TITLE: “Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell”
AUTHOR: Polly Burns
EMAIL: go_rimbaud@hotmail.com
SUMMARY: More fun in Warren’s head!
SPOILER WARNINGS: “I Was Made to Love You”.
RATING: NC-17 for dirty, dirty sex.
DISCLAIMER: To the tune of the Ramones’ Judy is a Punk, in honor of Dee Dee’s passing: Andrew is a punk,
Warren is a schmuck/ They’re both fucked up boys I didn’t make up/ And oh, I
don’t know why, oh I don’t know why, but I can’t li-i-ie (Oh yeah)/ They’re not
mi-i-ine (Oh yeah)… Second verse, same
as the first: Andrew is a punk, Warren is a schmuck/ They’re both fucked up
boys I didn’t make up/ And oh, I don’t know why, oh I don’t know why, but I
can’t li-i-ie (Oh yeah)/ They’re not mi-i-ine (Oh yeah)… Third verse, different from the first: Andrew
is a punk, Warren is a schmuck/ They’re both the sole intellectual property of
Joss Whedon/ And oh, I don’t know why, oh I don’t know why, oh I don’t know
why/ They’re not mine (Oh yeah) they’re not mine (Oh yeah) I just cry-y-y- Oh
yeah…
NOTES: Title and lyrics come from the Stooges’ song of the same name,
which is on that great record, Raw Power. This is one of those flash-back stories- Oh
no! Oh yes. Parts of it take place when Warren is a pup still in high school,
part of it covers his relationship with Katrina, part of it takes place in the
Troika days. Sex scene (You’ll know it
when you see it) takes place after the one I wrote in “Flesh”. Haven’t read it?- This story will still make
sense (As much as it’ll EVER make), but why haven’t you read my other
stories? Why? Why?
“Hey look, it’s Warren Queers.”
Dark voice from some indeterminate distance behind him, spray of
teenaged laughter. It was probably
Larry or one of the other assholes from the Sunnydale High football team. Warren rolled his eyes. Like that hadn’t been lame when he’d first
heard it. Ten years ago. But, then, what was it that they said about
the enduring appeal of the classics?
Warren was pretty sure he’d be hearing that one until his name started
rhyming with some other word. No other
voices drifted across the ether of the hallway to assault him on his way to
class. It was a good day when you only
got harassed once before lunch, and even then, only at a distance. Maybe his luck was changing…
Thank God he only had
to do half a semester more in this rotten hell-hole. He was eighteen, though, he could conceivably run away to Canada
or Mexico, start a new life as somebody whose last name didn’t rhyme with
anything insulting. That would just be
screwing himself up the ass, though. He
needed to finish high school, even though he had already gotten accepted to a
college one county over from Sunnyhell; just walking out wouldn’t look
good. Warren needed to look good. He was going to be somebody.
Just before he ducked
into the classroom, he happened to look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse
of sunny blonde hair. Buffy
Summers. He looked down. She was like- man, he could never even hope
to touch a girl like that. She was like
the sun rising and setting at once, he lost himself in the thought as he
trudged to his seat in the back of the room.
Everything about her was like light, like all-consuming light, like-
God, no wonder they call you a fag, sitting around thinking stuff like
that, he castigated himself.
Sometimes it was like he was two people, and one of them wanted to wax
poetic all day and think about things like rain storms and waterfalls and the
other one was all business. That was
the one to listen to, Business, he was going to get Warren to where he wanted
to be. Warren wanted to be anywhere but
here.
Some people have diaries, as storehouses for things better left unsaid
but unable to be left unwritten, their most feverish, burning dreams and
desires. Some people have confidants,
to whom they can spill their soul with all its clockwork tickings and mad
scratchings. But Warren didn’t have
either of those, for Warren’s secrets weren’t ones that you could speak in a
brown sugar whisper or write in spidery script, for Warren’s secrets were
strictly of the bodily kind, secrets of the flesh.
So Warren fashioned for
himself a diary of flesh, though she was not flesh, not quite exactly. April was a perfect cipher, a blank page of
skin-warm latex and ticking, buzzing gears and wires, if not a ticking, buzzing
soul. From inert metal and dumb
plastic, Warren made himself a moving, smiling, speaking blank book, named her
April and filled her with all the things he had never been able to tell anybody
before, ever.
