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- 01/09/2011
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 1. Chapter 1
I hated that part. Hated tying the band around my arm. Hated sticking the needle in my vein. Always had a vague fear of doing it wrong, of sending a bubble of air to my heart or breaking the needle off in my arm. But I loved the feeling of the heroin as it moved from the syringe through the needle into my arm. Loved the hot feeling as it hit my blood. Not everyone feels it like that, I’m told. Dale never did. But then, I don’t think Dale ever felt much of anything. But to me it was a sharp burn that spread outwards. And for a moment I felt as if I were on fire. It only lasted a moment or two. Probably not even long enough to notice, really—except that I always looked for that feeling, expected it, anticipated it. I wanted it to consume me, I think. I think I wanted that to be the entire experience—just let me burst into flames and have it done with.
Well, that was true at that moment anyway. Until the feeling started. I say feeling, but it wasn’t really. It was a blissful lack of feeling. Or maybe just selective feeling. Feeling like everything was good, pleasant, satisfying. But not really having any sense of why. Absence of reasoning, maybe. That’s how it felt—or how I now look at it as having felt. Didn’t analyze it then. Didn’t think about it then. Just felt it, reacted to it.
Dale was like that to me. Didn’t think about him. Just felt him, reacted to him. If I had thought about him, I probably would have run straight away. But then, maybe not. I was looking for self-destruction at the time—didn’t recognize it as that, but that’s what it was. Dale was self-destruction in a bottle, and he dispensed it freely. Well, actually, with Dale nothing was free. Everything had a price. And I was so willing to pay it.
First time I saw him I felt his pull. Felt the black hole of him drawing me toward him, into him. Knew he would take my light, but I didn’t have much light to lose anyway. And the darkness looked so cool and comforting. Wanted to just surround myself with it, let it block out all the vestige of light that remained in me. Not much left I wanted to see anyway.
I wonder how I knew. I wonder how I knew he was like anti-matter. He was like the other end of a magnet, drawing me to him. Should have turned around. Should have let that pull reverse and push me away. Would have been better. Or would it? Not so sure, really. I would have found some other means, I suppose.
Paul had left me with a kiss and the words “Don’t be so dead set against Mark. He loves you more than I do even.” Laughed when he said it. Wasn’t funny. I know now—or think I do—that he meant that Mark loved me so very much—but what I heard was that Paul loved me less. Made me want to die. I had put my heart and soul into that man. For nearly 2 years. I had been 17—nearly 18 when he had given me back my life. I was 19 years 4 months and 6 days old when he took it back, when he left. Not that it was an important day for me or anything! Not that I marked it down on the calendar. Didn’t write it in a journal. Just chiseled it into my heart—which felt like stone. No, that was what I had wanted it to feel like. What it actually felt like was a raw, open sore. And the chisel was more a razor blade, cutting into whatever bits of flesh it could find.
I have to think that he wouldn’t have left like that if he had known. Now, I think that. He loved me. I had known it when we were together, know it now. But when he left, all that knowledge deserted me, left me to the mercy of my insecurities. And my insecurities told me he did not love me, not enough—never had loved me, not really. Wouldn’t have left if he did. Wouldn’t have left me alone. Wouldn’t have left me. And that’s just how I felt: Left. Discarded. Thrown away. Like an empty container, yesterday’s newspaper, last night’s table scraps.
It was about 3 weeks after Paul left that I first saw Dale. About… Odd… I so carefully marked the day that Paul left, but cannot quite remember the day I met Dale. Not surprising, probably. Had lost myself in a nearly non-stop alcoholic stupor. The night after Paul left, I bought a bottle of scotch (Paul’s favorite drink). Had it for dinner. Had it for breakfast the next morning also. Made most meals from that bottle—and the ones just like it that followed. Sobered up just enough to buy more. And when I ran out and the liquor store was closed, I would somehow find my way to a bar. Oh, I lived within reasonable staggering distance of a bar—which was good because even had I wanted to drive, there would have been no way I could have managed. I thank god for that now—well, not god, because I don’t believe in him—but I thank whatever forces kept me on my feet and kept me from getting behind the wheel during that time.
