Jonah

Benji Bright is a writer, a sometimes poet, and a man about town. If, after reading this you're not convinced he's thoroughly imbalanced, and if, for some reason you're—//dare I say?//—impressed, you can find more of his work on [[Amazon|http://www.amazon.com/Benji-Bright/e/B009HX6GP4]], or wherever you crazy kids [[buy books|http://www.google.com/search?q=benji+bright+books]] these days. \n\nHe lives near Chicago and is grateful you're reading this. You can email him at benjibright@gmail.com\n\n[[Start Over|Start]]\n[[Back to The Erotic Ledger|http://theeroticledger.com]]

An Autobiography of Sorts\nBy Benji Bright

We're in your room, your big empty bedroom, and you're playing Jenny Lewis. I don't give a fuck about your Anthropology textbooks. I want to fuck you. \n\nWe fall into your bed and we take off our clothes. I can't believe this is your skin and your mouth on mine. I'm burning dreams by the second as we tumble around your bed. I eat your ass, tongue-fucking you because I'd told myself a hundred times it'd never happen. It's happening and I'm barely keeping it together. \n\nYou ask me if we can get around to the actual fucking in the morning. I say it's fine. (I'm not sure it is).\n\nYou fall asleep and I stay up half the night wanting you, touching you gently and reminding myself that I'm not the only one who wanted this. I remind myself that I'm worth this. I never fully believe it. \n\nWe don't fuck in the morning. \n\n[[Cocktease|b5]].

These are a 95% autobiographical (and vulgar) accounts of the [[author's|Author]] life. The other 5% is fudged by memory or purposeful obfuscation to protect the identities of those involved, like those blurry things they put over people's faces on //Dateline//. No, I'm not comparing this to //Dateline//.\n\nThe story is chunked into series of vignettes, click on each to read it. I //may// add further vignettes in the future, who knows?\n\n\nVignettes: \n[["Young and Dumb"|a1]]\n[["Myth"|b1]]\n[["Too"|c1]]\n[["Fucking Scum"|d1]]\n[["Streetlights"|e1]]\n\n\nAll words (with the exception of song titles) © Benji Bright 2013. \n\n<html><a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/deed.en_US"><img alt="Creative Commons License" style="border-width:0" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/88x31.png" /></a> "This Ain't Love" by Benji Bright is licensed under a <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/deed.en_US">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License</a>. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at <a xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#" href="mailto:benjibright@gmail.com" rel="cc:morePermissions">benjibright@gmail.com</a>.</html>

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I've whispered your name for four years. \n\nIt's as familiar to me as the contour of my own cock. I want to unravel you so badly that you've ascended into myth. Your name is a ritual all its own and the sight of your [[red chuck taylors|b2]] is like a simple miracle.

I'm dancing on stage, my junk pressed into a few inches of white fabric. I'm sweating and wearing boots though I'd rather be barefoot and feeling the wooden platform under my feet, the vibrations from the speakers.\n\nI'd rather be in your bed. I'd rather be tied up under your feet licking the sole of those red chucks. I'd rather be anywhere you are. \n\nAnd you're smiling like you know what I'm thinking, like you can read my face like the scorch marks on chicken bones thrown into a fire. Like you're the oracle of my desire. \n\nYou lean in and look up at me on the platform, reach into my underwear, and press money against my dick. \n\n[[Cocktease|b3]].

You're on a table, there's a shot of liquor in your belly button. I press my mouth against your skin like we're not at a party. Like we're not surrounded by people whooping and hollering. \n\nYou make suffering so exquisite that I want nothing else but you. I want to bury my face in you. I'd burn my underwear drawer for you, and that's saying something.\n\nYour smile is angelic and so filthy. I don't know what you are, but you aren't mine. \n\nYou pull down your shirt. \n\n[[Cocktease|b4]].

Afterward we lie in your bed and watch some TV singing competition. You tell me about the eighteen year-old you want to fuck. I don't give a fuck. You show me the results of your latest STD test.\n\nFuck you, I've got chinese food waiting at home.\n\n<html>The End</html>\n\n[[Back|Start]]\n[[About the Author|Author]]\n

It hurts now and my teeth and pressed together, but I don't ask you to stop. Maybe this is what I deserve for treating you like fucking scum. \n\nAnd I think I like it. \n\nYour face is blank as you fuck me, as if you're anywhere else but inside me. Christ you look stupid. \n\nI tap out. You stop. You jerk off over me. (//I think that's how it goes, I forget. As if I// [[couldn't even be bothered|d5]] //to hold on to the memory.//)

For some reason we don't fuck in your bedroom. Maybe because you intend to hurt me. You do, eventually, but not right away. Later when I'm showering and wincing. But not in the moment that you're using me like a fist on your dick. \n\nI've treated you like shit, ignored your messages, refused to message you back, met you in a mall parking lot because I didn't want anyone to see me with you. I didn't know I could be so cruel, but you bring it out of me. \n\n[[I hate you|d3]] because you're the only one who wants to hang out tonight.

It hurts now and my teeth and pressed together, but I don't ask you to stop. Maybe this is what I deserve for treating you like fucking scum. \n\nAnd I think I like it. \n\nYour face is blank as you fuck me, as if you're anywhere else but inside me. Christ, you look stupid. \n\nI tap out. You stop. [[You jerk off over me|d4]].