He was a cold boy,
untouched until he was twenty, and even then, only by the most skillful of
hired hands. Yet, even though his
release had come at a price, which he had paid, he could still detect in his
lady a certain mocking, an amusement, when he told her what he wanted. Fingers, and other things, in places that
made him blush and made her smirk, just a little bit, behind her seven veils of
professional ennui.
April, though, April,
his cold girl, took him as he was, never gave a word of protest, never a puff
of laughter, as she breached him first with her fingers and then with her
ingeniously warm mouth. Oh, she made
other sounds, but never any of disgust, never any that affirmed what Warren had
always silently feared- that there was something deeply wrong with him. April was silent when he needed her to be,
and not-silent when it pleased him.
And, for a time, he was happy with his April, whose hair always smelled
of orange blossoms and was ever-lustrous, whose hands were never clammy or
cold, and who was, most importantly, his.
Maybe this wasn’t
normal, and maybe it was even pathetic, but to Warren it was all right. It was better than having no one at all,
better than considering the alternatives, things he might do if he got
desperate. April was perfect, he told
himself often, first out of pride, but increasingly out of… desperation. He was
getting desperate, because something, he knew, wasn’t right. Because April wasn’t what he really wanted,
and he had known that all along, but he couldn’t do shit about it- Because he
was scared.
But then, like a
revelation, came Katrina, whose body was not perfectly proportioned, whose
breath was sometimes slightly less than sweet, who had a short temper and was
given to bouts of sailor-like swearing.
Warren liked her, but it was strange; she laughed at the little witty
things he said even when she didn’t have to, she argued with him and he liked
it, her face exuded light when she saw him- and she did all of these things by
herself. He began to like her better
than April, whom he had made with his hands, whom he had made to house every
secret tonic his flesh had ever craved, every little thing-
Katrina was always
warm, without having to be plugged into a wall socket for eight hours each
day. Warren was sometimes shy, unsure
how to act around her. Strangely,
though, it was nice, wondering how she felt, if it was real or just a game that
people played to keep occupied. And
once he found out, once he knew that she loved him, he felt- safe. For the first time in his life he felt safe,
secure in Katrina’s arms, confident that she wouldn’t crush his heart like the
burnt-black end of a match. And it
didn’t hurt that her body was so solid, so well-built, better made by nature
than April had been by Warren’s hands and mind. Katrina walked with her back straight, looking every inch of her
height. Under her shirts she wore
pale-hued tank tops, with some stretch to them, so Warren could playfully pull
on the material and have it snap against Katrina’s side. Doing this always earned him a little shove,
a punch in the arm. When Katrina hit
him, however much in jest, it hurt. And
that was nice, being with someone who knew how to hit, wasn’t afraid to do
it. Warren had never hit anybody in his
entire life, and he felt a little ashamed of it. Katrina had grown up in a house full of brothers, so maybe a
little bit of boy-essence had rubbed off on her. Warren tried not to think excessively about that whisper-thin
piece of information.
And when it was over,
he cried until his mouth tasted like saline solution and his lashes forced his
eyes shut and stuck them that way. In
his mother’s basement, he walked like a ghost, pacing the concrete floor. That was how he felt, like concrete, bled
dry and calcified, dense and frigid. It
was cool underground, like air coming off of a lake, and that was all right,
because Warren felt that he could go his whole life without ever feeling warmth
again. That would be all right with
him.
In high school, there had been this boy who seemed to carry around his
own personal twilight, cos wherever he went, it got suddenly dark. Warren had known his name, Tucker, whereas
most people had not. It was a wonder he
was even visible, with the way he managed to dim the lights wherever he
went. In Sunnydale High School, you
didn’t get noticed unless you were bright, shiny, luminous, and as much as
possible. People like Cordelia Chase,
Buffy Summers, even Buffy’s friends, who were, like, big nothings on their own,
got noticed. People like Warren, whose
skin was like an early winter and whose hair approximated coal dust, did not
get noticed. He was faded- Like this
boy, Tucker.
After a while, they got
to talking, about nothing in particular.
In fact, Warren couldn’t clearly remember having said anything at all
once he walked away. They had the computer-geek
thing in common, having been unable to transcend it as Willow Rosenberg had, or
ignore it all together like that guy Daniel Osbourne, who went around calling
himself Oz and played in a band. People
like Warren, and this kid Tucker, they didn’t get out, they didn’t have a way
out.
Tucker had a younger
brother, who was like his complete antithesis.
