I have a confession to make.
Um, this piece wanted to be longer (blush).
But the limit is the limit, and 15K characters is the limit - and I know I could Pastebin it if it was longer, but I don't really like doing that, because it takes people away from here to read it. So there's some more that could be there, but isn't. I hope it doesn't matter. Or not matter too much (blushes again).
There's some sort-of Shakespeare in this, some sort of Andrew Marvell - though I sort of disagree with him (er, again :-) ), and some sort-of Peter Sarstedt. I'd apologise to them, but I probably wouldn't mean it (blush).
Is it erotic? That's a reader choice. If it isn't, if it doesn't 'fit' here, let me know. I'll take it down with no ill will :-).
So here it is. JOURNEY'S END. Over to y'all...
Oh - and here's the flip side of the coin. It's the same tale, but F4m, and from the female character's perspective. Well, that was the plan - I probably messed it up (last blush - for now at least :-))) ).
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JOURNEY'S END
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They say you can't ever go home. Which, I guess, is true. I mean, yeah. It's shit, because I'm, like, here. But it isn't. Isn't shit, I mean. Because even though here, whether it's got four walls and a roof or not, is more home than home ever was, and even though I'm back - and trust me, it wasn't easy - it still isn't. Isn't home, I mean. Because here may be the same, but it's different. There's been, and I can feel myself grin as I think it, a lot of water under the bridge since I was here last. And just like here is the same, but it's different, so am I. I'm the same - but I'm different.
Fuck. I am so fucking different.
But evening's coming on. The shadows are starting to stretch their kinks out and get longer after a hard day scrunched up under the sun. And like I said, it was a bitch to get back here. Now I'm here I figure I might as well finish the journey. So I walk across the scrubby gravel that's still pretending to be a parking lot, even though it's still more grass than gravel just like it always was, and I step over the railing onto the path. The trees bent over the path look the same, even if I know they're really not, and the path is the same cracked mud worn by too many feet I remember. I walk past the old mill, the one only the tourists go into and we never did, and I go down the slope of grass.
And it's still there. The river's still running, the weir is still roaring and the bridge is still, well, bridging I guess. The bridge. Our Bridge. Though I guess it's a bit like home. It's still the bridge it was, but it isn't.
Because it's not Our Bridge.
It can't be, really. Because it's just me, and you're not here. There's no Our, no Us for it to be a Bridge for. And I figure I can stand there, getting all philosophical about bridges, and the gap I wish there'd never been between us, or wish had never grown from nothing so we weren't Us any more, or I can stop being a fucking wimp and get my fucking butt onto the fucking bridge, like I came here to do. So I do. I get my fucking butt on the fucking bridge, and I lean on the railings, where We used to lean, and where We used to dream about getting both our butts out of the shit hole town we weren't in, because we were on Our Bridge. And they say how, like, things from years past always seem smaller, not so big-deal when you come back to them. But the river's not like that, and the weir under the bridge isn't like that. Because the river still rushes, like I remember it rushing, and the weir still hammers over the concrete, like I remember it hammering. And it's loud. It is so fucking loud, but not so loud I don't hear it. Don't hear you. Not so loud I don't hear you say what you always said.
'Oh my god'.
Well, no, you didn't used to say that. But you say it now. You say 'Oh, my god. Out of all the bridges on all the rivers, in all the world, you have to walk onto mine.' And I don't look up, but I know there's a smile a fucking hundred yards wide on my face, even though there shouldn't be, because it's been years, and the bridge isn't Our Bridge, and I'm the same, but I'm different and what are the odds? What are the odds that you should be here right now, this here and this now, and you should see me? I mean, like, it shouldn't be, like, possible, yeah? But what the fuck. So I grin my grin, and I keep looking at the river, and since you said it - what you always said - I figure what the fuck. And I say it too. What I always said. Even though it shouldn't matter what the fuck I say. And I say 'Hey. Say it again, Sam.'
And I know now, like I knew then, that it wasn't quite like that in the movie we saw on our first date, after we sneaked into the theater because I didn't have any money, because I'd spent it on frozen orange juice for you. And fuck, we laughed when we saw we'd sneaked into an old black and white. But we sat, and we watched it, and it was a pretty cool movie. And when they said that thing they said, you looked at me, and you said 'Don't you ever call me that. I hate that.' But the next time I was hanging on the bridge, waiting for you, you came up and you said it, just like now. The 'Out of all the bridges' thing. And I couldn't resist. So I said it. 'Say it again, Sam.' And I expected you to throw a fit, because even your mother always called you Samantha, because she knew how loud you'd scream if she didn't. And I saw you smile then, even though you tried to look down so I couldn't see, just like your head's down now and like you're smiling now. And just like then, I have no idea now why you're standing there, why you're listening to me while I say it. But I do, and you smile, even if you say what you always said. 'Don't call me fucking Sam!'
