There’s another version of this. It’s an M4F. And that one tells this tale from the male point of view. And this one?
Well. I hope this one doesn’t (blush).
It’s something I tried to do in THE DAY WE DIDN’T. To try to tell the tale from both sides. And so this version is a lot the same but (I hope) some different. And I hope it’s more than just changing all the ‘you-s’ for ‘me-s’ and crossing my fingers. Though, yes - I had to do some of that, and I may have messed up some of the edits. I hope not, and I'll try to catch them if I have.
Of course, I’se just a scribbler. I probably messed it up anyway (blushes again)).
There’s sort-of Shakespeare in this, some sort of Andrew Marvell - though much as I love 'To his Coy Mistress', I sort of disagree with (er, again :-) ), and some sort-of Peter Sarstedt. I'd apologise to them, but I probably wouldn't mean it (blushes a third time).
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. Or, at least, one of them. Over to y'all...
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JOURNEY'S END
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They say you can't ever go home. I guess I just made it easier, not being able to get back I mean. Because I never left in the first place. But even if you don’t leave, if you try to keep things like they always were, things happen. Things happen, and one day you realise ‘just for now’ is really ‘forever’.
I guess that’s what happened. To me, I mean. To Us. Like, maybe it was easier for me to make you leave, so I didn’t have to wait and be scared every day that that day would turn out to be the day you’d go. Like, maybe it was easier for me to hurt you, and make you leave, so you never hurt me. Not that you ever would have hurt me. But, like, maybe I figured if you left, I could tell myself it was somehow your fault.
And fuck, I’m good. I did it, right?
So I wanted to make you leave, and I did. You did. You left, and I stayed – and things changed anyway. I mean, yeah. They stayed the same. But they got all different too. Like I’m the same – but I’m different.
Fuck. I am so fucking different.
And now evening's coming on. Evening’s coming on, and I come back here like I come back here every evening, to the place I never left. Does that sound as crazy to you as it does to me? Like, coming back to somewhere I never left? And why the fuck am I talking to you anyway, like I always talk to you when I come here, when you’re not here to talk to? And why the fuck didn’t I talk to you back then? I mean, like, really talk? Like, tell you I was scared? Like, tell you why Jeff was – whatever the fuck he was while he was being nothing worth having with anything and anyone else in a skirt? And, like, what you were? You. The thing I made go away. You, the only thing I ever wanted, and the thing I was scared to have.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.
The shadows are starting to stretch their kinks out and get longer after a hard day scrunched up under the sun. So I know it’s time. Time to stop being a wimp, and go to the place I always go to. The place I always came to. Because when I did, you’d be there, and We’d be there. But that was then, and this is now.
And now?
Now everything’s different. Everything’s fucking different, and I’m fucking different, and nothing will ever be what it was again. But, like, even when there’s really no point, there are just things you, like, have to do, right? So I do it. 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 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 there, like it’s there every evening. The river’s running, like it runs every evening, the weir’s roaring, like it roars every evening, and the bridge is, well, bridging I guess. The bridge. Our Bridge. And every evening I see it, and every evening I say that. That it’s the same bridge, but it isn’t Our Bridge any more, because it’s different. Because I’m fucking different. And every evening, I’m right. Because it can’t be Our Bridge, because it's just me, and you're not here. There's no Our, no Us for it to be a Bridge for. And that’s how it is. Every fucking evening. Only – only not tonight. Not this evening. Because there’s someone. Someone on my bridge. Someone on Our Bridge – or maybe Someone on Our Bridge. Because it looks like you. It looks like you even though it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, since you were here. And it looks like you even though it can’t be you, because you ran, and you said you were never coming back, and I knew that was what I wanted you to say even if I never wanted you to say it. But it is. It’s you. It’s you, and you’re there, where you always were. And I have no fucking idea why you’re there, even though I know it doesn’t matter, because everything’s different now – because I’m different now. And I know it doesn’t matter if I leave or if I stay – if I speak or if I don’t. Because that’s how it is when – when things change. But you’re there, and even if it’s just a bridge, and not Our Bridge, and even if you’re just you and not my You – I figure, fuck it. I figure fuck it, and 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 so we weren't Us any more, or I can stop being a fucking wimp. I can stop being a fucking wimp, and I can do what I always did, and say what I always said. Because sometimes, even if things change, they’re really the same.
So I do it. And the river’s roaring, and the weir’s hammering over the concrete, like I’ll never forget it hammering, and I fucking say it, even if I know you’re never going to hear me. Or I almost say it. Because I say ‘Oh my god’. And I never said that. But I say it now. I say ‘Oh my god. Out of all the bridges on all the rivers, in all the world, you have to walk onto mine.' And you don’t look up, but I can see there’s a smile hundred yards wide on your 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. But even though it shouldn’t be possible, and the river’s rushing, and the weir’s hammering, and there’s no way you can hear me, you grin your grin – that grin I could never forget. You grin your grin, and you fucking do it. You say it. What you always said. And you say 'Hey. Say it again, Sam.'
