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The Three Indisputable Proofs of the Existence of God and
Other Obscure Cultural Phenomena of the Late 20th Century "Oh, God! I'm fucking Superman!" Ok, so that's not really where this story begins. Kinda starts you off in the middle. But that's where I am, so... I guess it really started a while ago, when Lois accepted Lex Luthor's marriage proposal. I was standing not ten feet away when she told Clark, and I swear, if I live to be a hundred years old I never want to see another human being look the way he did when she said those fateful words: 'I'm marrying Lex Luthor!' It was like watching one of those films of a building being demolished. First there's the BOOM!, but nothing seems to happen for a moment. Then the huge clouds of dust start billowing out of the foundations, and finally this pile of bricks and concrete that used to hold something important starts to slide. Faster and faster it crumbles, until there's nothing left but rubble. That's what Clark's face did. And that.. that.. I'm a reporter and I can't think of a word horrible enough to describe that person. She just stood there and didn't even seem to notice. Ok, so I've never liked her anyway. She's the one he looked at, the one he followed around like he was a starving puppy and she was a raw steak. Gee, Jimmy, get jealous much? So Lois goes off in the chauffeured limo, sipping champagne and nibbling caviar. Kat naturally tries to comfort our broken-hearted hero, but being Kat goes totally over the top and just drives him away. Can't she see? Can't any of them see? What Clark needs is a friend. Not a goddess to look up to and worship, or a sexual combat instructor, or even a down-home girl to cook and clean for him. What he really needs is a buddy. Someone who will actually listen to his tales of exotic countries and weird experiences. Who'll buy him a beer and beat him at pool. Who'll lick the sweat from his nipples and suck his lungs out through his dick... Gee, Jimmy, fantasize much? So anyway, a couple of days go past and Clark's looking bluer and bluer, like someone made him watch Ol' Yeller and Bambi back-to-back. I'm biting my lip, keeping out of his way so I don't go off and tell him how lucky he is to be rid of her, 'cuz even when it's true that's the last thing a guy wants to hear when he's just been jilted. Friday comes, and I can't stand it any more. I make sure I'm hanging around his desk, somehow managing to avoid getting sent on some fool errand by Perry, when quitting time rolls around. Lois left hours ago, cleaning out her desk and departing to become a trophy wife, and Clark has been staring at his computer ever since, not even trying to make it look like he's getting anything done. I reach over his shoulder and shut down the screen. "C'mon, CK. Let me buy you a beer or three." He blinks and shakes his head, coming back from whatever planet he's been on all afternoon. "Thanks Jimmy," he says. "But I don't think that's such a good idea..." "Don't be such a dweeb, Big Guy. Your partner just ditched you, you've got to go out and get smashed. It's in the rule book. They'll take away your 'Guy' card if you don't." He snorts and sorta half shrugs. "Won't do much good, Jimmy. Alcohol's never done much for me." "Then you must not have been drinking the right stuff." I don't let him demure, I just hand him his jacket and steer him towards the elevator. He's following my lead, a little bemused, like a Doberman getting bossed around by a Pekingese. I figure if I keep talking, not letting him get a word in edgewise, he can't say no. We're down on the street before he really gets his bearings, but by then I've got him by the elbow and I'm practically dragging him along. I know I can't take him to my favorite bar - the chains and other stuff on the walls might be a little much for him - but there's a great place only a few blocks away. It's called 'Q', and caters to the kind of young urban professional queerboys that max out their credit cards for an Armani suit. This time of day it'll be full of junior lawyers on the prowl, flexing their pecs and showing off their salon tans, looking for that elusive Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right-Now. We'll fit right in. So we get there, and belly up to the bar, and I say 'Hi' to a couple of guys I know, and I'm trying to get the bartender's attention by waving a $50 at him, when Clark goes all stiff and still next to me. He's looking over my shoulder, rapt and frozen. I glance behind me to find out what's