Fisky Business
Written by Justine

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For Holli...cause we both love to write this stuff so much!

I am a coward and I am alone. The fairness of this statement scares me to death and I accept its truth with a finality that is both dreadful and perverse. People like me, so fearful of living in the light deserve only to scamper in darkness. Doubt is my constant companion and shame is the only shield I have.

I want so badly to be inside him. To capture his full bottom lip with my teeth, and use it as a lever to pull his long body full against my own. I need to fuck him. I want to awaken his desires and toss away his denial. I share his dilemma; he shares my need.

When he passes by the front of my desk, the briskness of his walk drifts the subtle hint of cologne away from his body to encompass mine like a shroud. I inhale deeply and watch him stroll away. As always, my gaze is carefully hidden away from the world by my lashes.

I long to feel him again, and touch him in places I have only ventured through in my dreams. I want to see him naked before me, on his knees at my feet. I want to thrill at the sight of my cock down his throat being pleasured by the slick, hot moisture of his mouth.

Like a deer caught in headlights he's looking at me across the bar. His hair is long, nearly curling around his collar and I want him immediately. Can he see the open lust hidden behind my smile? Does he know what I'm imagining doing to him at this very moment?

When we sit together electricity ignites every nerve in my body. Christ, I haven't been this horny in a very long time. He's gonna be a tight fuck, I know that from experience, the beautiful ones always are. I move my foot against his leg and he responds with a barely noticeable shudder and a tilt of his head. Am I interested? Oh, yes. I'm interested in seeing you naked and feeling your long body squirm beneath mine. I'm interested in shoving my swollen cock so deep into your round ass it will never come out. I'm interested in seeing you pant and tremble and gasp my name as you come. I'm interested in watching your dick throb and pulse as you squirt your seed onto my belly. I'm interested in watching you moan and groan in passion and agony as I pump and thrust my thickness, screwing you good and hard, and shoot my load deep inside your velvet heat. Yeah, you can say I'm interested. Interested in holding you close against my chest after sex and stroking your long, soft hair as my cock softens inside you.

That evening in the bar is now a painful memory. When our eyes meet, hazel on brown, possibility beckons. I want him even before I see him at the crime scene. His peculiar combination of fragility and strength intoxicates me. He's not afraid to smile, not ashamed to care.

Seeing him now is painful, the depth of my loss is palpable when weighed against his obvious indifference. He will not glance my way. He will not return my stares. I have wounded his innocence. He is no longer open, but careful, conscious of every word, every glance, every gesture. I hate him this way. This is not the man I fell for long before we met.

I remember seeing him at the station, talking to the other detectives, laughing and joking, their teasing and easy banter an on the job melody. And with his partner, a man I envied for his closeness to the object of my affection, arguing and talking, equals as well as friends. His all too rare smile can light up a room with its brilliance. White teeth flashing, eyes sparkling. He is so beautiful I hurt inside from a craving potent with the realization that my passion will never be sated.

I have also seen him in despair, lost and lonely, clinging to a little girl's red raincoat with tears in his eyes. He perceives so deeply for a homicide cop. I am both jealous of this coat and curious; jealous of the emotions it ignites in him and curious of the intense nightmares it delivers to him in the lonely darkness of his bedroom. The way he holds it, the expression on his face, all excite me. He is a lost child clinging to the past. A grown man holding on to untold horrors. I want to be near him, to inhale the air he breathes, and savor the bitter pain he tastes.

He has no idea of my desire. How much I long to kiss away the tears and hold him close. My yearning has met some obstacles and I've dealt with them in the only way I know how. A mindless fuck in the dark with a substitute for your lean body next to mine is only a temporary measure. But it's nowhere as good as my dreams. The legs are never long enough, the lips not quite as full. When I'm spent, I think about burrowing my cock into his warmth and taking him again and again. I want to feel the suction of his fat lips on my dick as I force it down his throat and wipe the beads of sweat away from his forehead with my mouth. I want to clutch his long hair in my hands as I pour myself deep within him. I need to watch his tongue lick across his lips as he swallows my every offered drop.

I never thought I'd have a chance until that MAN came along. I heard the whispers when he arrived at your desk. Strangely enough I did not resent him, this raven hair beauty, your first male lover. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to hug him and shout my gratitude for the confirmation I had cherished for so long. He claimed you as his own and felt your soft lips on his body. Alone, with only the comfort of my hand, I often imagined the both of you together. Two sweaty bodies rubbing and groaning upon quickly warming sheets. I long to ask him many questions. "Did my love scream the first time you forced your way inside him?" "Did you calm away his trembles with a kiss?" You deserve him like I never could, so free, so strong. I wish I could be that way. Not afraid and in hiding but proud and alive.