Don’t remember where Mark was in all this. Well, vaguely remember his face in the doorway sometimes. Vaguely remember his voice or his hand on my elbow. But seriously, I was immersed in oblivion. Or sort of oblivion. I still remembered Paul’s lips on mine. Still remembered the smell of his hair in my face. Still remembered the feel of him inside me. Those things never quite left me. Nor did “He loves you more than I do even.” That was the first sound that greeted me when my eyes opened in whatever passed for my morning. It was the last sound that left me when I finally passed out at the end of my “day.”
Was a Monday night when I met Dale. Yeah, remember that much. Remember that because the liquor store was closed on Monday and I was out of scotch and there was nothing else in the apartment. Mark had stopped putting the beer in the fridge. Ass. Had some stupid idea that I might mix the scotch and the beer and do more harm to myself that way. Should have left the beer in the fridge. Wouldn’t have gone to the bar that night then. Wouldn’t have sat down at that table (couldn’t manage the barstool). Wouldn’t have looked across the room. Wouldn’t have seen Dale. All these wouldn’ts would have been—had only Mark left the beer in the fridge. Damned odd little twists of fate. Like that chaos theory. Like the insignificant flutter of a butterfly’s wings changing the air currents of the world and causing a major hurricane. Mark takes the beer out of the fridge and I meet Dale.
**
He was playing pool with some really rough-looking guy. Not that he wasn’t a bit rough-looking himself. God, I do remember every detail of him that night! Hadn’t realized he made such an instant impression on me. His hair was blonde--dark blonde, but with lighter streaks. Looked natural, from the sun, not from the salon. God! I am imagining Dale in a salon! Would be fucking hysterical! Anyway, it was thick and long, just past his shoulders. Didn’t really look like he had washed it that day, or the day before. He had a mustache and a little goatee thing… not much, just really looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days in selected areas. They were very light blonde, though, like the streaks in his hair. Made me wonder if his hair was dark blonde with light streaks or light blonde with dark streaks. Yeah, actually wondered that. Was very drunk. Mind going off on tangents.
But I can still see him at that moment as clearly in my mind as if I were seeing him in front of me right now. It’s like a photograph, preserving that one moment forever to torment me. He was wearing jeans, black work boots, an old-looking white t-shirt and a black leather vest. Nothing special, but it somehow made him look rough as hell. I watched him for some time. Don’t know why, really. Wasn’t really looking for anyone. Well, all right, I was 3 weeks without sex. At 19 that is a long time when you were used to having it whenever you wanted it. Even the alcohol didn’t quite deaden THAT. And as he bent over the pool table and positioned the cue stick, the muscles in his shoulders and arms would flex and I could see the veins in his arms riding on top of those muscles. Oh yeah… was a beautiful sight. You know, when I was with Paul I had discovered that I had a real thing for shoulders and arms. Just one of the many things I had discovered about myself while with Paul. But I still get that little ripple of warmth when I picture Dale’s arms. Been 5 years with a lot of shit in between, but that still runs right through me, right down to my loins. Felt like using that word—reminds me of the historical romances I used to read and play at writing. But the truth is, that mental image of Dale still sets my cock hard, but I was trying to say that a little less crudely. No point, though. Just about everything about Dale was crude. Might as well let the memories be crude, as well.
He moved to the other side of the pool table to take his shot, he leaned over the table and his hair fell in front of him, nearly brushing the table. He was facing in my direction now and I got a really good look at his face as he lined up his shot. No one would ever call Dale handsome, probably not even attractive. His nose was a bit short and looked like it had been broken a few times. His face was thin and he had a scar that looked not that old running from the corner of his left eye down to his ear, and another one, looked a little older, that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. The scars didn’t take away from his looks, though. They actually added to them. Took him from being ordinary and unattractive right to being “dangerous.” And he had an earring in each ear, silver rings with a turquoise bead on each one. I remember focusing on the earrings. For some reason they caught my eye. Have a thing for earrings, actually. Another of those things I discovered about myself while with Paul.