got him, and there's a pair of very male suits performing impromptu tongue tonsillectomies on one other. Well, I guess now I'll see just how cosmopolitan our small town boy has become. He looks down at me and cocks an eyebrow, and I give him a sort of half grin and shrug, and he raises the other brow. So I nod once, a strong, unapologetic movement, and he shrugs back and smiles. A real, honest smile, and I relax. He leans over the bar and naturally the bartender notices him right away (like who in their right mind wouldn't?) and he turns to ask me what I want. Don't you just fucking love the guy? An hour later I've managed to prove myself right - he just hasn't been drinking the right stuff. Alcohol may not normally have much affect on him, but Jägermeister sure as hell does. He's not drunk, yet, just a little squiffy. The jacket has come off, the tie's been pulled down, and the collar loosened. I can see this tiny triangle of chest peeking out at me, and when he casually throws his arm over my shoulders and tells me in boozy confidence that I'm his best friend... Life is good. It could be better, we could be swapping spit, but this is pretty damned good. We have another shot, then another, and then the Jäger really hits him. It's the kind of stuff that sneaks up on you. You're feeling fine, nicely buzzed and life has taken on a rosy glow, no problem. Then you stand up and the back of your head falls off to let your brains leak out onto the floor. It's well past our dinnertime, and neither of us has eaten much today. He's looking pretty together, except that he's about 15 degrees off the vertical, and his eyes aren't quite tracking in the same direction. "Jimmy," he says. "Jimmy." There must be more, something he wants to ask me, but he seems to have gotten stuck. "Jimmy..." "Yeah, CK?" "You're my fren', right?" "Thas right. We're pals..." "So I c'n tell you suff, stuff, an' you won tell nobody else, right?" "That's right, man. It'd be 'gainst the code." "Wha' code?" "The Guy Code, CK. You tell me somethin' when we're this drunk, an' I'm not 'llowed t'tell.." "Oh. Ok." He orders another shot, and after it's arrived pauses long enough that I think he's lost the conversational thread. "Were you gonna tell me something?" I ask. "What? Oh, right.. tell ya' a secret.. I ain't never been drinked, drank, drunk 'afore. 'S a funny feeling." "That's not such a bid geal, I mean, big deal." "Thas' not th' secret." "Oh. Ok, then what is?" "I've nev'r been drunk b'fore, 'cuz alc.. alhocol.. alcohol don' affect me." "It's doing a pretty good job now." "An' you know *why* it don' 'fect me?" He leans close, and I almost miss his next words because I'm blissing out on the feeling of his breath in my ear. "It don't affect me 'cuz I'm not hum'n. 'M Superman." Well, duh. I may be young, too young in fact to be drinking in this bar (and that's a story for another time), but stupid I'm not. I figured out that Superman was Clark Kent along about the first time I saw his picture. I don't know why Lois and Perry haven't caught on yet. Maybe it's because they don't really look at him. Oh they look, they just see only what they expect - the mild mannered hick trying to make it in the big city. Whereas when I look... He's whispering again, tickling my neck with each word, and I'm squirming on the barstool, trying to find a position that'll make my pants feel a little looser. Like that's really gonna happen with this major woodage I'm sporting. "I can prove it, too" he's saying. "Wanna see me fly?" He lifts off the ground, just an inch or so, but I grab his tie to pull him back to earth. He lands with a little thump and staggers, not much, just enough to put us face to face. There's a grand total of maybe 12 whole microns between his lips and mine. I can smell him, male musk and boozy breath, and his eyes look like dinner plates, and his skin is perfectly smooth, not a pore out of place. There's this single lock of hair falling over his brow and I'm about 3/10's of a second away from planting a big sloppy one on him, and he keeps on whispering. "An' I c'n tell you, 'cuz you're my fren', and I trust you.." he says. Ok, so I know 19 year olds rarely have heart attacks unless they've got something seriously wrong with them, but I swear that's what it feels like. Here I am fantasizing about how his mouth might look wrapped around my dick and he's telling me he trusts me. Can you say mood-killer, kids? I thought you could. But does he notice? Nope. He just flings his arms around me and gives me this big, *friendly* hug. Don't