And I grin, and the river rushes, and the weir roars - and time goes by.
And you lean on the railings, and you look down at the rushing river, like you used to look down, and you don't say anything, like we never said anything, because we were on Our Bridge, and we didn't have to say anything, not to be Us. And the river rushes, and the weir roars, and I want to put my arm round you, like I used to. But I know I can't. Because that was then, and this is now, and it isn't the same, and I know it's different. I know I'm different, and I know you can't know, and I know I can't tell you. Even if I wish I wasn't different, and now more than ever. But I am, and I know the bridge can't be Our Bridge again, just because I'm here, and you're here. So I watch the river. I watch the river, and you watch the river, and the river rushes by like all the years We weren't here together, like the years are rushing by all at once. And I see your hand twitch, like you want to take hold of mine, though it doesn't move, and you cover it with your other hand. But I pretend I don't see it, and I pretend to accidentally move my hand away, because, like, you trying to hold my hand wouldn't - well. I figure I couldn't handle it. And I figure you couldn't either, and not just because you covered your hand over. And I grin, because, like, it's a pun, and I figure you must see the grin, because you grin too, and you say 'Bastard'. And I grin wider, even if I don't look at you, and I say 'Bitch'. And it feels good, and it feels right, because it's what we always used to say, what we always used to call each other, even though we didn't mean it, because we were Us. And I know it shouldn't feel anything at all, not after what happened. But it does, and I grin some more.
And the river rushes, and the weir roars. And the sun sinks lower on the horizon and the shadows stretch out as they head towards night, and their time to play. And for a moment, a minute, a year - fuck, for the lifetime we never had - we're Us again.
And we lean on the railing, and time rushes by like the river under us, and we don't say anything, because we don't have to, because we're Us again. But I guess we both know we really aren't, because then we do. Say something, I mean. And maybe it's because we're sort of Us again, even if we aren't really, because I know I can't be, because it's different - because I'm different. But we both say the same thing, and we both say it at the same time, and we say it together, and we both say 'I fucked up.' And we both look at each other, and we both say 'No you didn't. I did.' And you say how you were young, and how you were scared, and how it was so strong, and, like, how you were really scared. And how somehow Jeff in the office seemed safer, because you knew he was a player and it wouldn't be like we were. And I say how I should have been different, should have waited, and not run like I did that night you told me about Jeff, and... and we're both talking, and the river's rushing, and we're looking at each other, and it was all so important, and so dumb, and so painful - and we laugh. We both laugh. We laugh, and it's like Jeff never was, and I never ran that night, and the river almost seems to laugh with us - and that's when you do it. Because you always did, when we laughed. And your hand comes out, and you slap me upside my head. And the slap rings out, and it fucking hurts! And I'm not expecting it, because, like, even though you always did it, it's different now, and I'm different now, and it shouldn't happen, and it can't happen, and there's no way it can... but it did, and it has, and I'm not expecting it, and I fall. I fall, and I fall on my face, and I hit the bridge and it hurts. It hurts because my cock is so fucking hard, and I just fell on it, and it hurt. It fucking hurt. And it shouldn't be hard, and it shouldn't hurt, because that was then, and this is now, and it's different, and I'm different, and this can't be happening. And I roll over, and I look down, and there's a bulge in my jeans like there was every minute of our first date, the one I spent the whole date trying to hide even though I knew you knew it was there.