Where Tucker was sharp, cruel, almost, Andrew was, well, not.
“Sharp” wasn’t a word you’d want to put anywhere near Andrew, not in any
sense. He was, well, kinda dumb, Warren
thought, and not just because he was only a freshman, there just seemed to be
something not quite right- It was like he was living behind his eyes, all the
way back there, in the powdery vacuum of the mind. Reality and Andrew were something like same-charged particles,
they kind of orbited around each other, but seemed incapable of making
contact. Once, Warren saw Tucker push
him; he was so thin, and seemed kind of out of it, so he fell right over. After hitting the ground, he looked dazed
for a moment, but aside from that, his face didn’t betray any physical
sensation. Stranger than that, he
didn’t address Tucker’s having pushed him, he just got up and walked away.
“Dude, your brother’s
weird,” Warren said, low so that Andrew wouldn’t hear it if he was anywhere close
by. Warren didn’t like the idea of
picking on him. Maybe cos it was so
easy.
Tucker shook his
head. “He’s always been that way. He’s like,” he made a circular motion in the
air next to his head with his finger, “I dunno, he’s- like the lights are on,
but no one’s home.”
“Is he, um-” Warren
didn’t know the correct word for what Andrew might be. What were they calling it now?
“Na,” Tucker waved his
hand dismissively, “The funny thing is, he’s smart, he does all right in
school, especially stuff like English, when he’s actually paying
attention. He’s just weird.
I think it’s an act, like so Mom and Dad won’t bother him.”
Suddenly, Warren was
sort of interested. “Your parents give
him shit a lot?”
“Yeah,” Tucker snorted,
as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Mom treats him like
he’s some kind of expensive dog or something, and Dad keeps threatening to send
him to the Army. Then Mom gets on Dad’s
case, spoils Andrew even more, and that makes the old man insane. They’re a bunch of
fuckin loons.” Tucker shrugged,
scratched his head, “So, you wanna play Doom?”
“Yeah, sure,” Warren
said. Unsure as to why, he couldn’t
stop looking in the direction that Andrew had fled in.
Now, it was years later, and Warren found himself often thinking of the
time that Tucker had knocked Andrew over like that, and Andrew had just let
himself fall, hadn’t so much as yelled at his brother for pushing him. It meant something, he was sure, but he
couldn’t quite get his hands on the significance. He would, though, he always did.
Making and breaking codes- that was what he did. He’d gone to school for it!
People were different
than computers, though. Their codes never maintained a static
definition; a word or string of words, an action that one day meant one thing,
could shift in meaning in a matter of seconds.
Dealing with people was hard work, because you had a whole world of
factors to deal with. The word “run”,
for instance, always meant one thing to a machine, but to a human, the
implication changed according to the time of day, whether or not the were
hungry, what they had been watching on TV the night before, whether or not
their mother loved them, for chrissakes!
One good thing about April had been her consistency. Warren had said, April, take off your clothes, and the command always got him the
desired effect. Never did she say, No, I’m tired, or Shut up, you’re an asshole, or No,
take off your clothes. If only he could find a person like that,
somebody that much in love with him.
Because even though he considered love to be nothing more than a dirty
trick that the body played on the mind, and scoffed at it as an indulgence of
the weak, Warren had to admit, love had to be the best program going. It erased all the variables, didn’t it?-
made all the words always mean the same thing.
A human being in love was the closest thing to a perfect machine.
Lately, Andrew had been
looking at him a lot, kinda funny, too.
He looked like he was… tired, his eyes half-shut like that. Sometimes, when it first started, Warren
would go, Dude, what’s your problem?,
slap him upside the head, maybe. After
a while, though, when Andrew didn’t stop looking, just got a little bit better
at hiding what he was doing, Warren started to make sense of it all. It started to become funny to him, what
Tucker had done all those years ago; it was like a horrible joke or something: Andrew is a push-over.
I needed love but I only lost
my pants, uh-huh (And that ain’t all)
Afterwards, it was hard to look at him, not because Warren felt ashamed
for having sunk so low, which he sort of did, but that wasn’t why- he couldn’t
look at Andrew because he was starting to believe his own lies. Perhaps he had recited the lines to himself
one time too many: We’re in love, this
what people who are in love do together.
Perhaps, unwittingly, he had programmed himself.
If he were a
reasonable, sensible man, he would make up his mind that this wasn’t worth it,
that it was too much work for too little gain.