I didn't know sex could be boring, but [[you bore me|d2]]. \n

This Ain't Love

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But it's probably because you're so indecent and this room smells like sweat and ass. It's probably because you always want to fuck. [[You're always on|e5]].

I'm climbing your fire escape. Wearing a hoodie, wrapping my body with clothes and cologne like you can't smell my secret: this is my first time. \n\nI'm barely keeping it together. \n\nI downloaded porn from you or you from me across a college network knowing that the world for guys like us is smaller than it is large. You messaged me and I had to walk away from my computer, the idea of real skin was too visceral. Real desire was too real. \n\nNow I'm on your fire escape and I'm [[barely keeping it together|a2]].

<html>Before</html>\n\nI think the song "Dust" is ruined for me because it's playing when you walk me into your room. I'll never forgive you for wearing sweatpants. You couldn't be bothered to get dressed and why when I'm about to undress you?\n\nWe fumble at conversation, but our intentions have teeth. We kiss, but your lips are too big. It's awkward and my heart won't shut the fuck up. //How can it go so fast without me dying?// I wonder.\n\nI don't even want you. This isn't about want. It's about a kid who's always been alone and doesn't want to be anymore. This ain't love, it's survival. \n\nSo I suck your dick. You precum like a fucking leaking faucet. I don't think I'll ever find that arousing, but I'm still young and dumb. \n\nI make you [[cum|a4]] elsewhere.

<html>After</html>\n\nI'm spitting mouthwash into the bushes, triumphant and disgusted. I just sucked a dick. I just sucked a dick. I just //sucked// a //dick//. \n\n"You ok, man?" some guy asks. \n\n"Yeah, I'm cool." \n\n"Cool. You want a beer?" \n\n"I'm good. Thanks. [[I'm good|a3]]."\n\n

I'm spitting mouthwash into the bushes. I just sucked a dick. I'm goddamn triumphant. \n\nI'm barely keeping it together.\n\n<html>The End</html>\n\n[[Back|Start]]\n[[About the Author|Author]]

I'm spitting mouthwash into the bushes. I just sucked a dick. I'm goddamn triumphant. \n\nI'm [[barely|a5]] keeping it together.

And then you're fucking me. And you love me, too. And I can accomodate you, I think, at the moment, the both of you. \n\nI'm wrong, but I don't know it yet. \n\nFor the moment everything is right. Everything feels good. He's finally flushed, red-faced, so focused that my heart breaks. He's jerking off over me, cumming all over me. You cum inside me. \n\nI cum, too.\n\n<html>The End</html>\n\n[[Back|Start]]\n[[About the Author|Author]]

The heart is big enough to accommodate whatever the fuck we throw at it. I'm kissing you and I love you, but I kiss him and kind of love him, too. I'm afraid to say it yet. \n\nThis is still a negotiation even after all the clothes are off. \n\nI want to accommodate whatever the fuck we throw at me. \n\nHe fucks me first and I watch you watching him and I wonder how I stumbled into this moment. Awkward as we are, hot as this is. \n\nHe's sweating, but he doesn't flush like you do. He bites his lip, concentrating so keenly on this one thing. Hips thrusting. He's making me his, too. \n\n[[How could I not|c2]] fall in love?

We sit in a bar and I moan about past loves and you listen. I feel bad, but I can't stop pouring my tattered heart to you. \n\nPain is compulsive that way. \n\nI like you and there's more to us than sex, more than our sometimes barbed repartee. I want to give you what you want, but I'm learning that there are parts of me I can't give anyone. \n\nBetween us is sex, and comfort, and we're completely affable, but there's a heartbreak looming like the reaper and there's nothing I can do. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. \n\nThis isn't my first time, but I'm barely keeping it together.\n\n<html>The End</html>\n\n[[Back|Start]]\n[[About the Author|Author]]

It hot enough to snuff any thoughts of doing anything outside. I'm fucking you. I love how you want my cock so earnestly. \n\nIt's always a little dirty with you, your hair plastered across your face and your cheeks bright red. For all your talk about the Bhagavad Gita and art theory, you fuck like its your sole occupation. [[I like that|e2]].

But then it's late at night and the streetlights are all that's illuminating us. Your shitty fan pushes the air around, but I like how the sweat pools in your collarbone, drips down on me while I pound you. \n\nMy cock is transforming you into some kind of monster, your face twists in concentration, and I fuck you harder. It's like you're alchemizing into some purer substance. \n\nIt's like you're becoming yourself. Totally unselfconscious. Totally engaged. If this isn't love, it's close. \n\nI'm always close when I fuck you. Maybe it's because [[you're so tight|e4]].

I listen to a lot of Burial before I see you. \n\n"Southern Comfort" is my soundtrack of that summer. Of the winter that comes after. It makes some of the loneliness evaporate. Some of the storm clouds that make me feel like we're running into a ditch. Like this distance I'm trying not to cultivate—but feel growing anyway—between us won't be the death of us.\n\n[[But then...|e3]]

I walk to work in the morning with a chest full of awe. I listen to "Panther Dash". \n\nI could [[outrun my own shadow today|b6]].\n\n

I walk to work in the morning with a chest full of awe. I listen to "Panther Dash". \n\nI could outrun my own shadow today.\n\n<html>The End</html>\n\n[[Back|Start]]\n[[About the Author|Author]]\n