And I look up, and you're not looking at the bulge. You're looking at your hand, and you're looking at me, and it's like you don't think your hand is yours. And you say how you're sorry, and you say how you shouldn't have, how it couldn't have - and it's like you can't find the words. But then you do the other thing. You reach down, to pull me up, and I'm still trying to work out what happened, and I'm still not thinking, and I reach up to take your hand - and of course, I can't. Because it's different now. Because I'm different now. And my hand passes through yours. It passes through, and I look away, because I can't look at you, and I don;t want to see the fear in your eyes, and I wait for the scream. But there is no scream, and I look up, and you're not looking at me, and you're looking away, and it's like you're waiting for something. Then you look back at me, and your eyes are sad but you ask me. You ask me, and you look at me, and you look me right in the eye, and you say 'How?' And I know you know. So I tell you. I tell you how I was, well, someplace that didn't matter because you weren't there. And I tell you how the light was red, and I had to get to a place, and how I ran across the street anyway, and how my cell phone fell off my belt, and the back came off and the battery came out, and I ran back to get it and that was how. That was when. And it wasn't the driver's fault, because I was being dumb, like I'd always been dumb. And I tell you how, even though it had been a bitch getting here from where I was, where I went, I knew I had to get back here, to be here, even just once. So I did. And I ask if it's OK, and I say you don't have to be scared, because I'd never hurt, couldn't hurt...
And you look down at me, and you're crying, and you tell me to shut up and to get the fuck up, because you're not scared, and because I'm a bastard. And I get up. And you tell me. You tell me how, like, I should remember you said this was your bridge? And I say yes, even if I wish it was Ours. And you say how, no, it's not like that. You say how it's your bridge, because you were walking here one night, after Jeff had proved he was a bastard, but not like I'm a bastard, and your heel snapped. Your heel snapped and you fell, and the river rushed, and the weir roared, and you fell and now the bridge is, like, your bridge. And you tell me how no, you didn't throw yourself in because of me, whatever anyone said afterwards, because it was just your fucking heel, and it broke, and that was fucking it. And even if you're crying, you're smiling as well. And you tell me how you come here every evening, as the sun falls and the shadows stretch, because this is where you want to be.
And the sun is falling past the horizon behind you and I can see it. I can see it through you. And the sun's last red is burning in your eyes and you're crying, but you're smiling too.
And I get up, and I reach for you, because we're here, and it's Our Bridge, and maybe it's not so different after all - and my hands pass through you, as yours pass through me. And you reach up to touch my face, but your fingers pass through me, through the red bruise of your slap. And then you look down. You look down, and you smile, and your hand drops, and your fingers close round my cock. And I'm so hard. I'm so hard, and I can feel you - feel your fingers. And I lift my hand, and I lift it up, and I move it and I look at you, just in case, but you smile, and you nod, and the tips of my fingers touch your nipple. And your nipple is so fucking hard. And you smile, and I smile, and your hand pulls on my cock, and my fingers pull on your nipple and we move closer, and our faces come close together. And you kiss me. You kiss me, and my lips feel yours, and I feel them open under mine, and my tongue slides into your mouth, and I feel your tongue dancing with mine.
And the river rushes and the weir roars, and time goes by.
And I don't know if the kiss lasts a minute, or a hundred years, and I don't care. But then I feel your mouth under mine, and you're laughing. So I pull back, and I ask you what's so funny, and you say 'So if we're dead, like, why are we wearing clothes? It's not like anyone can see us.' And I say, like, how I can see you. And you say how, like, you can see me, and, like maybe, like, now we're back, we should see more of each other. And you have that glint in your eye, like you always did. And I have no idea how I do it, but my jeans are gone, and my shirt is gone, but there's something that isn't gone, and I'm still in your hand, and I am so fucking hard. And you don't let go, but you wink, and your jeans are gone, and your shirt is gone, but not everything's gone. Because you're wearing it, if wearing still makes sense. The basque I got you for your eighteenth birthday. And you never said anything, and we were going out to dinner for your birthday, and we went in my car, and you told me to take a turn here and another there, and we ended up in that empty parking lot. And you took off your dress, and you were wearing the basque, and you asked me if I liked your birthday present. And that was the first time - the first time we did it. And you're wearing it now, and you're grinning that grin, and then you're not wearing it at all, and I am so fucking hard. And you put your hand on my chest, and you push me down, and your hand should go through me, or I should go through your hand, but it doesn't, and I don't, and I fall down on my back, and you fall down on top of me, and I am so fucking hard, and it shouldn't matter, because, like, things are different now, and we're different - but it does matter. It matters, and it's wonderful, because my cock slides into you. And you're tight and you're hot, and you're wet, and you're smiling as wide as I am. And now it's not just the river rushing or the weir, it's us, and we're Us, and it's not just a bridge, it's Our Bridge.
And the sun falls, and the shadows come out to dance, and they welcome us home. Because even if they say you can't ever go home, it's shit. Because I'm here. I'm here, and I'm home - and I'm never leaving you again.