Then he looked up—just before taking his shot, he looked up and his eyes looked right at me. Normally I would have quickly looked away, made some pretense of examining my glass, the food menu, whatever. Would have looked away, immediately. But like I said, I was drunk as hell. And honestly, there was no way in hell I could have looked away if I had been dead sober. The man had eyes that seemed to bore right through me. Yeah, I know. I was drunk. Maybe he could have had eyes like the kind that come with the false nose and the glasses and bounced around on the end of springs and I might still have felt that. But I doubt it. They were the most incredible shade of blue—a blue I could see even as far away from him as I was. It was a blue like the Indian turquoise jewelry—and it struck me immediately that they were the same color as the beads on his earrings.
He looked at me for a moment. Seemed like a long moment, but then the alcohol was making time behave a bit relatively for me. But it seemed like our eyes met for longer than just a casual glance. Then he looked away and went back to his shot. And I suddenly felt like I had felt when I was 14 years old, when I had been in the lunchroom at school and had been staring longingly at this girl named Debra. Must have sat there staring at her most of the lunch hour. Remember seeing one of her friends nudge her with her elbow and Debra looked up and her eyes met mine. And for a moment my heart stood still and I just KNEW this was the moment our souls would meet—then she looked away as if she hadn’t even seen me. I look back now and realize that Dale was already working my head. Without even knowing me, he instinctively knew how to make the first scratch in the surface of my self-esteem.
But at the time, I just felt incredibly embarrassed. Looked away immediately. Looked at my hands. Looked at my glass—discovered it was empty and made a beeline for the bar to fix that. Beeline… hardly as graceful or as direct as that! Nearly fell over my chair as I stood up—and had to wind through people to get to the bar. Felt like a rat—a drunken rat—in an impossible maze! And of course, I kept glancing back over at him as I wound through the people (in truth, there were probably 5 or 6 people!). He was caught up in the game, though. Didn’t even notice me.
“You sure you want another, Poe Boy?” The bartender was Mark’s oldest brother Aaron. Owned the bar. Still does. Told him I was sure. He shook his head, but was apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going to pass out in the immediate future—or hurl all over his bar—and he knew I had walked there. So he went to make me another drink. Was drinking scotch with ginger ale. When Paul mixed the scotch with anything, it was ginger ale.
“Why does he call you Poe Boy?” The voice was deep and a bit scratchy, rough around the edges. Good thing I didn’t have my drink yet because I would have spilled it all over myself because I nearly jumped out of my skin. Aaron came back with my drink before I could answer.
“It’s short for Poet Boy. But Luc hates to be called that. I just like to piss him off. “Another beer?” He asked the disembodied voice. I say that because it was still a voice with no body--I hadn’t turned to see who it was. But really, I knew.
I took a sip of my drink—more of a gulp, really. My hand shook as I turned to look at him. Of course it was him. Never doubted for a moment. He nodded to Aaron and turned to me, a smile on his face. God it was one hell of a smile! “Poet Boy?” He raised an eyebrow and I noticed it was dark, while the rest of his facial hair was very light blonde. Funny the things you focus on at the oddest times—or when you are so incredibly drunk you can barely see.
I nodded and grimaced. “Used to write a lot of poetry in school.” My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s body.
“Why do you hate to be called that then?” He was maintaining eye contact with me, or trying to. His gaze was very direct and I kept looking down and back up. He told me later that look from under my eyelashes was what did it for him.
“Wasn’t really meant as a compliment, considering the ones calling me that were usually throwing my books at me.” I smiled self-consciously when I said it, and quickly took another drink. Why did Aaron have to call me that?
He laughed and took a drink of his beer, looking away from me at last “Kids are bitches, aren’t they?” He leaned against the bar, one foot resting on the bottom rung of the barstool. “You play pool?”
I glanced over at the pool table. It was an instinctive reaction. Wanted to see where the guy he had been playing with had gone. He wasn’t around.
“He had to go. Kicked his ass though.” He raised one of his dark brows. “Up to a game?”
I was up to any game he wanted. Almost said that. Was on the tip of my drunken tongue. But I just shrugged. “Sure. Fair warning, though… I suck.”
He looked at me and raised that eyebrow again, and—to my incredible surprise—let his eyes travel slowly down my body and back up again. He smiled slowly. “And I bet you’re damn good at it too” Then he pretended he had misunderstood. “Oh.. you mean you suck at pool!” He grinned and so did I. Was funny. I know I was drunk, and drink tends to loosen the inhibitions, but from that moment I felt instantly comfortable with him.
