest pooch on his belly, whether or not he's indulged in Chinese food or one too many beers. There's never too much definition, veering over into freakishness, which he's always despised. Even his flaws are flawless, the few moles that dot his skin precisely placed to highlight his beauty, the scar from his childhood surgery a slim, sexy marker pointing the way down his happy trail; this way to heaven.

His hands grope at my waistband and I'm glad I have on this belt, the one with double notches that are just a little difficult to undo. I want to prolong this brief foreplay for as long as I can, hold him here just a little while more, but he's already set the pace, rapid as usual, small talk and niceties not being his strong suit. Oh, he can manage the initial seduction; I think he enjoys teasing the new prey. But with me, there's no reason for it-he knows my body is his for the taking, and so he does, with as little effort as possible. Another reason why he seeks me out; after a breakup, he's not in the mood to sweet talk another toy, he's looking for release, not puzzles and persuasion. He wants me.