Sitting on the floor of a rotted-out house with a fresh chemical burn on your hand, and your pants stained with blood and piss, doesn’t make it any easier when someone laughs in your face.
Just so you know.
Tyler laughs.
“You still can’t say it, can you?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
No.
He pulls me up. “You want me to kiss you, but you don’t have the balls to ask.”
I don’t know where he comes up with this shit.
He moves in slowly. I can see it coming, but I don’t tell him to stop.
I don’t think I’ve ever told Tyler to stop.
I half expect the kiss to burn like the lye. It doesn’t. It’s rough, and a bit dry, and I still don’t tell him to stop. His hands slide down to my pants, and for a moment I remember the dampness of the piss-soaked fabric, and the smell.
He undoes my fly, and my pants drop around my ankles, followed by my underwear. Tyler grabs my dick. “You still telling yourself you don’t want this?”
I don’t say anything.
His touch doesn’t burn either.
He starts jacking me off, quickly, with a grip that’s almost too tight. The way I do sometimes. When it’s been a bad day and I want it to hurt. His other hand’s on my shoulder, pushing me back against the wall. I close my eyes.
The way I closed them when he poured the lye on my hand. But this time Tyler doesn’t tell me to open them.
This time, we’re both right there.
Tyler’s breathing heavily, like when he does push-ups. Aside from his breathing and mine, there’s no sound in the house.
My mind flashes onto Marla and Tyler, all creaking bed-springs and dirty talk. For a moment, I wonder if this is better or not.
Then Tyler quickens his strokes, and I stop thinking pf anything as I come in his hand.
Still breathing hard, I open my eyes. I’m standing against the wall, my pants around my ankles, a trickle of semen dripping down my legs. A drop falls down onto my pants, rounding out the collection of body fluids.
Tyler’s grinning. He didn’t get any on him.
He turns back to the mess in the kitchen, and the fat boiling on the sink. “You gonna help me finish this soap or not?”
-
This doesn’t become a regular thing. Tyler’s got Marla, and the way those two go at it, I’d be surprised if he could spare the energy for anyone else.
I don’t get that horny either. I don’t know why. I haven’t had sex since
(Tyler)
in a long time.
It’s not that I want to be the other man in Tyler and Marla’s fucked-up relationship.
It’s just that if I’m going to be stuck between them, I may as well get a hand job out of the deal.
---
I sit in my hotel room, staring at the kiss-scar burned onto the back of my hand, and try not to think about what Marla just said.
I can believe I beat myself up, just to see what it’s like. After that little performance I put on with the manager of the Pressman Hotel, it’d be hard not to.
I can believe I was the ghost in Tyler’s head, when I thought I was there. I’ve drifted through enough situations that I may as well not have been there. Tyler just took advantage.
I can believe I gave myself a chemical burn.
I can believe I backed up against the wall of my kitchen afterwards and jacked myself off.
But he kissed me.
And there’s no reason to buy all the rest of it and get stuck on that. If I’m – let’s not beat around the bush here – crazy enough for the other shit, I’m crazy enough to hallucinate a kiss.
But he kissed me. And if I can find the balls to admit it, I really want that to be real.
I don’t know if he’s coming back or not. I’m kind of afraid that he isn’t. I’m really afraid that he is. All this shit with the space monkeys and Project Mayhem has gotten way too big for Tyler to just stop.
It’s not about me anymore. It’s about the world.
Funny, people always told me that I lacked ambition.
I know I’m not going to ask him about it afterwards. I can’t have a where-is-this-relationship-going conversation with my imaginary friend.
“Fuck.” I close my eyes and grind the heels of my hands against them.
And because, right now, I’m really alone, I let the words slip out.
Twisted delusory Fight-Club sex.
Just so you know.
Tyler laughs.
“You still can’t say it, can you?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
No.
He pulls me up. “You want me to kiss you, but you don’t have the balls to ask.”
I don’t know where he comes up with this shit.
He moves in slowly. I can see it coming, but I don’t tell him to stop.
I don’t think I’ve ever told Tyler to stop.
I half expect the kiss to burn like the lye. It doesn’t. It’s rough, and a bit dry, and I still don’t tell him to stop. His hands slide down to my pants, and for a moment I remember the dampness of the piss-soaked fabric, and the smell.
He undoes my fly, and my pants drop around my ankles, followed by my underwear. Tyler grabs my dick. “You still telling yourself you don’t want this?”
I don’t say anything.
His touch doesn’t burn either.
He starts jacking me off, quickly, with a grip that’s almost too tight. The way I do sometimes. When it’s been a bad day and I want it to hurt. His other hand’s on my shoulder, pushing me back against the wall. I close my eyes.
The way I closed them when he poured the lye on my hand. But this time Tyler doesn’t tell me to open them.
This time, we’re both right there.
Tyler’s breathing heavily, like when he does push-ups. Aside from his breathing and mine, there’s no sound in the house.
My mind flashes onto Marla and Tyler, all creaking bed-springs and dirty talk. For a moment, I wonder if this is better or not.
Then Tyler quickens his strokes, and I stop thinking pf anything as I come in his hand.
Still breathing hard, I open my eyes. I’m standing against the wall, my pants around my ankles, a trickle of semen dripping down my legs. A drop falls down onto my pants, rounding out the collection of body fluids.
Tyler’s grinning. He didn’t get any on him.
He turns back to the mess in the kitchen, and the fat boiling on the sink. “You gonna help me finish this soap or not?”
-
This doesn’t become a regular thing. Tyler’s got Marla, and the way those two go at it, I’d be surprised if he could spare the energy for anyone else.
I don’t get that horny either. I don’t know why. I haven’t had sex since
(Tyler)
in a long time.
It’s not that I want to be the other man in Tyler and Marla’s fucked-up relationship.
It’s just that if I’m going to be stuck between them, I may as well get a hand job out of the deal.
---
I sit in my hotel room, staring at the kiss-scar burned onto the back of my hand, and try not to think about what Marla just said.
I can believe I beat myself up, just to see what it’s like. After that little performance I put on with the manager of the Pressman Hotel, it’d be hard not to.
I can believe I was the ghost in Tyler’s head, when I thought I was there. I’ve drifted through enough situations that I may as well not have been there. Tyler just took advantage.
I can believe I gave myself a chemical burn.
I can believe I backed up against the wall of my kitchen afterwards and jacked myself off.
But he kissed me.
And there’s no reason to buy all the rest of it and get stuck on that. If I’m – let’s not beat around the bush here – crazy enough for the other shit, I’m crazy enough to hallucinate a kiss.
But he kissed me. And if I can find the balls to admit it, I really want that to be real.
I don’t know if he’s coming back or not. I’m kind of afraid that he isn’t. I’m really afraid that he is. All this shit with the space monkeys and Project Mayhem has gotten way too big for Tyler to just stop.
It’s not about me anymore. It’s about the world.
Funny, people always told me that I lacked ambition.
I know I’m not going to ask him about it afterwards. I can’t have a where-is-this-relationship-going conversation with my imaginary friend.
“Fuck.” I close my eyes and grind the heels of my hands against them.
And because, right now, I’m really alone, I let the words slip out.
“Tyler, why?”