People talk of figuring it out like the act of self-discovery has been somehow revolutionary. Of coming out, as if the timeline of life and attraction exists in segments before and after. Wrench has always known, and never said. His sense of what it means to be attracted to men has been colored by his observations more than the language anyone has used for these acts or those who undertake them. It's been shaped by the landscape of the places he's gone looking for experiences, and what he's learned about himself and the world in the process. How he's come to understand the certain uses of his own body, and the expectations of others. As with so many things in his life, there's been a lot of watching here too. Peering into darkened corners to catch glimpses at the things no one brings forward with intentionality in conversation. Learning by acting, and by fucking up time and time again.
Tonight, he lets himself fall into those familiar habits. Into the feeling of holding life itself at a distance, and being privy to the way it shapes and forms for others as he drifts along on a quiet breeze. Wrench fascinates himself with the way the two men come to each other, the simple negotiation, and the way they seem to fit with none of the clumsiness of probing another's boundaries. He feels their familiarity and aches for it himself. Feels desperate to pull it in and claim it as his own, transpose himself in their places and feel the embrace of ghosts. He rolls his hips and fucks his own hand, gasping a breath of hot air and tipping his head toward the ceiling where he can imagine himself in both roles at once, giver and recipient. Wrench's own touch makes him grumble, and his long legs rattle the couch as he finds his pacing.
cw: nsfw
Tonight, he lets himself fall into those familiar habits. Into the feeling of holding life itself at a distance, and being privy to the way it shapes and forms for others as he drifts along on a quiet breeze. Wrench fascinates himself with the way the two men come to each other, the simple negotiation, and the way they seem to fit with none of the clumsiness of probing another's boundaries. He feels their familiarity and aches for it himself. Feels desperate to pull it in and claim it as his own, transpose himself in their places and feel the embrace of ghosts. He rolls his hips and fucks his own hand, gasping a breath of hot air and tipping his head toward the ceiling where he can imagine himself in both roles at once, giver and recipient. Wrench's own touch makes him grumble, and his long legs rattle the couch as he finds his pacing.