Fuck Your Feelings

It was a simple surgery, those doctors dressed in drab colored clothes, hidden by paper masks twined behind their ears. Easy. Non-invasive. Not even a scar would be left as a remembrance of the time they cracked my skull and severed a part of me from the malleable organ. I wished there was something there to see or feel, something other than what it left me with. It was what I wanted, after all. It's all I wanted up to that point. To be rid of a part of myself that no therapy or medications could resolve, a part of me I grew to disdain as I became an adult, then even later into my twenties and thirties, a part that it took steel and a steady hand to exorcize.

He lies in my bed under the window of my one-bedroom apartment. Melancholy bleeds into the room. Another night I didn't sleep. Another night I spent pacing throughout the small space, glancing at me in the bed as I tried to comprehend what I've done, questioning my decision every hour on the hour. I wanted it, didn't I? Yes, yes. I feel better, but not better, not anymore. It's as though I had given birth forcefully, a thirty-two year old man pushed upon me in ignorance. If they would've warned me I would still be responsible for the part removed, I might've done things differently, might've chosen a different course, might've... could've.. should've... would've...

It doesn't matter anymore. He's here and I stand in the doorway looking at me, at him. The coffee pot percolates in the kitchenette. Hazelnut fills the air. He wears an old pair of plaid pajamas I got from the hamper. Initially I thought they wouldn't fit, but that's stupid, isn't it? He's me. Short, dark hair. Pale skin. Small ears. Deep, brown eyes. Long limbs. A carbon copy, but not... He can't be. He's only a part of my whole, the segment undesired.

All this worrying isn't doing any good. I wish he would wake up. He's been sleeping since we left the hospital two days ago. Maybe once we talk, maybe once I get to know myself, things might improve, things might finally progress. He rolls over, arm tucked under his hand, the other cradled against his chest. God, I didn't know I look so peaceful sleeping.

*

We sit at the little half-table against the wall in the living room. Rain spits on the windows. Black coffee in stained mugs sit before us, though neither of us touch them. He stares aimlessly and I watch him. Breaching the topic surrounding us isn't something I want to touch. I want us to seamlessly move into the next part of our relationship or whatever you would call what we have. But I've learned in the past to address the problem at hand instead of pushing it aside. If I would've learned it earlier on, I wouldn't be in this situation.

"So..." I say. "I'm sure you have questions."

"Not really," he says. "I'm the part of you you didn't want, right?"

"Not that I didn't want you, but--"

"This isn't like a child unplanned, or whatever." He blows on his drink. "I'm you, up until I was removed. I know I was unwanted. I was a..."

"Problem."

He nods. "Therapy didn't work. Meds didn't work. Exercising. Dieting. Nothing worked, but this."

"This," I repeat.

He sips from the mug. "I do have one question: What do we do now?"

"I don't know--"

"--because they didn't tell you that you would be seated with the part you didn't want."

"Yeah."

"Hm..."

I drink my coffee. It scalds my mouth, but I keep drinking because doing something eases the awkwardness, surrealness of this all. Set it down. If it wasn't illegal, I would consider putting him down. It's not murder, if it's myself. Would it be considered suicide? Either way, it wouldn't work. "I guess we would live together, right?"

"Makes sense. I don't have a job, and I don't want to look into how financials and legalities would work with two people who share the same everything."

My head hurts even just considering the phone call with the bank. "Agreed."

"This leads back to my question," he says. "What do we do now?"

I glance out the window. The slate sky's oppressive. Rain now a downpour. Thunder rumbles our mugs. Move onto the TV... If he's me, then he would like the same things as I do. Relief breathes through me. I won't have to deal with the rigmarole of picking a show that two different people enjoy. No more spending more time choosing than watching. And, food, as well. He likes what I like. What I don't like. And, and! He'll want to sleep at the same time I do, wake up, as well. Our schedules will be perfectly in sync. This could be good. This could be great. Easy. Simple. Like being alone, but... not.

"Wanna watch something?"

He glances at the clock on the VCR beneath the TV. "Lean On Us should be on now."

"I love that show."

He slips out of his chair. "So do I."

*

We watch Lean On Us, then Three to Shake begins afterwards. Lightning streaks the darkening sky. The framed photos of our family glint on the wall. Someone screams after a car horn blares. We sit side-by-side, transfixed by the sitcom. There's a strange tension in the air that isn't the humidity. It's not the obvious of me being with a copy of myself, but something else, something familiar.

The husband says a one-liner, and the laugh track plays. The wife screws up her face with a smile, and the husband pats her on the head before exiting to the other room.

What is it? I'm not uncomfortable. Not weirded out. Accepted what's happening and what has happened and will happen. This is my life now, there's not much to do about it... Is it...? No. That doesn't seem right, but, yet... My hand is near his on the cushion. His brown eyes glazed, watching the show. Do I want to...? I do. Yes. That's it. The familiarity of being with someone who I'm uncertain is into me as much as I am into them. Anxiety of untrodden land. The unknown. Possibility of being rejected compounded by the ridiculousness of being turned on by yourself.

The dog caked in mud darts through the doggy door into the kitchen, smearing dirt across the linoleum. The son-in-law's head pops through the doggy door, face streaked brown. The husband stands before him, and crosses his arms. Laugh track.

He has all my memories spanning from birth. I didn't consider the other side of me, the sexual one. Turned on by the same things. Have the same kinks. Same pre- and post-sex habits. I've hooked up with plenty of guys, but hooking up with myself... Would that be just masturbation? Would it be considered fucking yourself? There's too many puns I can use.

I reach for his hand--

He stands, the show cuts to commercial. "I'm grabbing water, do you want anything?"

"Shouldn't you already know?" I say without skipping a beat.

He laughs. "Yeah, you're right."