It was stupid. Stu-pid!, his brain hissed to itself as
Warren turned his head just a little bit, to look at Andrew’s slumbering
form. Slowly, Warren reached out a
trembling hand and, without touching him, traced the slight down-slope of his
waist, the triumphant arch of his little hip.
Stupid!, his brain made a
sound like a tire being deflated. Stupid!, stupid!, stupid! His mind made the word so many times, that
soon it no longer had a meaning. It was
just a random grouping of sounds, Warren couldn’t have spelled it if asked,
couldn’t have defined it. He pressed
his lips to the velvety back of Andrew’s neck, woke him with a shock.
“Mm, what is it?” Graceful as a water ballet, Andrew turned
his slim, silken form, bound from the hips down in cool linen, making him
approximate the shape of a mermaid or something, and faced Warren. With considerable effort, Warren tore away
the sheets and pulled Andrew up close, hand on the shallow of his back, causing
Andrew to let out a little sound, like the wind had been knocked out of
him. They kissed, Warren rubbing his
hand on Andrew’s hip in a circular motion; his stomach felt like a mouth full
of gnashing teeth. He put his hand on
Andrew’s knee, made his leg bend, drew it up, and walked his fingers up and
down the back of his thigh. We’re in love, this is what people who are
in love do together… As his
fingertips edged toward parts of Andrew that were surely still sore, stretched
and wet with pain, Andrew started a little against him.
“Does that hurt?”
Warren asked, voice gentle in the dark.
Andrew nodded. “I want to, just, I, I don’t think I can.”
It was dark. Jonathan was asleep. Nobody would ever know. It’s a
game it’s a game it’s a game… Who
would Andrew tell? We’re in love, this is what people who are in love do together-
“Well how about you do
me?”
It wasn’t so dark, so
Warren could tell that Andrew blinked.
“Do you what?” Andrew turned his
head to the side a little.
“How about you fuck
me?”
“Are you serious?”
He touched Andrew’s
face, felt the heat under his skin.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Andrew looked down. “Um,” his voice cracked, “Well, cos it
hurts. A lot.”
“You seemed to do all
right.” For an instant, Warren shut his
eyes, remembered how Andrew had shuddered against him, sobbing, screaming like
that. Suddenly, he wanted very much to
know what it would have taken for Andrew to react that way, wanted to feel
it. It’s
a game-
“Well…” Andrew looked
down again, looked up, “I kinda, I mean, I, I… don’t mind pain.”
“You like it.” Slut,
Warren said to himself, but he had to force this thought to come on.
“Yeah, um, kind
of. And, I mean, it’s not like I never
had, um, it’s not like I never tried anything before.”
Warren felt as though
he’d been slapped in the mouth. “I
thought you were-”
“No, no, I was, but I’d
put my fingers there, before. Just
mine, nobody else’s.” Reassuringly,
Andrew touched Warren’s face.
“Oh.” For a moment, they just lay there,
motionless in mid-gesture, like a kind of tableau. Finally, Warren spoke, haltingly, “I still want to.”
“Still want to
what? Oh-”
“I still want you to
fuck me.” Even though Andrew knew what
he was talking about, Warren still had this need
to say the words.
“If you want me to, I
will,” Andrew said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, “And we
can stop, anytime you want-”
Before he could finish
the sentence, Warren pulled him closer and kissed him. While they were locked up, bound up like
that, he rolled onto his back, making it so that Andrew was on top of him. Now, this, this was strange. Having Andrew on top of him, pointy little
hipbones stabbing at him, thighs as smooth as Dove soap open to straddle him,
that was like- It was like inverting the natural order of things. Warren couldn’t say that he minded.
Andrew was kissing him-
Andrew was kissing him- All he had to do was lie back, let
his hands smear Andrew’s body with caresses, long strokes down his back. It gave him a little flash of perverse
delight to be able to cup his hands around Andrew’s ass, make him tremble like
that when his fingertips got too close to the little sore and dewy, rose-red,
tensed orifice. Andrew kissed him
harder, began to work his mouth down Warren’s body. He wondered if Jonathan had been teaching him things about
magick, because he seemed to be saying spells all over Warren’s flesh. Little by little, he was feeling lighter,
like he was separating from himself.
