August 1, 2000
Guess what movie BeeBee and Anananana just watched? :D
BCW
I do not own these puppets.
It feels like such a lie when we're together.
When I press my lips to his, run my tongue over the shiny hard surface of his teeth. When he moans my name, a little delirious, and tosses that glorious mess of soft brown hair forward, the silkiness falling over my face. When he tells me in every way that he loves me, desires *me* and not my body, and needs me.
I look at my lover as he sleeps, his long, slender body draped across my lap, his mouth twisted into some kind of smile. Even as my hands continue to stroke his skin, to lull him into a dreamless sleep, I can feel my whole body shaking.
*I need you inside me.*
I can't help but want to cry. The words I've been longing to hear pass those soft, full lips ever since that first day on the deck when I shot him as my greeting. And yet, I can't give him what he needs, what I want with every fiber of my being. So I just shook my head, told him not yet.
*Fuck you,* he whispered.
But then there was no time for words as he came into my mouth, shoulders forced behind him, back arched into a golden expanse of tanned skin. He fell asleep, half of his clothing still hanging off his body, his Prussian eyes finally sliding shut. So tired.
His breathing finally evens out and I smile, rolling him onto the twisted sheets gently. He never even stirs. I lift my priest's jacket off, then the white cotton dress shirt and the undershirt.
I move to stand in front of the mirror and, whispering a prayer, reach behind me to undo the binding. The medical tape leaves ugly red marks across my breasts. Lucky for me they remain small, or else I would have more problems than OZ knocking down my door.
My lover, so content in his eternal state of discontentment. *I want you to feel good,* he said, pressing the softest kisses to my neck. He doesn't understand that when he feels good, I feel wonderful. Every tremble, every euphoric smile and tiny exhalation; it all feels better than the physical stimulation.
With a soft sigh, I begin to rebind my chest, trying not to wince as the hard edges of the tape rub against old blisters. Then I undo my hair, brushing out the tangles, the day's accumulated knots and loose strands. In a way, it's the only thing left of me that is even relatively feminine.
Then I lie back down next to him for a moment, savoring the feel of his bare skin against my back. "Duo..." he mumbles, grabbing a fistful of my hair and pressing it to his lips. "Love you..." I want to cry, so I do. I know that boys don't cry, but then...
I guess I'm not exactly a boy, am I? I'm just a *thing*, an *it*, an aberration worse than homosexuality. I'm aimlessly wandering, trying desperately to keep up with the cold facade of a burning hell of my own choosing.
I want him to touch me. I want to feel his hands on my skin, the way he always tells me he wants. I want to see that look of barely controlled lust in his eyes for me, for my body. I want him to kiss me and know exactly who he is kissing.
But I can't. I'm scared shitless and I don't know what I'm doing, only that every day I become more trapped. Maybe when the war's over. Maybe then. Or never.
End Part One
Bianca
Please send comments to: weirdsisters@hotmail.com