We played pool. As promised, I sucked. I was a mediocre player at best fully sober. As drunk as I was, I could barely hold the stick and I was lucky if I sank 3 shots. At one point, after a bit, he just laughed and leaned over me and grabbed the stick. “Going to hurt yourself with that, I think.” He put a hand on my back and I was surprised at how warm it felt—especially as he began to rub my back very slowly, back and forth. It felt very relaxing, a bit hypnotic, actually. And at that point I really realized how drunk I was. Was very near to passing out—or at the very least falling asleep.
“And just how much HAVE you had to drink tonight?” His voice was slightly teasing. And I realized we were walking to the door. I remember thinking that he was finding his way through the rat’s maze a lot easier than I had—and I was impressed. I think I said that to him. Not really sure, but he looked at me curiously and laughed.
“You are VERY drunk, aren’t you?” I nodded and grinned. He shook his head. “You hide it well—or you did until a few minutes ago. Don’t know how you got here, but you aren’t in any state to drive—and I doubt you’d make more than 15 feet walking. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
His truck was parked in back. When we were in the truck, he put his arm across my shoulders and leaned against me, his lips brushing my ear. “Your place or mine?” Classic line. No imagination at all. Remember actually thinking that at the time. But it worked. Amazing how alcohol effects your inhibitions. Drink enough and you have none. I had drunk enough. Took me to his apartment and fucked me as hard and as rough as I had ever been fucked. I remember afterwards he was so gentle, kept asking if he had hurt me. He had, but I just shook my head and said no, it was really great. And it had felt good. Damned good. But he had hurt me like Paul had NEVER hurt me. But somehow it seemed right. At some point afterwards, he told me his name was Dale.
**
Woke up the next morning in his bed. Had a brief panicked moment of “where the fuck am I?” before I remembered everything. I looked at the clock next to the bed and saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon! I groaned and got out of bed. Had another brief panicked moment of “where the fuck are my clothes?” before I found them on the radiator. It was early November and cold as hell. Didn’t remember putting my clothes on the radiator, so Dale must have done that. I remember thinking it was very thoughtful of him to make sure they were nice and warm for me.
Dale was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He grinned at me. I grinned back, a bit self-consciously. “Sorry, haven’t slept much recently,” I said apologetically.
He offered me a cup of coffee, which I took as I sat down across from him. “Surprised you woke up at all. Figured you for at least a full day.” He looked carefully at me. I remember those turquoise blue eyes searching my face. I think I blushed. “Thought you would be sick as hell.” He shook his head. “I would be puking my guts out if I had drank as much as you did.”
I grinned. “ I never get hangovers. Only had one in my life and that was when I mixed what I was drinking. Was 13. Drank everything in my friend’s house: beer, dandelion wine, sherry, Canadian whisky, vodka, you name it. Puked all over my friend’s couch! Had to call my dad to come get me. Told him I had eaten bad pizza.” I had actually forgotten that memory. But when I had started talking to Dale it had just come to my head and had just spilled out.
Dale had laughed and I remember thinking how very sexy his laugh was. It was deep and had a hard edge to it—a clear, sharp edge. There was nothing “soft” about Dale’s laugh.
We went on to talk quite a bit. He asked me why I had gotten so drunk last night and I told him all about Paul. He asked me questions, I answered him—automatically, without consideration. Just answered any question he asked. And all the while we were talking his eyes—those amazing turquoise eyes—were on my face. I didn’t even realize he had taken my hand until I stopped talking. I felt suddenly embarrassed, realized I had pretty much spilled my soul to this man I had just met last night. He picked up my hand and pulled it toward him and covered it with his other hand. “You really have managed to get yourself into some shit.” His voice was gentle.
I nodded and looked down at my coffee cup. “Yeah, I have a talent for it, I think.”
He reached over and pushed some of my hair back from my eyes—it was always falling into my eyes. “Too bad you don’t have that same talent for pool.” I looked up at him and saw his eyes were laughing. I laughed too.
Dale was like that. When there was a moment of tension, he would find a way to break it. I think, really, he hated those moments that verged on becoming intimate. Not intimate in a sexual way—Dale never shied away from sex. But intimate in a personal or connecting way. Dale lived on the surface of life, I think. Don’t think he was comfortable with anything deeper.
