Daron's Guitar Chronicles Volume 12

1032 Everybody Hurts

Everybody Hurts

I should've known by then that Ziggy's motto was applicable to all things in life. Ziggy's motto, or maybe it was more of a worldview since it came in a lot of different expressions, was basically nothing is ever just an either/or proposition. Don't make fake divisions. No false dichotomies. It's not just that things aren't always black and white, it's that they're always some kind of gray.

Which meant of course that when I was trying to figure out if we were headed for a relationship talk or sex, I was forgetting that of course both my instincts were correct. We were heading for both.

In fact I knew perfectly well that if we had sex first, it usually made relationship talk easier. I know I'm not always the most open person.

(Don't laugh; that wasn't meant to be a comic understatement.)

What I hadn't counted on was the talk starting while we were still in the middle of it. Ziggy writhing wantonly in the middle of the bed is a good look no matter what's causing it. So I wasn't really thinking about the fact that all it took was a few puppy whines and a lick behind my ear and a tug on my wrist to get me to wrap a hand around his joystick. Making him lose himself in sensation and pleasure is one of my greatest pleasures.

Losing myself in it is a close second.

I mean, when you think about it, sex is such a weird set of things that humans do to/with each other. So sometimes the only thing to do is stop thinking about it. Music is kind of the same sometimes. We build these weird contraptions and we contort ourselves all kinds of ways to make them make sounds that are pleasing. We learn to go through those motions faster, more accurately, with more expression. Some people do it for the money and some for the joy. Just a thing people do.

"Bite me on the neck while you make me come?" he asked.

I wasn't a big biter in general but I liked biting him while he came. It always made me feel like I was–I don't know what to call it–marking him as mine? I don't remember when the first time we did it was but by then it was enough of a thing that he would ask for it. I still felt like I had to check that he really wanted me to.

"Are you sure?"

"Please?"

That sounded like he was sure.

Ziggy liked to be held through his afterglow and he made happy noises like he kind of wanted to be saying something but didn't have words yet. He slipped out of my arms long enough to wipe up and then came back to fit snugly against me.

"How's your hand?" he asked, nosing against my collarbone.

"Fine," I said automatically. I flexed it, thinking more about what he was asking and the answer. "I mean, no cramps or anything."

He rolled me onto my back and lay on top of me. "When were you going to tell me there's nothing wrong with it?"

His voice was so light and sweet but I froze, hearing–or at least imagining–the dagger-shaped icicles under the surface. "What do you mean?"

"You just said it was fine."

"For the moment," I said, trying to keep my hackles down.

"Oh. Court told me the doctor said it's all healed and that I shouldn't worry about doing this." He laced his fingers into mine–on both hands–and pinned me in place while he writhed against me.

"It's... a little... more complicated... than that..." I stopped trying to explain while his mouth searched me for erogenous zones.

Remember what I said about losing myself in it? You'd think I wouldn't be able to do that while worrying about what he was going to say next, but I guess he knew how to get my guard down. To make a musical analogy, Ziggy knew how to play me like a temperamental harpsichord.