Lose Yourself

Doors

For someone who frequently talked about sex in his music, Em didn't think he cared that much about it. Sex was fine but it didn't matter in the same way as friendships or intimacy. Producers and industry friends regularly sent women to his hotel rooms and, more often than not, he turned off the lights and let it happen. It was simpler than saying no. Easier to go with the flow and imagine the warm body touching him was his first boyfriend or, to his ongoing horror, Kim.

He hated himself for missing his ex-wife but he did. And he always would. He'd never felt closer to anyone than he had to Kim. And no one had ever wounded him as deeply.

Through therapy, he had come to understand that Kim represented unconditional love to him. It didn't matter that she wasn't aligned with the 'Til Death Do Us Part' part of his personal fantasy. In his heart of hearts, he would never stop wishing that their marriage had worked out. Apparently, his dick felt the same way because she was the mental stand-in every single time he was with a woman. Which was to say that hetero-sex kind of sucked and he could do without the mental gymnastics.

He had been 24 when he'd spent 3 months living in Amsterdam, writing the Marshall Mathers LP. Drug addled and depressed, he had given himself permission to try everything; he let go of labels and definitions, flirting with whoever caught his eye. It was interesting in practice but went against his nature. Less than a week later, he'd met his first boyfriend at a record store. Jonathan was a gifted photographer who offered to show him around the city. He and Em had split a pot brownie and ended up making out like a couple of teenagers. Jonathan had moved into his hotel that night and he fell back into the pattern of monogamy. Nothing that Johnathan had ever done or said had indicated that their relationship was anything but temporary. But Em took his every word, his every kiss, his every photograph as proof of their love. It had eventually taken Paul, his closest friend, flying overseas to explain that his new perfect boyfriend was an addict, stealing money from him, already married, and kind of a douchebag.

Since that humiliation, Em had trained himself not to care. If it was possible to avoid having sex, he would. Rex was an expert at walking him through Detroit stripclubs, dropping hints that Em had hooked up women in private lounges. In reality, they walked in one door and out the other, escaping into a running car. He'd rather jackoff alone than look down at some strange woman who was, at best, probably an alcoholic.

Until now. 

Until Sam. 

This was what it was supposed to feel like. At age 45, he felt like he was experiencing everything for the first time. Sam was pure warmth.

It had been so long since he had been mentally present during sex that it was jarring. He stared at Sam across the pillow and felt his heart flip. Sam stared back at him in that strange, undamaged way of his. His deep green eyes held him in place. There was no pain, no distance, no drugs or alcohol dimming his senses. He propped himself up on one elbow and traced along the bottom of Sam's ribcage. His tattoo was inked in lowercase letters, crisp and stark like a typewriter: the truth must dazzle gradually

"I love this," he whispered because he couldn't say I love you to Sam. It was too soon. And they were still naked. Even if he let himself say what he was thinking, it would seem like it was coming out of the afterglow of sex. He ran his fingers along the tattoo reverently.

"A truth that is discovered slowly, in bits in pieces, or is sensed before it is totally understood, stands a better chance of survival than a truth that is delivered too soon." Sam explained in voice so soft and tender, that it felt intimate. His eyes roamed over the tattoos covering Em's body. He traced over the portrait of Bailey marking his shoulder, running the tip of his finger down his arm and starting over again.