you just fucking love the guy? I let him order us another shot, then it's time to go. He can barely stand up, and I'm starting to feel like it's time to get off the roller coaster. He wants to fly me home. Yeah, right. I wouldn't trust him behind the wheel of a car, so what makes him think I'm gonna let him up in the air? I manage to keep his feet on the pavement, and flag a cab, giving the hack my address because my Jäger soaked brain can't remember his, and he's in no condition to talk. When we get there, he's practically comatose. You have any idea how much Superman weighs? Lots more than little old Jimmy Olsen, that's for damned sure. But I make it up the stairs and dump him on my couch. The place may not be much, but it's mine. Two rooms, with a closet sized kitchen, and a view of the airwell, but what do you expect on the pittance the Daily Planet pays me? At least there's half a pizza in the fridge and it's a well known fact that cold pizza prevents hangovers. I try to wake Clark up enough to eat something, but he's gone. Out like a light. So I sit there on the coffee table, munching day old deep dish with extra cheese, sausage and pineapple, watching him sleep. Ok, now we're getting to the bit that I'm not too proud of. I'm sitting there, watching him sleep, letting myself really look at him, the way I can't when he's awake. I'm soaking up his beauty, tracing his features with my eyes, the perfect curve of his ears, the sharp angle of his jaw, the sooty length of his lashes lying against his cheek. Then, without even really thinking about what I'm doing, I reach out and touch him, tracing his features with my fingers. It can't hurt, can it? I mean, he's asleep, he'll never know, right? So I run my finger along his eyebrow and down the bridge of his nose. Lightly across his lips. They're so soft, so warm, his skin is so smooth. I let my finger rest there a moment, and something inside me twists. It's not pain, not exactly, but it's not pleasure either. It's a void, an empty place that's the same shape as this man on my couch. That's not so bad, is it? Nah. Well, what happens next is. Because what happens next is that I pull my fingers away and replace them with my lips. And for the space of about 1/2 of a second I'm happy. I'm just resting my lips on his, not really doing anything with them, just breathing in his scent and soaking up the warmth of his skin, and I know it's not real, it's not right, he's passed out and I'm taking advantage of his diminished capacity, but it just feels so. fucking. good. Gee, Jimmy, be pathetic much? Ok, so it wouldn't have been that bad, just something to pull out of my memory at 3am whenever I felt like beating myself up. He never would have known it happened, and I could have pretended that I didn't remember doing it... Except when I open my eyes he's staring back at me. So he wouldn't wake up for pizza, wouldn't wake up when I nudged him, but one little kiss and he's back from the dead. Who does he think I am? Prince Charming? But then his hands are tangled in my hair, and his mouth opens and his tongue slips out, and he's hot, hotter than a normal human would be, and he's kissing me back. It's like tornadoes and hailstorms and floods and other wild whims of nature, picking me up and sweeping me away, elemental and overwhelming and totally irresistible and I know that there's nothing in my power to do that will stop him and I don't ever want him to stop and I can't breathe, can't think can't do anything but kiss him and my dick is so hard it's about to poke a hole in the couch and there's this little whimper that I'm not sure if it's him or me... And then the jerk passes out. Falls back asleep in the middle of kissing me. I'm left there, kneeling on the floor next to the couch, hot and turned on and my lips bruised with his kiss, and he falls back asleep. Don't you just want to kill the guy? After that, well it's definitely time for beddy-bye. So you'd think the next morning I'd feel better. Sleep that knits the raveled sleeve of care and all that crap, right? Wrong. For one thing, the little brass marching band in my head has decided that they really really like the music of John Phillip Sousa, and will in fact be performing his collected works arranged for jack-hammer and freight train. So much for the cold pizza theory. And for another, there's an extremely naked man sound asleep on my couch. Yes, I said naked. He was fully dressed (except for his shoes, which he'd taken off in the taxi) when I went to bed, so he must have gotten up at some