And I know. I know it wasn’t quite like that, in that movie we saw on our first date. We had to sneak in, because you’d spent your last dime on frozen orange juice for me. And you told me you’d always wanted to be Peter Sarstedt, and you laughed when I blushed and said I didn’t know who he was. But it wasn’t a nasty laugh, it was cute, and you blushed too. So we sneaked into the theater 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 really cool movie. And when they said that thing they said, I looked at you, and I said 'Don't you ever call me that. I hate that.' And I meant it, because I did. I really, really did. And I’d fucking scream our house down if even my mom called me Sam, because that’s not my name, and my name’s fucking Samantha. But the next time I came to the bridge, before it was really Our Bridge, because you said you’d be there, I couldn’t resist. I said it. The 'Out of all the bridges' thing. And you did it. You fucking did it. You said 'Say it again, Sam.' And I should have thrown a fit, like I did with mom, but I couldn’t help it. I looked down, so you couldn’t see, and I smiled so fucking wide my lips should have needed fucking passports, because that was Our Movie, and all of a sudden, being Sam was OK, if it meant I was Your Sam.
And that was then, and this is now, and I’m different – and this shouldn’t be happening. But it is, and my head drops down so you can’t see, and I know I’m smiling just as wide all over again. And I say it, even if I don’t mean it, and it shouldn’t matter, because everything’s different, even if I can’t ever tell you how it’s different, and I say what I always said. 'Don't call me fucking Sam!' And I know, my smile’s never been wider.
And I smile, 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 take your hand, 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 even though I know I can’t hold your hand, maybe I don’t want to know, because my hand twitches, like it has a life of its own. So I cover it with my other hand. And I don’t know if you see it, even if you can’t have seen it, but I see you move your hand away. Which is good, right? Because, like, you trying to hold my hand wouldn't - well. I figure I couldn't handle it, and not just because I covered my hand over. And I grin, because, like, it's a pun, and I figure you must see the grin, because you grin too. And I don’t know what to say, so I say what I always said. And I say ‘Bastard’. And you say what you always said, and you 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 I say how , like, you were twenty, and I was seventeen, and, like, I was scared, and how it was so strong, and, like, how I was really, really scared. And how somehow Jeff in the office seemed safer, because I knew he was a player and it wouldn't be like we were. And you say how you should have been different, should have waited, and not run like you did that night I told you 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 you never ran that night, and the river almost seems to laugh with us - and that's when I do it. Because I always did, when we laughed. And my hand comes out, and I slap you upside your head. And my hand hits your cheek, and the slap rings out, and it fucking hurts my hand!
And I'm not expecting it, because, like, even though I 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 can see you weren’t really expecting it, though I know you should have been because it’s just what I always did, and you can’t know why I’m looking at my hand like it isn’t really my hand. But you don’t see me looking at my hand, because you weren’t expecting me to slap you, even though you should have been, and you fall. You fall, and you fall on your face, and I can see it hurts you. And you roll over, and I look down, and there's a bulge in your jeans like there was every minute of our first date, the one you spent the whole date trying to hide. And I remember how that was when I think I fell in love with you. Because if you hadn’t tried to hide it, I’d have done it with you, and it wouldn’t have been my first, and we’d have done it, and likely I’d never have gone out with you again, because you’d be just like all the other guys. But you didn’t. You didn’t, and you tried to hide it, and it was like you, maybe, weren’t like the other guys – and I think I fell for you right then.
And you look up, And I look down at you, and I say I’m sorry, and I say how I shouldn't have, how it couldn't have – but I can’t find the words. Because I’m fucking different now. And there really aren’t any words – and I can’t tell you. Not ever. But then I do the other thing. Because I’m confused, maybe, and nothing’s making sense, maybe, and maybe I want things to be – to be something else. So I reach down, to pull you up. And you reach up to take my hand - and of course, you 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. But nothing happens. You don’t run, and you don’t scream, and I look down, and you're not looking at me, and you’re looking away, and it's like you're waiting for something. And I realise. I realise, and I know I’m sad, even if it shouldn’t matter. So I ask you. I ask you, and I look at you, and I look you in the eyes – eyes that shouldn’t be able to see me – and I ask 'How?' And you tell me. You tell me how the light was red, and you had to get to a place, and how you ran across the street anyway, and how your cell phone fell off your belt, and the back came off and the battery came out, and you ran back to get it and that was how. That was when. And you say how it wasn't the driver's fault, because you were being dumb, like you say you’d always been dumb. And you tell me how, even though it had been a bitch getting here from where you were, where you’d gone, you knew you had to get back here, to be here, even just once. So you did. And you ask if it's OK, and you say I don’t have to be scared, because you’d never hurt, couldn't hurt...
