His hands were callused and bruised from fights with the local "Cowboys". The ones who called him "Fag", and "Queer". The ones who wore clothe three sizes too big for their small frame. The ones who listened to rap and country and candy sweet hip hop. They pushed him down during the day, and the on lookers laughed when they smeared his immaculate makeup across his face. Those boys who tore his clothing, and punched his flesh into their own self-imagery. Artists, Humph.

He comes home broken; his backpack hung limp at his side. The blood from his scars opened fresh, dripping, pooling, and staining the wood floors. He shrugs off his backpack, throwing it against whatever wall he chose to hate that day. He strips off his clothes, piling them in a corner until laundry day.

He takes cold showers to stop the blood, and chill his skin into a frigid blue. He curls up on his bed, and traces the patterns of his flesh with his fingers until blissful sleeps takes him. He dreams of London, and the blackened streets of New Orleans. He dreams of chains, and whips. Of women in leather who dominate strange men, and men who wear who nothing but tight leather cups. Of clubs where the music is loud and broken by the crackling of worn speakers turned up toward obscurity. Cold flesh, he could wrap his arms around at night. Of warm flesh to hold him tight. Of hard cocks and wet pussies, the passing of spit between two torn mouths.

He dreams and dreams until dusk, when he rises and begins to make dinner. A sandwich, some noodles. He settles down on the carpet to watch the television, picking out the crumbs from his pubic hairs. Falling asleep with the soft murmuring voices reverberating off the inside walls his skull. Shades of yellow and blue dancing across his eyelids, breaking into a thousand different colors when he closed his eyes tight enough against the world, he nestles down deep into the blankets that litter his floor. Way down.

He wakes with the sun. One eye first, then the second, slowly open and watch as the sun pushes aside the curtains, and spreads itself across the floor. First in dim shades of blue and gray, then purples - violets, oranges and yellows. He shuts his eyes, returning to the darkness that always seemed to embrace him. To the dreams, he returns that still echo inside of his head. He visions a woman, with skin the color and taste of chocolate, that smears at the touch. He visions a man, with skin the color and taste of fallen snow, that melts at the touch.

Fingers curl and uncurl as hair is tossed back and forth. His body twists and jerks, convulsing on the wood floor.

And when he reaches out toward the woman she falls to the floor, close to him where he can lick her skin, where he can make her come.

Searching for the man, he grabs his hairy thigh and brings him closer, smelling the erotic smell of musk and come that permeate the air. The mans breath tastes of toothpaste, and his tongue is rough against his own.

The womans sex quickly brushes against him, making his own cock grow and swell, it throbs strong and hard.

They dance together on the floor, nestling together like spoons - thrusting within each other.

Flesh and hair muffle screams and whimpers.
Fingernails dig moon shaped figures into arms and legs.
Blood is drunk, wine is spent, and sweat is lapped clean.
Liquids are exchanged and secrets are lost.

He nestles within the blankets, way down till his spine cracks against the floorboards.

Way down.