point in the night and... I find that I *really* don't want to think about Clark getting undressed in the middle of my living room. It's not exactly an image that's conducive to rational thought. I start to tiptoe past him to the bathroom, then stop and look at him. Really look at him. It's not like I made him get naked, or that I'm undressing him in my mind. I mean he took his clothes off himself, so it's ok to look. Isn't it? And this is the part where I discover the first indisputable proof of the existence of a God somewhere in the universe, because nothing could possibly be that beautiful just by chance. He's lying face down, an arm and a leg fallen off the narrow couch to the floor, his face turned away from me. My eyes travel from the soles of his feet, up over the strong ankles, the rounded calves, the thighs of steel, to his ass. Oh God, that ass. Two perfect globes, round and full as melons, muscular and just begging for me to dive between them. Then there's the spot in the middle of his broad back, right in the spine between two columns of muscle that screams out for a kiss. His shoulders look wide enough to hold the world, his arms are bigger around than most guys calves, and his hands... Even the little brass marching band in my head has stopped marching for a moment to admire him, except for the guy on the kettle drum, who's picked up the beat (or is that my pulse?). My bathrobe has suddenly acquired the most interesting tent-like structure in the front, and that void in my stomach is back. I have to jack off in the shower, twice, before my hardon goes away. I wake him up with a cup of coffee, a big glass of water and some aspirin. I don't know if Bayer works on Kryptonians, but he was pretty glad to see it. Guess if he's never been drunk before he's never had a hangover either. From what little conversation I could get out of him I figured that he didn't remember much of the previous night's proceedings, which I suppose was all for the best. It could have been worse - he could have remembered and hated me. Then again, it could have been better - he could have remembered and wanted to pick up where we left off. So he finally splits, heading back to his place, and my tiny apartment seems just little smaller, a little darker, a little more like the dump I try to pretend it's not. Yeah, I know I'm kinda glossing over this part, but what do you expect? It wasn't exactly my finest hour. Cub reporter gets drunk and puts the make on his co-worker. Film at eleven. I don't think so. What with one thing and another, and deliberately trying to avoid him, I don't see Clark for a couple of days. In fact, it's not till Wednesday afternoon that we're in the same place at the same time again. We're in the mid-week story conference, with Perry waxing rhapsodic about the state of the world (death, destruction and despair - great for the circulation). So we're sitting there, and I'm managing to not meet Clark's eyes. Until Sam Wilton comes in late carrying his lunch. Nothing too odd about that, Sam will be late for his own funeral and everyone needs to eat once in a while. But he's eating pizza. Deep dish, extra cheese, sausage and pineapple. It's the smell that does it. Smell is the most important sense when it comes to triggering memories, you know. A scent can release memories we've buried for years, so something from a couple of days ago is no big deal. I'm remembering the feel of Clark's mouth, the heat of his tongue, and unconsciously I reach up and touch my lips, tracing the silly smile I can't see. I look up and Clark's gaze is riveted to me, to my mouth in fact. He's got this puzzled look, and he touches his own lips, then looks at his fingers like he's expecting to find pizza sauce or something. I can see it, I swear I can see the ball drop, the neurons connect. He looks back up at me and I know he's remembering the same thing I am - the feel of our lips pressed together, his hands carded through my hair, the sound of our hearts pounding.... Oops. Let me rephrase that. Oops is when you accidentally douche with Draino. Oops is when you get the toothpaste and super-glue mixed up. This is way beyond oops. This is well into full blown 'Oh fuck oh shit oh what the hell am I supposed to do now!' territory. I don't know what you'd do, but I promptly panic. Gracefully and with style, but panic nonetheless. I mumble something to Perry about a forgotten appointment for a vasectomy and flee the room. As I bounce through the door I hear Clark call out my name. Did you know that it only takes 6 