And I look down at you, and I know I’m crying. And I tell you to shut up and to get the fuck up, because I’m not scared, and because you’re a Bastard. And you get up. And I tell you. I tell you how, like, you should remember I said this was my bridge? And you say yes, even if you wish it was Ours. And I say how, no, it's not like that. I say how it's my bridge, because I was walking here one night, after Jeff had proved he was a bastard, but not like you’re a Bastard, and my heel snapped. My heel snapped and I fell, and the river rushed, and the weir roared, and I fell. And now the bridge is, like, my bridge. And I tell me how no, I didn't throw yourself in because of you, whatever anyone said afterwards, because it was just my fucking heel, and it broke, and that was fucking it. And I know you don’t believe me, and I know I’ll never admit it – but I know you’re right not to. And even if I’m crying, I know I’m smiling as well. And I tell you how I come here every evening, as the sun falls and the shadows stretch, because this is where I want to be.
And the sun is falling past the horizon behind me, and I know you can see it. I know you can see it through me.
And you get up, and you reach for me. And I hope maybe it’s Our Bridge again, and maybe things aren’t so different after all. But your hands pass through me, as mine pass through you. And I reach up to touch your face, but my fingers pass through you, through the red bruise of my slap. And I don’t know how that can be, because your face is red, and I heard the slap, and my hand felt it – and it doesn’t make sense that I can't touch you now. And then I look down. I look down, and I smile, and my hand drops, and my fingers close round your cock. And you’re so hard. You’re so hard, and I can feel you - feel your cock. And you lift your hand, and you lift it up, and you move it and you look at me, like you don’t know how I’ll react. So I smile, and I nod, and the tips of your fingers touch my nipple. And my nipple is so fucking hard. And I smile, and you smile, and my hand pulls on your cock, and your fingers pull on my nipple, and we move closer, and our faces come close together. And I know. I know why my hand hurt you, and I know why I couldn’t pick you up. And I know. I know that when nothing else is real – one thing is always Real. Has always been Real. The only thing that really can be. And it isn’t your cock, though it sort of is, and it isn’t my nipple, though it sort of is – it’s something else. Like it was always something else. So I kiss you. I kiss you, and my lips feel yours, and I feel mine open under yours, and your tongue slides into my 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 laugh, even though we’re still kissing. And you back, and you ask me what's so funny, and I say 'So if we're dead, like, why are we wearing clothes? It's not like anyone can see us.' And you say how, like, if we’re dead like I say, like, how can you see me? And I say how, like, who gives a fuck? Because you can see me. You can see me, and I can see you, and, like maybe, like, now we're back together, back here, maybe we should see more of each other? And I have no idea how you do it, but your jeans are gone, and your shirt is gone, but there's something that isn't gone, and it’s still in my hand, and it is so fucking hard. And I don't let go, but I wink, and then my jeans are gone, and my shirt is gone, but not everything's gone. Because I know I’m wearing it, if ‘wearing’ still makes sense. The Basque you got you for my eighteenth birthday. And I remember how I didn’t know what you’d got me, but I didn’t want anyone else to see because it was from you, and it wasn’t anyone else’s business. So I took it upstairs to unwrap it. And I saw what it was, and it was beautiful. And I took my clothes off, and I put it on. I put it on, and I put on some stockings, and my heels, and your favourite dress. And I waited for you to come to mom's house, because you were taking me out for dinner for my birthday. And I never said anything, and we went in your car, and I told you to take a turn here and another there, and we ended up in that empty parking lot. And I took my dress off, and I asked you if you liked my birthday present. And I grinned, and I could see you trying to cover the bulge in your pants, and I grinned wider, and I told you to take your fucking hands away, because it was my fucking birthday, and I was going to get… well, We were going to Get. And I unzipped you, and I took you out, and you were so fucking hard. And I bent down and I took you in my mouth – and we were in that parking lot all fucking night. And I grin, because I know it’s another pun. And that was our first time - the first time we did it.
And I know I’m wearing it now, your Basque, and I know I’m grinning – and then I’m not wearing it at all. And I put my hand on your chest, and I push you down, and my hand should go through you, or you should go through my hand, but it doesn't, and you don't, and you fall down on your back, and I fall down on top of you, and you are so fucking hard, and it shouldn't matter, because, like, things are different now, and we're different - so very fucking different - but it does matter. It matters, and it's wonderful, because your cock slides into me. And I’m tight and I’m hot, and I’m so fucking wet, and I’m smiling wider than I’ve I’ve ever smiled. 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’ve always been here, even if I’ve never been here before in my death. And you’re here too, and there is no Jeff, and you’re never going to run, and there is no me and there is no you – because there’s us. Just Us, and Our River and Our Weir and Our Bridge – and We’re never leaving here again.