But I found myself really drawn to Dale. Knew immediately he was dangerous—didn’t just LOOK dangerous, he WAS dangerous. But there was something I wanted in that danger. Was a darkness, cool and soothing, like the coolness of a satin sheet against hot skin. I could just sense something in him that I needed and wanted. Didn’t know quite what it was, though. And I didn’t waste much effort trying to figure it out. I just surrendered to it.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
Well, that was true at that moment anyway. Until the feeling started. I say feeling, but it wasn’t really. It was a blissful lack of feeling. Or maybe just selective feeling. Feeling like everything was good, pleasant, satisfying. But not really having any sense of why. Absence of reasoning, maybe. That’s how it felt—or how I now look at it as having felt. Didn’t analyze it then. Didn’t think about it then. Just felt it, reacted to it.
Dale was like that to me. Didn’t think about him. Just felt him, reacted to him. If I had thought about him, I probably would have run straight away. But then, maybe not. I was looking for self-destruction at the time—didn’t recognize it as that, but that’s what it was. Dale was self-destruction in a bottle, and he dispensed it freely. Well, actually, with Dale nothing was free. Everything had a price. And I was so willing to pay it.
First time I saw him I felt his pull. Felt the black hole of him drawing me toward him, into him. Knew he would take my light, but I didn’t have much light to lose anyway. And the darkness looked so cool and comforting. Wanted to just surround myself with it, let it block out all the vestige of light that remained in me. Not much left I wanted to see anyway.
I wonder how I knew. I wonder how I knew he was like anti-matter. He was like the other end of a magnet, drawing me to him. Should have turned around. Should have let that pull reverse and push me away. Would have been better. Or would it? Not so sure, really. I would have found some other means, I suppose.
Paul had left me with a kiss and the words “Don’t be so dead set against Mark. He loves you more than I do even.” Laughed when he said it. Wasn’t funny. I know now—or think I do—that he meant that Mark loved me so very much—but what I heard was that Paul loved me less. Made me want to die. I had put my heart and soul into that man. For nearly 2 years. I had been 17—nearly 18 when he had given me back my life. I was 19 years 4 months and 6 days old when he took it back, when he left. Not that it was an important day for me or anything! Not that I marked it down on the calendar. Didn’t write it in a journal. Just chiseled it into my heart—which felt like stone. No, that was what I had wanted it to feel like. What it actually felt like was a raw, open sore. And the chisel was more a razor blade, cutting into whatever bits of flesh it could find.
I have to think that he wouldn’t have left like that if he had known. Now, I think that. He loved me. I had known it when we were together, know it now. But when he left, all that knowledge deserted me, left me to the mercy of my insecurities. And my insecurities told me he did not love me, not enough—never had loved me, not really. Wouldn’t have left if he did. Wouldn’t have left me alone. Wouldn’t have left me. And that’s just how I felt: Left. Discarded. Thrown away. Like an empty container, yesterday’s newspaper, last night’s table scraps.
It was about 3 weeks after Paul left that I first saw Dale. About… Odd… I so carefully marked the day that Paul left, but cannot quite remember the day I met Dale. Not surprising, probably. Had lost myself in a nearly non-stop alcoholic stupor. The night after Paul left, I bought a bottle of scotch (Paul’s favorite drink). Had it for dinner. Had it for breakfast the next morning also. Made most meals from that bottle—and the ones just like it that followed. Sobered up just enough to buy more. And when I ran out and the liquor store was closed, I would somehow find my way to a bar. Oh, I lived within reasonable staggering distance of a bar—which was good because even had I wanted to drive, there would have been no way I could have managed. I thank god for that now—well, not god, because I don’t believe in him—but I thank whatever forces kept me on my feet and kept me from getting behind the wheel during that time.
Don’t remember where Mark was in all this. Well, vaguely remember his face in the doorway sometimes. Vaguely remember his voice or his hand on my elbow. But seriously, I was immersed in oblivion. Or sort of oblivion. I still remembered Paul’s lips on mine. Still remembered the smell of his hair in my face. Still remembered the feel of him inside me. Those things never quite left me. Nor did “He loves you more than I do even.” That was the first sound that greeted me when my eyes opened in whatever passed for my morning. It was the last sound that left me when I finally passed out at the end of my “day.”