minutes to descend 32 flights of stairs? I keep to the streets on my way home, figuring he wouldn't risk killing me in broad daylight. Once safely in my apartment I lock all the windows (both of them) and consider hanging up some garlic, though that's only supposed to work against vampires. It couldn't do any harm and I'm gonna need every tiny scrap of extra help I can get. Like it would have have made any difference, since he knocks at the door. Not that I answer, at least not at first. I sit quietly like the craven coward I am, hoping he'll give up and go away. "Jimmy" he calls out. "I know you're in there. I can hear you breathing." Damn those super senses. "Let me in, I just want to talk to you. Please?" It's the 'please' that gets me. I'm a sucker for a nice guy, having met so dammed few of them in my life. Say please and I'm yours. Well, maybe not yours, but I was certainly his. So I open up the door, and he's standing there looking calm but resolute. His jaw is set and his eyes a little worried, like he's unsure of how I'm gonna react to him. "Can I come in?" he asks. I move aside, reluctantly. I'm not altogether comfortable, I don't know what's going on. He's supposed to be either pissed off or seductive, not tentative and sheepish. Once inside he moves to the window and stares out it as though the brick wall opposite is suddenly gonna break into a song and dance routine. He's quiet for so long that I wonder for a moment if he's really here. Then he turns to face me and I wish for a second that he'd stayed quiet. "I remember," he says. "I remember being in the bar and telling you my secret." I nod, warily. He draws a deep breath and steels himself to go on. "I remember coming back here," he says. "I remember you kissing me... and I remember kissing you back." Now we're getting to the important part. I'm waiting to hear his next words, his reaction. Condemnation or come-on? Oddly enough, neither. "Jimmy, you're very nice, and a very good kisser... but I can't," he says quietly. "You mean you don't do guys? Only girls?" I ask, hoping that's the reason and it's not that he does guys, he just doesn't do me. "No. I mean, yes." He shakes his head. "I mean, I literally can't. I don't do guys or girls. I don't do anybody." Ok, so my eyes bug out a little. Here's this top of the line, grade A prime hunk of gorgeous man, and he's telling me he's celibate. What a terrible terrible waste. "Why?" is all I can think of to say. This is when I realize just how tense he is, how upset. He gestures at himself, forcefully, dismissively and his voice gets all thick. "Look at me, Jimmy. I'm. Not. Human." I give him the once over. "Clark, I've seen you naked. If you're not human, that's one hell of a make-up job." He brushes my objection aside. "That's only on the outside. I've got super-human strength, super-speed. Think about what happens when you.. when you orgasm." Oh. Yeah, I can see his point. "But can't you, I don't know, roll over at the last moment and finish yourself off?" "That's not the worst." He levitates to float an inch or so off the floor. "I can fly," he says. "I'm invulnerable. Sperm is made up of living cells. Cells that have my powers..." Double Oh. For a moment I'm lost in the possibility for farce inherent in flying, invulnerable sperm, wiggling their way through the air.. how long does sperm live outside the body? I don't know, but I bet it's long enough. "You mean, you've never?" He blushes furiously and shakes his head. "Not even?" and I make the universal 'beating off' motion at my crotch. He blushes even brighter, but nods. "That, I've done." "How? If you can cum safely that way, why not..." If anything, he's blushing still brighter. He mumbles something that sounds like 'm vy fbble', but I can't quite make it out. At my confused look he repeats himself, slightly louder. "I'm very flexible," he says. It takes my brain a moment to process this, to figure out what he's actually saying, but once it does I have to sit down. My knees, along with the rest of my major motor control muscles, have voted on it and decided to take the rest of the day off to consider the image he's conjured up. I suppose pleading ignorance and demanding an immediate demonstration of just how flexible he is would be in poor taste, all things considered. Besides, then we'd never finish this conversation and I'd have to get the couch cover dry cleaned. As it is there's a definite lack of room in my pants, and possibly even a wet spot forming. Then I realize just exactly why I left him with his clothes on that