He tilts his head. “I didn’t say that you could come yet.”
“I know. That’s why I—”
Matt stuffs the sheet back into my mouth. “Fine. Let me put it in.”
He slips on a condom. Just his fingers and even the grip of latex is torture. He positions himself, and—fuck, I almost come with just the tip pushing into him. He’s warm and tight, but not painfully so. The lube lets me slip in, and he wraps around me. I buck my hips, and he doesn’t stop me this time. He meets my rhythm, pushing up and back down on me, both of us moaning loud enough that I’m glad I don’t have any neighbors. He pulls out the sheet from my mouth and leans forward to kiss me. The pounding slows to a grind, and he sits up again, rocking back and forth.
“You feel good,” he tells me. “You feel so fucking good.”
I thrust up and hit a wall. He clenches around me as he cries out.
“You okay?” I ask. My voice is hoarser than I’m expecting.
“Yeah. It only hurt a little.” He leans back on one hand as he rides, other hand gripping his own dick, his eyes closed as he bites his lip. It’s too much. I pulse in and out until my body tenses and my brain glitches. My body shakes as I come, eyes squeezed shut. When the waves end, my chest heaves for air, skin coated in sweat. Matt’s still on top of me, watching me hungrily. He’s still pumping his hand around his dick, and I open my eyes just in time to see a spurt of white fly forward, hitting my cheek and neck and chest. His body spasms, ass clenching around my dick, but I don’t mind. He’s so fucking beautiful as he moans, almost cries, losing control.
He gasps and falls forward on top of me. I can feel my eyelids growing heavy. Whenever I come I’m ready to pass out. I’m worried Matt’s going to fall asleep like this, too. “Can you untie me?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Yeah.” He reaches up and undoes the belt. There are red marks around my wrists. “You okay? Shit. I should’ve been more careful.”
“I’m fine.” I rub my wrists, but I don’t know if I really am all right. I can’t even look at him. I reach down and pull off the condom, absentmindedly tying the ends and tossing it.
“Hey,” he says. He leans forward so that I can see him clearly. “You’re pulling back.”
He’s right. I always feel a wave of shame after I have sex. Usually I’ve got someone like Briggs to treat me like shit and distract me, but now just the thought of Briggs sends a knife of anxiety through me, and Mattie is here with his questions about if I’m okay, brushing a hand against my cheek like he loves me, and—shit, it’s mortifying for my eyes to start to well up now. Am I really going to be that guy that cries after having sex? I blink, try to look away so he won’t notice, but of course he does.
“Logan?” he says, worried. “What do you need?”
I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to be touched. I’m feeling too hot all over, trapped with him on top of me. “Get off. Get off me.”
He does without hesitation, sliding off, a hand hovering over me like he isn’t sure if he should touch me or not. I’m not sure either.
I hate that I’m this fucked up. I hate that I can’t have sex without wanting to cry, without hating myself and my body and my mind. Around now I would just let myself become numb, but this time I can’t escape the emotions. Maybe it’s because Matt is here, and he wants me to know that he’s safe and that he cares. The tears keep building. I start to lose control in a different way. There’s no warning. I sob so hard that I think I might be sick. I hear my own voice—distant but loud, almost screaming. “I hate this shit.” I say that over and over again. “Fuck. I hate this.”
Mattie’s holding me. I don’t push him away. He’s holding me tight, saying that he’s here. “Let it out. Let it out.” His voice is calm. It helps. Like it’s okay to let him be the anchor. The screams and sobs slow down until I’m lying on my side, crying, Mattie holding me tightly from behind.
“I’m here,” he keeps saying. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I think I’ll do it. I think I’ll let myself trust him. Let myself be vulnerable, knowing I’ll be safe. Maybe it’s this cabin. Getting away from everything, having the space to be myself. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired of the way I’ve been living. “I’m so tired, Matt.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
*
When I wake up, I smell food cooking in the kitchen and hear music playing. I peel myself out of the bed’s sheets and pad to the bathroom to take a shower. I stand under the hot water that stings my skin. He saw me last night. Matt saw a version of me that I didn’t even know was inside of my body. He might know me better than I know myself at this point, since I was so out of it that I’m not sure what happened. I’m already feeling the heat of shame crawl through me as I turn off the water and dry myself with a towel, grabbing a fresh pair of boxers.
I head out into the kitchen. I try not to feel overtaken by embarrassment. I still can’t meet Mattie’s eyes. “Hey.”
Matt turns with a smile. “Hey. You’re awake.” His smile starts to fade. “How’re you feeling?”
I nod. “Better.” It’s true. After last night, there’s nowhere else to go but up.
He sets out plates of eggs and toast. We sit quietly. I’m not even hungry.
I clear my throat. “What do you think happened last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“I freaked the fuck out.”
He puts down his toast and thinks for a second. Maybe he’s trying to figure out the best way to say what he wants so that he doesn’t hurt me. “I think it’s all the trauma,” he eventually answers, slowly. “Stuck in your body, you know? I thought it was a good thing, seeing you cry like that. I don’t know. I can’t tell you what your experience was.”
“But?”
“It just made me wonder if you don’t let it out enough. All of the pain that’s built up inside of you.”
I barely cry on my own if it’s not for a film. The last time I remember crying was in scene with Mattie. It’s ironic. I remember getting on him, saying that he needs to let himself feel anger. That it would let him become a better actor. I was hiding emotions from myself, too, in the end.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “It was embarrassing.”
“I was happy you felt safe enough for that to happen.”
“Yeah. Maybe it was a mix of being with you and getting away from the city.”
“Good. It’s important to release that kind of thing, you know?”
We’re quiet again for a while, long enough that we both finish eating. I get up and grab our plates to take them to the sink. “Whatever happens,” I tell him, “I hope we can keep coming back here.”
“Do you want that?” he asks. I look over my shoulder at him. “I’ll come back. I’m game.”
“Once a year,” I say. “Same month and date, next year.”
He’s giving me that look again. All vulnerability and trust and love. “It’s a promise.”