His back arched so high off the bed, he thought that he might be
levitating. Everything Andrew did was
soft, no pain marred the pleasure he gave, but those sweet caresses were just
as devastating as twenty lashes. Warren
was babbling like an insane lunatic, he knew, even though he could barely hear
himself through the fog of what Andrew was doing to him, but he didn’t care-
“I’m going to, I’m
going to do it, okay?” Andrew asked.
“Oh God, yes, please.”
“Um,” Andrew scratched
his head and looked away, toward Jonathan in his bed, and then at the ceiling,
“It might be easier if you were, um, if you were bent over.”
“That’s fine,” Warren
said. Yeah, it’s all fine, I’m only about to get screwed up the ass by Andrew
of all people and now he’s having me bend over-
Shhh, Andrew exhaled,
kissing the back of Warren’s neck, trying to slow his breathing. “You’re hyperventilating,” he said softly.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea…”
“No, Andrew, please,
it’s all right.”
“Okay. But remember, if it gets to be too much,
we’re stopping.”
Warren pressed his
hands hard against the edge of the bed, heard himself hiss a breath in, as
Andrew penetrated him with one of his long, delicate fingers. At first it was, well, it was weird, more
odd than painful, and really only painful when he tensed up.
“Good?” Andrew asked.
“It’s not bad.”
“All right.”
Warren felt himself
stretched even more, open. Now he knew
he was breathing heavily, panting, he could hear everything like the speakers
in that fucking IMAX place… He swore to
himself as Andrew pulled him open, moved his fingers about inside of him, like
he was looking for something. What the fuck?- and then,
“Oh!”
“Are you all right?”
Andrew asked, withdrawing from him a little.
“No, no, I’m…” he
swallowed, “I’m, um, I’m fine. Don’t
stop.”
The feeling came
back. He didn’t know what he would call
it, but it was, it was something all
right. He’d never felt this before, not
with April, even. He guessed he hadn’t
programmed her correctly. There was
something to be said for the innate understanding of human biology that came with
inhabiting a human body, after all.
Andrew kept it up for a
while, working him, from the inside, doing whatever he was doing- to make
Warren feel that tight, coppery feeling, that pleasure-burn scraping up his
bones…
“Ready?” Andrew asked,
leaned over so that he could kiss Warren’s lips.
“Mm?” Warren breathed
in through his nose, heard the air push into him with the sound of a train over
the tracks, he raised his eyebrows absently.
“I’m going to fuck you
now, okay?” Andrew said against his ear, the words melting into a rush of
wind. His kisses were like droplets of
water all down Warren’s face and neck.
He concentrated on the lingering sensation of Andrew’s lips, the
coolness of his kiss as Andrew removed his fingers from his body, left behind his
imprint there, too. When he was empty
again, Warren gave a little moan, as though from the pain of grief; he then
reproduced the sound as Andrew began to drill into him- that was what it felt
like- holding his hips steady. First,
there was pressure, the force bruising, even though he knew that Andrew would
never, ever hurt him. And then there
was white pain, “white” was the only word for it, and he knew that he would
bleed. The thought bothered him a
little, or some part of him, at least.
Some part of Warren was very upset, did not like to be treated this way,
did not like the idea of being dominated, used, used like this. The rest of Warren,
well, the rest of Warren didn’t mind at all, any of it.
“Do you, um, are you
all right?” Andrew’s voice sunk into his consciousness.
“Oh, God, it hurts,”
Warren said in a voice that was coming either from pain or pleasure. Andrew couldn’t rightly tell, preferring, as
he did, the blurry line in between.
“We can stop.”
“You don’t want
that.” Warren closed his eyes and
tensed his muscles, let Andrew know what he would be missing.
Andrew let out a watery
sigh. “No…”
“How is it?” He put his hand on Andrew’s, which was flat
against his hip, ran his fingers up to Andrew’s wrist.
Andrew started to slow
down. “Don’t,” Warren said, surprised
that he could sound so in-control.
“It’s…oh… um, good.”
Gradually, he was
moving Andrew’s hand forward, away from his hip and toward the dark center of
the V of his thighs. Andrew leaned
forward a little, opening up Warren even more, by the width of a needle’s
point, got his hand around his half-erect cock. The soapy pain washed over Warren, mixing with the sweetness of
Andrew’s touch; the two sensations merging into a kind of sugary pleasure-pain,
something that hit him all the way to his back teeth. His legs were shaking, but he made his knees lock, made his legs
stay straight and still.