In the kitchenette, the stove light dimly illuminates him using the sink to fill our glasses. I look good. Arms more muscular. Chin more distinct. Leaner, but not scrawny. Beneath the pajamas, I already know I will find a four-pack, and small, but plump, pecks. Don't go to the gym, but I walk a lot. Also helps I don't eat much out of financial necessity more than anything else. Is this how people see me? Is my view of myself construed? I guess so. My dick hardens inside my pants, sliding against my thigh.

"Here you go," he says, handing me the cup. Sitting again, he drinks while the show comes back on. I can't focus on it anymore. Only him. Only me. Fuck, why am I doing this to myself? What sort of bizarre fetish have I discovered? Has this always been there, lurking in the depths of my mind? Was my condition hiding this, and now that it's severed, it can rise unheeded?

It doesn't matter how or why or what prepubescent or puberty event planted this seed. It has grown and it's time to sow.

*

He sets his cup next to mine, attention on the TV. I slide my hand onto his thigh.

"What're doing?" He looks at me.

"If you're me, then somewhere in that brain, you already know."

It takes him a moment to comprehend what I mean. "Oh..."

I nod, biting my bottom lip. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me in. Our lips meet and heat radiates through me. My palm moves to his groin that's already hard beneath the thin fabric. His fingers push through the back of my hair while mine lifts his shirt, and runs over muscle. Tongues push against one another like they're fighting for ownership of whose mouth they should be in.

He pushes me away, and pulls off his shirt, tossing it aside. I do the same, and pants follow suit. His hard cock stands at full attention. It's my best quality, I think. Smooth, but rigid at the same time. No weird bend like some I've tasted, or too fleshy pink. Big enough for two hands. He eyes mine, too, and before I can ask, "Top or bottom?", he drops onto his knees on the floor, grabs the base of my dick and swallows it.

"Fuck..." I moan, craning my head back.

Pleasure ripples through me, tongue twirling around the head, hand working the shaft as though it's a race to see who finishes first. His other hand plays with my balls, fingers gingerly pressing against my gooch. I grab his head and force him to deepthroat. He gags a little but takes it nearly to my trimmed pubes before he pushes his head back up. He coughs into his hand, and spits on my dick.

Swallowing my balls, while jerking me off. I haven't had this good of head since I was a freshman at college. It feels as though my throbbing dick's going to explode. Somehow knowing I'm near to bursting, he releases me, and runs his hand down my inner thigh. Lifting my balls away, he bends down further, and eats my ass.

His tongue swirls around it before pressing into it. Sucking on my taint, he rakes his fingernails down my leg. I quiver, pre-cum seeping from my dick. If he doesn't stop... I'm going to... going to... I sit up and push his head back, and he looks at me like he's done something wrong.

"What?" he asks, face smeared in his own spit. "I know you like it."

"Get the lube," I say.

"But--"

"Like you said, I know you like it."

He laughs, gets up and rushes into the bedroom, then returns with a salmon colored bottle with a gilded cap. Squirting it over his palm, he lathers my cock with the cool gel until it gleans under the TV's glow. Without asking, he bends over the couch's armrest, hands propped on the floor, ass out for the world to taste, hard cock pressing against the cushions.

I guess I'm wrong. There's another good quality I have. I straddle him from behind, and ever-so-slowly push into his ass, stopping only when it's entirely in. "You okay?" I say, knowing I haven't been a bottom in a while. Being a top is always more fun.

"Better than okay," he says. "Go ahead."

I do, gently at first, pulling back until only the tips in, then sliding back in to my pubic bone. Little by little I increase my speed until flesh claps against flesh, and he's grunting while I groan. I hold his hips, digging fingernails into the small bit of love handles I have, thrusting harder. Our skin pinks, lube and pre-cum dribbles down his crack onto the couch. It's feels so fucking good. The tight muscles squeezing my cock, the warm space within.

"Come in me," he shouts.

"You sure?"

"Fucking cum in me!"

As I push against his ass, I release my load, spurting out each time my dick jerks. It feels as though all my strength leaves me, like every speck of energy used for this one task. I want more, but don't at the same time. He sighs, laughs a little. When I'm empty, I slide out, cum oozing out in my wake.

He sits up, face beat red, teary-eyed. "My turn."

It's difficult to imagine I'll be of any use. My body's covered in perspiration, chest rapid. The air's warm, suffocating. "What do you want?"

He grins. "Something new."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Remember that one porn video, with the two guys and one straddles the other's--"

"How could I forget?"

"So..."

"You're me--you don't have to ask."

Before I can prepare, he swings his leg over my head, holding the edge of the couch, and squats his ass onto my mouth. I grab his cheeks and lick his asshole, lapping up our juices. Salty. Tangy. Slurping warm viscosity, twirling it around with my tongue while rimming him. I grab his cock and jerk him off.

He shivers in pleasure, pressing his hole closer. I can't view anything else but skin. My tongue slips within the entry, cum and drool drips onto my chest. His cock throbs in my hand and he screams, "Oh, fuck!" Then bursts over my chest and stomach, white strands nearly sliding down to my pubes, but I don't let up, milking him for every ounce he has, until he releases me and sits beside me, sweating.

"Damn, we're good," he says, breathing heavily, grabbing his cup off the table.

"We are." I take my own drink. The water's lukewarm now, but it's better than nothing. The cum between my teeth refuses to go down. The taste of him lingers on my tongue. "Now what?"

"Dinner?"

"Chinese?"

"Of course, what else would we want after sex?"

I laugh for what feels like the first time, like a real laugh from a place not barred by my condition. The operation did work, releasing something inside me, something intangible until now, obviously. He's good for me. I'm good for me. I've been told no one will love you more than you love yourself, and I'm inclined to agree. "Nothing at all."