Was a Monday night when I met Dale. Yeah, remember that much. Remember that because the liquor store was closed on Monday and I was out of scotch and there was nothing else in the apartment. Mark had stopped putting the beer in the fridge. Ass. Had some stupid idea that I might mix the scotch and the beer and do more harm to myself that way. Should have left the beer in the fridge. Wouldn’t have gone to the bar that night then. Wouldn’t have sat down at that table (couldn’t manage the barstool). Wouldn’t have looked across the room. Wouldn’t have seen Dale. All these wouldn’ts would have been—had only Mark left the beer in the fridge. Damned odd little twists of fate. Like that chaos theory. Like the insignificant flutter of a butterfly’s wings changing the air currents of the world and causing a major hurricane. Mark takes the beer out of the fridge and I meet Dale.
**
He was playing pool with some really rough-looking guy. Not that he wasn’t a bit rough-looking himself. God, I do remember every detail of him that night! Hadn’t realized he made such an instant impression on me. His hair was blonde--dark blonde, but with lighter streaks. Looked natural, from the sun, not from the salon. God! I am imagining Dale in a salon! Would be fucking hysterical! Anyway, it was thick and long, just past his shoulders. Didn’t really look like he had washed it that day, or the day before. He had a mustache and a little goatee thing… not much, just really looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days in selected areas. They were very light blonde, though, like the streaks in his hair. Made me wonder if his hair was dark blonde with light streaks or light blonde with dark streaks. Yeah, actually wondered that. Was very drunk. Mind going off on tangents.
But I can still see him at that moment as clearly in my mind as if I were seeing him in front of me right now. It’s like a photograph, preserving that one moment forever to torment me. He was wearing jeans, black work boots, an old-looking white t-shirt and a black leather vest. Nothing special, but it somehow made him look rough as hell. I watched him for some time. Don’t know why, really. Wasn’t really looking for anyone. Well, all right, I was 3 weeks without sex. At 19 that is a long time when you were used to having it whenever you wanted it. Even the alcohol didn’t quite deaden THAT. And as he bent over the pool table and positioned the cue stick, the muscles in his shoulders and arms would flex and I could see the veins in his arms riding on top of those muscles. Oh yeah… was a beautiful sight. You know, when I was with Paul I had discovered that I had a real thing for shoulders and arms. Just one of the many things I had discovered about myself while with Paul. But I still get that little ripple of warmth when I picture Dale’s arms. Been 5 years with a lot of shit in between, but that still runs right through me, right down to my loins. Felt like using that word—reminds me of the historical romances I used to read and play at writing. But the truth is, that mental image of Dale still sets my cock hard, but I was trying to say that a little less crudely. No point, though. Just about everything about Dale was crude. Might as well let the memories be crude, as well.
He moved to the other side of the pool table to take his shot, he leaned over the table and his hair fell in front of him, nearly brushing the table. He was facing in my direction now and I got a really good look at his face as he lined up his shot. No one would ever call Dale handsome, probably not even attractive. His nose was a bit short and looked like it had been broken a few times. His face was thin and he had a scar that looked not that old running from the corner of his left eye down to his ear, and another one, looked a little older, that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. The scars didn’t take away from his looks, though. They actually added to them. Took him from being ordinary and unattractive right to being “dangerous.” And he had an earring in each ear, silver rings with a turquoise bead on each one. I remember focusing on the earrings. For some reason they caught my eye. Have a thing for earrings, actually. Another of those things I discovered about myself while with Paul.
Then he looked up—just before taking his shot, he looked up and his eyes looked right at me. Normally I would have quickly looked away, made some pretense of examining my glass, the food menu, whatever. Would have looked away, immediately. But like I said, I was drunk as hell. And honestly, there was no way in hell I could have looked away if I had been dead sober. The man had eyes that seemed to bore right through me. Yeah, I know. I was drunk. Maybe he could have had eyes like the kind that come with the false nose and the glasses and bounced around on the end of springs and I might still have felt that. But I doubt it. They were the most incredible shade of blue—a blue I could see even as far away from him as I was. It was a blue like the Indian turquoise jewelry—and it struck me immediately that they were the same color as the beads on his earrings.