“Tell me how it is,”
Warren said, barely able to hang onto his voice, afraid that it would spin away
from him like a top. If he closed his
eyes, he could see the spiral of a spinning top, ribbons of yellow, red, blue…
“Oh- It’s, mm, good…”
“I know you can do
better than that.” Warren trembled as
he said it. He let his head fall,
leaving his neck exposed, like a shaft of white light. Andrew’s other hand there, then along the
bend between his neck and his shoulder.
“God… You’re- I didn’t know it would be like
th-this,” Andrew pushed against him, “You’re, you’re warm, and, um, and soft…
tight… It feels like- I’m afraid I’m going to come if I keep thinking about it
so much.” Laughter rippled out of him.
“Do it if you have to,”
Warren half-moaned. The pain, the
not-pain, the- it was nearly fucking unbearable. Whatever Andrew was doing to him, it was- It should have been a
crime… Murder…
“Are you sure.”
“I want you to.” The words ran away from Warren, before he
was even sure if that was what he meant.
“Should I pull out,
before I-”
Warren closed his eyes,
opened them, looked at his fingers gripping the sheets, his bent fingers like
tiny stone arches. “No.”
Andrew let go, started
fucking Warren in a way that seemed to have very little to do with what Warren
might be feeling. This was Andrew doing
something for Andrew, Warren was just along for the ride. It was, it was all right, being there for
somebody- Being used, boomed a voice
in Warren’s head. It was easy to
ignore, that one and all the others, when Andrew was doing this to him. He couldn’t see Andrew’s face, but he knew
what he was feeling. That made it… not
really better, but interesting. And
then-
Andrew’s breathy little
sounds, and some that Warren had never heard.
A cry that should have bleached the room white. Too soon, it was over. Stillness came, Andrew motionless behind
him; then Andrew began to move slowly, hand on his hip, exiting his body. Warren sighed, the sound was alien, seemed
to become animate, start a life in the closet-gray air of the room. Slowly, Warren eased himself into a standing
position, letting off little creaking sounds as he did. He felt stretched, all out of shape, and…
wet-
Andrew embraced him,
pulled him into his warm, velvety arms, held him, let Warren fall against
him. Lips to his neck, to the side of
his face, the peak of that little bone in his shoulder, Andrew felt like he could
hold out the entire world, keep away everything that Warren didn’t want to deal
with, didn’t want to see. Warren turned
his head, silently gave Andrew permission to kiss his mouth.
Andrew lowered the
fringed shades of his eyelids. The
corners of his mouth turned up the slightest bit. To Warren, as silly a thought as it was in the garish darkness,
Andrew seemed radiant. “I’ll suck your
dick,” Andrew said softly, turning his head to the side shyly, “If you want me
to.”
“Yeah. I, uh, do.”
Warren’s voice was black asphalt, like a syringe full of night-sky. He breathed in. “Let me just, just lie down, though, cos my, my knees. I feel like I’m gonna collapse,” he said,
giddily.
“Okay.” Andrew helped him lie down and then settled
on top of him, those little hipbones needling Warren’s flesh like pitchfork
points. More kisses, Andrew’s mouth
plush and dewy, against Warren’s his lips were like the ripped silk lining of a
pocket.
This was, this was,
Warren didn’t know what, but it was something-
He felt, pain, that pain, lingering like the feel of Andrew’s fingers,
his lips, slightly chapped. It wasn’t
just the pain of being fucked, having his body torn into like that- Oh, it had
been, it had been good. Perfect.
Never again would he ever admit this to himself, but Warren knew that he
had been wanting that for ages. Andrew
had given him what he’d always wanted.
The pain- it was like
honey being poured down his throat, choking him, making it hard to
breathe. It was like something in his
blood, something tearing through him, radiating from his heart outwards, it
came in chilling waves or like herds of some wild animal, charging through his
veins. A strange thought conceived and
birthed itself: Was this love?
Warren almost shook,
convulsed in Andrew’s arms. Don’t be a fucking girl, he told
himself, it’s not love if you fuck. It’s just sex. He moved a little and flinched.
Strangely enough, though, when he again felt those pains, which were a
tangible reminder of Andrew and what they had just done, the first thing that
came to Warren’s mind was exactly that.
Love. He was in love.
Honey build a flamin heart
outta me- Your pretty face is goin to Hell
your pretty face is goin to HELL/ Uh,
honey, honey, I can tell- your pretty face is goin to Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell,
Hell, He-ell, He-ell,
He-ell…”