night, but found him with his clothes off the next morning. The wet spot in my jeans gets a lot bigger all of a sudden and I make a vow to never wash the couch cover again. So I'm sitting there, rapt with the vision of Clark... doing THAT on my couch.. and I start thinking about all the other things I've seen him do. I've watched Superman save hundreds of lives, catch a falling airplane, stop bank robbers. Seen bullets bounce off him and lightning strike him. Seen bullets bounce off him... There's something tickling at the back of my brain. Seen bullets bounce... Well, duh. "CK, what's your suit made out of?" I ask. He looks confused at this apparent non-sequitur, and runs a hand down his lapel. "Wool, I guess. Why?" "Not this suit. Your Superman suit. You know, the blue and red job." "Oh, that. I don't know. My mom picked it out, some Lycra/silk blend or something." "But it's normal, earth cloth? Not some Super-Fabric from outer space?" "That's right." "Then why doesn't it get ripped and torn when somebody shoots at you, or throws you through a wall, or hits you with a dump truck?" He's still looking confused, not sure where I'm going with this. "There's actually this kind of field my body generates. Anything that's touching my skin, out to about a centimeter, is protected by it, and it's like it's a part of my body. I didn't know about it until I started.. started being Superman." I reach into the drawer of the side table and pull out a little, square green and white packet. I hold it up, letting him get a good look at the Courtesy of Metropolis Gay Men's Health Collective sticker. Virgin or not, I'm sure he'll recognize it. "You mean anything that's in contact with your skin will also be invulnerable...?" It takes him a moment to put two and two together, but when he does... He slides down the wall to the floor, shuts his eyes and speaks softly, tiredly. "You mean I've wasted... all this time just because I didn't think use to a god-damned condom!?" Told you I wasn't stupid. So he's crouching there, head between his knees, and his shoulders start shaking. I think maybe he's crying, so I go over and sort of squat down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "It's OK, Clark," I say, as comfortingly as I know how. He looks up at me, and he is crying, sort of, but mostly he's laughing, because sometimes you just have to laugh at the sheer and utter absurdity of life. He reaches up and covers my hand with his, and there's this little tingle, this little spark between us. He must feel it, too, because his expression changes. Before he was giving me the 'brush off' look, the kindly-rejection special. Now... now it's more like he hasn't seen food in a decade and I'm the $3.99 all-you-can-eat buffet at IHOP, which I guess isn't all that far from the truth. He's got this little smile that would be scary if I wasn't pretty sure I was wearing its twin. His fingers tighten on mine, then he draws my hand to his face. His eyes close as he strokes his cheek with my fingers, and when he plants a kiss in my palm there's a tightening in my chest. It's just about the sweetest damned moment of my life. Then he pulls me into his lap, and I'm looking up at him, and there's this one little voice in my head that's screaming 'This is a BAD idea - virgin on the rebound!' while all the other little voices are responding 'SHUT UP' or 'KISS HIM!', and it's not really any contest, now is it? And then he's kissing me... and it's even better than the other night, because this time he's sober and awake and knows what he's doing, and for a guy who's never done this before is pretty fucking amazing at it. He's devouring me, his mouth's an inferno and I'm going up in a blaze of glory, a pillar of fire. His hands are all over me, undoing my clothes, his fingers soft and strong and eager, and he's got my dick out of my pants and is squeezing it gently, milking the first drops of pre-cum, rubbing his thumb over the head. He breaks the kiss and looks down at me, serious lust shining through his eyes, and puts the thumb into his mouth, sucking it, tasting me. "Clark..." I whisper. His face changes again - fear, desire and finally decision chasing across his features. "My name.. my name is Kal-El," he says softly. Oh, man. Then we're stumbling towards the bedroom, scattering our clothes behind us. And I reach down and somehow he's got the condom on, so I'm pretty much expecting him to top me but he's got other ideas. It's my dick that gets lubed up, and he kneels over me and positions it and slides onto me in one