He looked at me for a moment. Seemed like a long moment, but then the alcohol was making time behave a bit relatively for me. But it seemed like our eyes met for longer than just a casual glance. Then he looked away and went back to his shot. And I suddenly felt like I had felt when I was 14 years old, when I had been in the lunchroom at school and had been staring longingly at this girl named Debra. Must have sat there staring at her most of the lunch hour. Remember seeing one of her friends nudge her with her elbow and Debra looked up and her eyes met mine. And for a moment my heart stood still and I just KNEW this was the moment our souls would meet—then she looked away as if she hadn’t even seen me. I look back now and realize that Dale was already working my head. Without even knowing me, he instinctively knew how to make the first scratch in the surface of my self-esteem.
But at the time, I just felt incredibly embarrassed. Looked away immediately. Looked at my hands. Looked at my glass—discovered it was empty and made a beeline for the bar to fix that. Beeline… hardly as graceful or as direct as that! Nearly fell over my chair as I stood up—and had to wind through people to get to the bar. Felt like a rat—a drunken rat—in an impossible maze! And of course, I kept glancing back over at him as I wound through the people (in truth, there were probably 5 or 6 people!). He was caught up in the game, though. Didn’t even notice me.
“You sure you want another, Poe Boy?” The bartender was Mark’s oldest brother Aaron. Owned the bar. Still does. Told him I was sure. He shook his head, but was apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going to pass out in the immediate future—or hurl all over his bar—and he knew I had walked there. So he went to make me another drink. Was drinking scotch with ginger ale. When Paul mixed the scotch with anything, it was ginger ale.
“Why does he call you Poe Boy?” The voice was deep and a bit scratchy, rough around the edges. Good thing I didn’t have my drink yet because I would have spilled it all over myself because I nearly jumped out of my skin. Aaron came back with my drink before I could answer.
“It’s short for Poet Boy. But Luc hates to be called that. I just like to piss him off. “Another beer?” He asked the disembodied voice. I say that because it was still a voice with no body--I hadn’t turned to see who it was. But really, I knew.
I took a sip of my drink—more of a gulp, really. My hand shook as I turned to look at him. Of course it was him. Never doubted for a moment. He nodded to Aaron and turned to me, a smile on his face. God it was one hell of a smile! “Poet Boy?” He raised an eyebrow and I noticed it was dark, while the rest of his facial hair was very light blonde. Funny the things you focus on at the oddest times—or when you are so incredibly drunk you can barely see.
I nodded and grimaced. “Used to write a lot of poetry in school.” My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s body.
“Why do you hate to be called that then?” He was maintaining eye contact with me, or trying to. His gaze was very direct and I kept looking down and back up. He told me later that look from under my eyelashes was what did it for him.
“Wasn’t really meant as a compliment, considering the ones calling me that were usually throwing my books at me.” I smiled self-consciously when I said it, and quickly took another drink. Why did Aaron have to call me that?
He laughed and took a drink of his beer, looking away from me at last “Kids are bitches, aren’t they?” He leaned against the bar, one foot resting on the bottom rung of the barstool. “You play pool?”
I glanced over at the pool table. It was an instinctive reaction. Wanted to see where the guy he had been playing with had gone. He wasn’t around.
“He had to go. Kicked his ass though.” He raised one of his dark brows. “Up to a game?”
I was up to any game he wanted. Almost said that. Was on the tip of my drunken tongue. But I just shrugged. “Sure. Fair warning, though… I suck.”
He looked at me and raised that eyebrow again, and—to my incredible surprise—let his eyes travel slowly down my body and back up again. He smiled slowly. “And I bet you’re damn good at it too” Then he pretended he had misunderstood. “Oh.. you mean you suck at pool!” He grinned and so did I. Was funny. I know I was drunk, and drink tends to loosen the inhibitions, but from that moment I felt instantly comfortable with him.
We played pool. As promised, I sucked. I was a mediocre player at best fully sober. As drunk as I was, I could barely hold the stick and I was lucky if I sank 3 shots. At one point, after a bit, he just laughed and leaned over me and grabbed the stick. “Going to hurt yourself with that, I think.” He put a hand on my back and I was surprised at how warm it felt—especially as he began to rub my back very slowly, back and forth. It felt very relaxing, a bit hypnotic, actually. And at that point I really realized how drunk I was. Was very near to passing out—or at the very least falling asleep.
