By Anton Rex
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rated: R
Imagine you went to my prep school, one of those sweaty trainwrecks of hormonal need, whose desperation I took advantage of behind the fieldhouse on some autumn day, your need to get off so great that you don't care that mouth around your dick has one of his own. When I stand up, wiping my mouth and grab your tie, pulling you into a surprise kiss, would you be one of those who thanked me with a punch in the face, or would you kiss back, before pushing me away and leaving, never to speak of this again?
Confession number one: my greatest regret about my youthful indescretions is that they were not with you. Confession number two: when I think about them now, in my more vulenerable moments, it's your face I imagine gazing up at.
It's been awhile since I've been on my knees. Somewhere between high school and now my father managed to impress upon me that my postion as a Luthor who not one of subordination. He ment it in a metaphorical sense, but still, the point was well taken. A Luthor man does not service, he is serviced.
I'm beginning to think, though, that I missed the point of my own actions. Whatever sexual satisfication my school chums got from me, they also got a heafty supply of fear, and no doubt every single time in their lives someone calls them a faggot, they'll be forced to wonder all over again if it counts if you give the guy a black eye after he sucked you of. I, on the other hand, had the privilage of engaging in one of my favorite activities (namely, touching attractive boys) and whenever anyone calls me a faggot, all I need to say to myself is "and...?"
Somehow, though, I don't think my father would agree, which I fully understand. I myself am not entirely certain that this isn't just an attempt to justify that fact that somehow my predatory leering seems to have inverted. I'm sure I could still look and maybe even act the part of the wolf, but my heart isn't in it anymore. NOt with you, anyway, but then, everything is different with you.
Occasionally, I have gotten a small taste of what your touch is like. Not the tedious male bonding sort, but a touch with something behind it, even if it was anger or hate. It hurt. I don't care whether you touch me again out of love or lust, but I want it to happen. And now confession number three: when it does, I want it to hurt just as much.