long, smooth exhalation. And once he's all the way down, his head thrown back and every muscle in his torso standing out like an anatomy text, he holds there, savoring the feeling. He starts to move, slowly, and I thrust up to meet him and he's looking down at me whispering 'You feel so good' and 'It's better than I ever dreamt' and then he's kissing me again like he never wants to stop. He's hot, and tight, and slick, and wild, and his teeth are digging into my shoulder and I'm screaming out his name. And this is where we came in because Oh God, I'm fucking Superman... He lets me roll us over, his legs going up in the air, and I'm looking down into his face, looking down on the man I've wanted for so long. I'm thrusting into him, long and slow and deep and hard, and he's grinning up at me, daring me, egging me on. I reach between us, and even through the condom can feel how hot his cock is. And Oh, God, I'm fucking Superman... Then he's on top again, and pulling off me, trembling and jerking and I realize he's coming, face to the ceiling crying out my name.. my name on his lips as he comes.. and I'm coming, too, spurting out my need to splatter against his back. I don't want you to think it's all about the sex. Well, ok, for the first week or two (or maybe even three) it is. It's about his giving me a blowjob in the supply room. It's about taking a long lunch hour so he can fly us home and fuck me, twice. It's about being late for work because we can't get out the front door without one more kiss, one more grope, and then we need to change our clothes, again. It's about joining the Mile High Club without benefit of an airplane (he's flying on his back, and I'm impaled face up on his cock as we watch the sky fade and the stars stop twinkling). It's about demanding he finally demonstrate the flexibility he earlier claimed, and sure enough he lies down on the bed, and throws his legs up in the air, higher and higher, and finally over and his dick slips easily into his own mouth, and I'm so blown away (pardon the expression) by the sight I come all over his face. It about him trying out all the things he's read and dreamt about over the years and me trying to find something he won't try (and if there is anything, I haven't found it yet). He's wild and insatiable and making up for lost time, and I'm desperately storing up memories to tide me over when it ends, as I know it inevitably will. But the biggest surprise isn't that the sex is so damned good, it's that we fit together so damned well. Spooning together in bed his feet fit perfectly under mine, his knees into the crook of mine, his cock nestled in the crack of my ass. My head pillowed on one of his arms, the other wrapped around my chest, his nose buried behind my ear, we drift off to sleep. These are the moments I'm gonna miss the most, the quiet ones where I feel... I'm an orphan, OK? Raised in a series of foster families and state-run institutions. I've never had a place where I truly belonged, a place I could call 'home'. Till now. Till I wake up in an ET's arms. In his arms I feel like 'home' and 'hope' and all those other damned 'h' words that a kid like me doesn't normally get a crack at might actually be attainable. So I soak up those moments, but tell myself not to get too attached, so it won't hurt as much when he leaves. I make sure I spend at least two nights a week in my own bed, alone. I don't get much sleep those nights, but it's better than getting too complacent, too used to waking up with him. And for maybe a month it's great. He flys us to Paris for romantic dinners in tiny cafes on the Seine, to China for real Peking duck in the shadow of the Great Wall. He brings me a moon rock, and a Martian pebble. He turns an ordinary piece of charcoal into a tiny diamond and has it made into an earring for me. We talk and laugh and play and have lots of really amazing sex. But we don't talk about the fact that he's almost 10 years older than I am, or that this is his first sexual relationship, or that he's still in love with Lois. Until the day she comes back. This next bit isn't too easy for me to talk about, even now. So there we are, Clark and I, he's sitting at his desk and I'm leaning over his shoulder, supposedly looking at something he's writing, but in reality whispering in his ear how much I want to strip him naked and suck his dick right here right now. He's stopped typing, and I think it's because of my powers of description, until I notice he's not even looking at the screen. He's looking up at the balcony, at the elevator