“And just how much HAVE you had to drink tonight?” His voice was slightly teasing. And I realized we were walking to the door. I remember thinking that he was finding his way through the rat’s maze a lot easier than I had—and I was impressed. I think I said that to him. Not really sure, but he looked at me curiously and laughed.
“You are VERY drunk, aren’t you?” I nodded and grinned. He shook his head. “You hide it well—or you did until a few minutes ago. Don’t know how you got here, but you aren’t in any state to drive—and I doubt you’d make more than 15 feet walking. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
His truck was parked in back. When we were in the truck, he put his arm across my shoulders and leaned against me, his lips brushing my ear. “Your place or mine?” Classic line. No imagination at all. Remember actually thinking that at the time. But it worked. Amazing how alcohol effects your inhibitions. Drink enough and you have none. I had drunk enough. Took me to his apartment and fucked me as hard and as rough as I had ever been fucked. I remember afterwards he was so gentle, kept asking if he had hurt me. He had, but I just shook my head and said no, it was really great. And it had felt good. Damned good. But he had hurt me like Paul had NEVER hurt me. But somehow it seemed right. At some point afterwards, he told me his name was Dale.
**
Woke up the next morning in his bed. Had a brief panicked moment of “where the fuck am I?” before I remembered everything. I looked at the clock next to the bed and saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon! I groaned and got out of bed. Had another brief panicked moment of “where the fuck are my clothes?” before I found them on the radiator. It was early November and cold as hell. Didn’t remember putting my clothes on the radiator, so Dale must have done that. I remember thinking it was very thoughtful of him to make sure they were nice and warm for me.
Dale was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He grinned at me. I grinned back, a bit self-consciously. “Sorry, haven’t slept much recently,” I said apologetically.
He offered me a cup of coffee, which I took as I sat down across from him. “Surprised you woke up at all. Figured you for at least a full day.” He looked carefully at me. I remember those turquoise blue eyes searching my face. I think I blushed. “Thought you would be sick as hell.” He shook his head. “I would be puking my guts out if I had drank as much as you did.”
I grinned. “ I never get hangovers. Only had one in my life and that was when I mixed what I was drinking. Was 13. Drank everything in my friend’s house: beer, dandelion wine, sherry, Canadian whisky, vodka, you name it. Puked all over my friend’s couch! Had to call my dad to come get me. Told him I had eaten bad pizza.” I had actually forgotten that memory. But when I had started talking to Dale it had just come to my head and had just spilled out.
Dale had laughed and I remember thinking how very sexy his laugh was. It was deep and had a hard edge to it—a clear, sharp edge. There was nothing “soft” about Dale’s laugh.
We went on to talk quite a bit. He asked me why I had gotten so drunk last night and I told him all about Paul. He asked me questions, I answered him—automatically, without consideration. Just answered any question he asked. And all the while we were talking his eyes—those amazing turquoise eyes—were on my face. I didn’t even realize he had taken my hand until I stopped talking. I felt suddenly embarrassed, realized I had pretty much spilled my soul to this man I had just met last night. He picked up my hand and pulled it toward him and covered it with his other hand. “You really have managed to get yourself into some shit.” His voice was gentle.
I nodded and looked down at my coffee cup. “Yeah, I have a talent for it, I think.”
He reached over and pushed some of my hair back from my eyes—it was always falling into my eyes. “Too bad you don’t have that same talent for pool.” I looked up at him and saw his eyes were laughing. I laughed too.
Dale was like that. When there was a moment of tension, he would find a way to break it. I think, really, he hated those moments that verged on becoming intimate. Not intimate in a sexual way—Dale never shied away from sex. But intimate in a personal or connecting way. Dale lived on the surface of life, I think. Don’t think he was comfortable with anything deeper.
But I found myself really drawn to Dale. Knew immediately he was dangerous—didn’t just LOOK dangerous, he WAS dangerous. But there was something I wanted in that danger. Was a darkness, cool and soothing, like the coolness of a satin sheet against hot skin. I could just sense something in him that I needed and wanted. Didn’t know quite what it was, though. And I didn’t waste much effort trying to figure it out. I just surrendered to it.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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