Our Hector

“It’ll be over soon,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear.

Disoriented by the bourbon still at work in my veins, I came to standing opposite a large bed in what slowly emerged as an altogether unfamiliar room. To my left above a door, a clock with what looked like a single hand placed the hour somewhere between three and four o’clock in the morning. Wherever I was, it was late, and the draft dancing across the hardwood flooring told me someone had left a window open. To add to my foggy state, a cold, bluish white light from what had to be a muted television flooded the modest apartment, dulling everything it touched. The exception was the scene playing out in front of me. I froze.

I’d never watched people have sex before, not right in front of me. And, if I’d walked in on such a scene, I’d never hung around after putting two and two together. This time should have been just like the few before it. Awkwardly, and profusely, I should have apologized for intruding while backing out of the room, eyes glued to the insides of my eyelids. Except, this time I was certain I didn’t just happen across an occupied room. I was either brought there or followed someone. I was too panicked to move, to bring their attention to my presence, which was just as well. My feet couldn’t or wouldn’t move. My heart pounded.

You’re dreaming, I told myself.

I willed myself to believe it, hoping it would stop my heart beating loud enough to send the neighbors calling. And it might have worked a little. I was pretty sure I could remember something similar, another dream, happening before. Whatever I’d seen that time, however, it was nowhere near as private. As my eyes continued to focus, they set upon a naked and writhing man with his face buried deep in a pillow. He was failing to stifle the wild exhalations stirred by the much too greedy mouth at work between his legs. I wanted to run out, but the more I saw the more I recalled from the last time. Then, like now, I was just as incapable of waking or even walking away. I was paralyzed, incapable of acting as anything more than a bystander — an all too familiar condition of my real life.

I continued watching as from between the round and lightly tufted ass the man between the cheeks withdrew a sweaty face and rose to his arms gulping breaths greater than routine. He looked to survey the body beneath him, doing so just long enough for it to stir before plunging his lips to a sensitive hip. Its owner jerked. Over the tense back he skulked, adorning it with heavy kisses until he eventually raised his partner’s mouth to meet his.

I saw everything. I saw the hard-nosed lover slide from atop his partner and send fingers feeling their way down his back before introducing them to and further bewitching the same bullyragged ass. I saw the meticulous torture a member already so bothered it could only have caused a most unbearable amount of pleasured pain. I saw the already brimming smile of the hector widen at the expulsion of each racked cry he wrested, testament of a job more than well done. I watched on, myself having grown pained, knowing it must end.

And that’s when it happened. I — not the me forced to bear witness to that scene, but the me who earlier drove his face ever deeper into that pillow — was flipped onto my back and granted a brief reprieve. I was hollowed.

No more, I intended to mewl.

Again, I willed myself awake. Again, I failed.

Unable to approach the door, unable to walk out of the room — I was unable even to turn away. I searched my own familiar eyes for meaning as they stared straight through me. Nothing stirred there. Despite the very real pleasure I’d endured at the hands of what I then prayed was a consensual partner, I recognized my own voiceless exhalations as nothing more than unthought replies.

Still, I watched. I watched because I could do nothing else. And, as I watched, I gave up more. I watched my body move when, how and at the speed of my partner’s practiced cues. I even encouraged him with the stretched moans his thrusts begged of me. Nothing I did happened without his prompting. More than just submit to him, I had retreated from myself. This was my response when confronted with a will stronger than my own, or one I was, in that moment, ill prepared to counter. I was commanded with the finality of a parent’s resolve; there would be no talking back, no questions asked. It was easier to withdraw in these situations, and it always had been. And so I watched. I watched myself stare up at the ceiling as if I expected it to, at some point, do something other than keep the contents of the room above from falling through. I watched and I waited for an end.

“It’ll be over soon,” I whimpered, certain none would hear me.