How long your relationship lasted I have no idea. I don't want to know. Were you still his lover the day he was shot? Did you stand by his hospital bed and whisper in his ear? Did he know you were there? Did he know I was too?

I entered like a thief in the night, careful to avoid the hovering attention of his mother and partner. They were always present, at his side, offering words of encouragement to each other and prayers to an unseen savior with the power over life and death. I talked to him softly and stroked his thick pale lips swollen to perfection by the tight bind of medical tape. I wanted to kiss him but as usual I lacked the nerve. He was mine for the taking, his breathing regulated by the hum of a machine, helpless and alone with tubes and wires covering acres of his body. And yet I held back. I couldn't help thinking that I had lost my chance to have him. That I would never experience the hallucinatory thrill of my sought after sexual encounter or see his immaculate hazel eyes again. Fate is never kind when you exist instead of live.

Yesterday I saw him standing by the ghostly Chevy I that I hope to drive someday. Homicide, the best cops in the department. I'm just a sergeant, nobody compared to him, and yet he wanted me. For the briefest of moments he wanted me in his bed. The day he asked me to dinner I couldn't think straight. It was impossible to conceive that all my dreams had come true. I spent the day in a state of shock, a walking, talking zombie with a hard-on. Tonight I will tell him what I've been holding inside. Tonight I will have sex with a dream.

It is much later when I hear the rumors and I check out his website. There is no name attached but I know immediately that it's his. The Internet is a safe haven for the unique and the damned, a playground for the right of free speech and individual thought. His website is as complex as he is and although I still want him, the fear has crept inside my mind arresting me in doubt and shame. How can I love the man and not the ideal? How can I live for him when my life is a lie?

I don't even call. Instead I leave him waiting at an empty table alone with his thoughts. Many nights I have lain awake, imagining the pain on his face, ashamed by the knowledge that it is I who put it there. I exhale the spirits in my darkened room waiting for the morning sun and knowing that it's heat will never feel the same way again. I lost more than he did that night. I sacrificed my future and self-respect. He lost a speck of dirt in the road, a chance encounter with a loser not worthy of his love.

The next day he walks toward me and my heart skips a beat. His expression says he knows but his eyes are not condemning. He's curious and a little afraid. The naivete on his sleeve is worn thin by the weight of my cruelty. "It doesn't have to be this way." I'll never forget his words or the pain in his voice when he says them. But there are officers behind me, my career on the line, and instead of begging his forgiveness, I lash out with vile thoughts, fearful of the truth and angry at the fear. He walks away without looking back, and my fellow officers, my brothers, congratulate and support me never knowing how close I am to tears. I act the part of victim in their station house drama. Perhaps with time I will be able to convince myself that I am not the villain but the hero of this play. My reputation is saved and his is in tatters. The relief I embrace is disgusting. I could not feel worse if I tried.

I wish that he would talk to me again so I could explain away my shame but he keeps a distance that I both understand and dread. I hurt him and will not soon be forgiven. His eyes are dark and haunted when he leaves me and I sense this is not the first time his trust has been shattered. Not the first time his open and trusting nature has been abused by thoughtless words and careless actions. I cannot shake the feeling that I am nothing but a latecomer to the betrayals of his reality, another thankless actor on the stage of his life.

Many days I have sat with the phone in my hand, a prayer for forgiveness on my lips, but still I don't call him. I promise myself that today will be different and I dial his extension with hope in my heart. My lust has grown stronger with each passing day. The promise of his attention is more important than the air that I breathe the desire for his body more consuming than any established need in my existence.

The ringing of the phone does not exist in my ears. The only sound I hear is the beating of my heart, it's constant thumping a nervous reminder of all I may gain when he picks up the phone. A lover or a friend, right now I'll settle for either. Please pick up. I know I am begging but I lack the conviction to pray. A woman's voice answers but I stay on the line. I speak his full name aloud for the very first time, waiting while she delivers the words I did not expect to hear. I can't stop myself from shaking as I hang up the phone. He is gone. When did his faith give out I wonder, why did he leave?

The air around my desk is stagnant. I am careful as I hurry to the door overcome by a need for freedom, for space. I stand in the rain as the water rolls down my cheeks. I know without a doubt I am paying the price for fear and hesitation. My tears, like my life, are hidden from view, and suddenly nothing matters. I have lost any chance to make love toTim Bayliss.