doors, at Lois. She's standing there with a cardboard box full of all the stuff she'd taken off her desk only a few weeks ago, trying to look like she'd just stepped out for lunch and happened to carry away her junk by accident, and oh, could someone help her put it all back now, please? Someone being Clark, naturally. I guess I pretty much stop existing, 'cuz he gets right up and goes over to her and takes the box out of her arms. She says something, something snappy and smartass, I'm sure, and he just grins like the idiot he is and nods happily. They certainly don't notice as I leave the room. They're too fucking busy hugging. I manage to make it all the way to the roof without thinking. Why the roof? Oh, not the reason you might expect. Actually, I'm headed for the water tank. I know Clark won't think to look for me up there, he's just a hick from Whoville who doesn't know jack shit about city life. So my hiding place is safe. I can lie here and listen to the traffic 45 stories below, muted by the distance, and smell the cool green water beneath me, and pretend my life hasn't just gone down the crapper. The only problem is the quiet. Nothing to drown out that little voice in my head that's jeering 'I told you so - told you not to get involved with him - told you it was a BA-AD idea!' and the rest of the voices aren't being any help, in fact they're being awfully silent. Except for the one deep, deep inside saying 'he doesn't love you...' This is the part where I discover the second indisputable proof of the existence of God, a cruel and hateful God, because nothing could possibly hurt this much just by chance. Look, I'm only 19. A self-sufficient and mature 19 to be sure, but still only 19. Not even legal to drink. I don't know how to compete with someone like Lois, didn't really expect to be able to keep up with a 28 year old man, even if he was a virgin until I came by. I knew all along it wasn't gonna last. First relationships never do anyway, he'd have wanted to try out all the neat stuff I taught him with someone else sooner or later... But still, a little bit longer than six weeks would have been nice. So there I am, wallowing in self-pity and loathing mankind in general and him in particular when something blots out the sun. Not a meteor or even a thundercloud. It's him. Somehow he's sussed out my hiding place, and now he's standing next to me blocking the light. "Jimmy?" Go away. Just. go. away. "Jimmy? Is something wrong?" He's not leaving. "Jimmy? Are you ok?" He's sitting down and running his fingers through my hair, just like nothing's changed, like nothing's different. Damn him. I twist away from his hand and sit up. "Look, Clark, just get it over with ok? Spare me the sanctimonious speeches, though, I've heard them before." He's looking confused, that 'kicked puppy' thing he does so well. "Jimmy, what's going on? What's bothering you?" That's too much. "What's bothering me?! Oh, maybe just the fact that you're so fucking spineless you go running back into her arms the moment she shows her snotty face! Maybe the fact that now you can fuck her without blowing her head off! So you don't need me anymore, so just go the FUCK away already!" And I know I'm not making much sense and can probably be heard a mile away, but I don't really give a rat's ass at the moment. He's really quiet and still, and not looking at me. And that's when I really get scared. "Jimmy. Do you want to know what I was thinking when she came into the room?" I don't especially, but he's gonna tell me. "I was thinking that I loved her, and that I was glad she's back." I really hate it when I'm right. "But you know what I was feeling?" Now he looks at me, now he meets my eye. "Nothing. Nothing at all, Jimmy. Oh, I'm glad she didn't marry that scumbag Luthor, but..." and he shrugs. He leans over and brushes his fingers across my cheek. His smile is so sweet and gentle and loving, and I feel like a petulant, jealous kid, which is exactly what I am. "I may have loved her first," he says, "but you're the only one who knows my name." Ok, so I'm not so smart sometimes. And that's pretty much it, the story of how I started fucking Superman. Oh, you were expecting the third proof? Well, the third indisputable proof of the existence of God is that I haven't found the third proof. But Clark's taken me home to meet his Mom and Dad, and we slept in the same bed in his old room, so it looks like maybe 'family' and 'faith' and all those other 'f' words might just be attainable after all for a kid like me. Provincetown, MA |