Cry Alone

He sat on the edge of his bed, naked except for socks and a cheap Timex watch. He gripped a pair of two-day-worn briefs in his left hand and his erect penis in his right. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, he had just woken up, and he was masturbating already. With his head flung back and his mouth slacking open, he let out a sigh of contentment at his self-gratification. He immediately squeezed his penis, clamping off his urethra. He opened his eyes and looked down at his crotch. A trickle of ejaculate snaked down his member and made a resevuoir in the crease of his index finger’s knuckle.

He thought about Gwen, how her face looked close-up and out of focus, how she felt in his arms, how her breasts felt under his head. He remembered the first time they’d kissed, lying on a bed in the back room of her aunt’s house watching sci-fi movies. He remembered the time he’d driven three and a half hours just to fall asleep with her on her couch at one-thirty in the morning. He remembered when she had come to visit him. All his roommates had left for the weekend; they had the room and the night all to themselves, but they didn’t have sex. Their entire relationship seemed to revolve around lying down, but never once did they have sex. He was sure she had wanted to – she’d mentioned it to his best friend. He had wanted to have sex with her also. But he wasn’t ready, he told himself.

That reminded him of Evelyn. After having known her for only a week, he found himself in her bedroom with his shirt off and his pants unzipped, staring into her hungry eyes. She’d playfully offered to rape him. He’d somewhat begrudgingly declined her offer. He wasn’t opposed to sex, he told himself (and her), he just wanted to wait until he was in love.

Love.

Love, what was that? He didn’t know. Maybe he had been in love with these women and he just hadn’t known it. No, that was a lie. He hadn’t loved them. He didn’t know what love was, but he was pretty sure that if a person was in love, they’d know it. At least, that’s what he hoped. He didn’t know whether it was an emotion, an idea, a force, a lie, or a rationalization that people used for the stupid things they did, but he did know that love had to exist. Didn’t it? Maybe not. Maybe it was all bullshit. Maybe he had passed on having sex with these women not because he wasn’t in love with them but because he was scared. But maybe love was not being scared.

So, whatever the fuck it was, what if he never found someone he ‘loved?’ Not that he’d been looking hard for such a person, but so far, he’d hadn’t met a person to love. Not one. He’d met some people that had seemed promising, but for one reason (or several) or another, they hadn’t been what he was looking for after all, or he hadn’t been what they were looking for. Either way, eventually, he ended up alone again. He ended up lonely. He ended up wanting something.

His breathing had slowed. His penis had gone flaccid. He opened his eyes and let out a sigh. A tear trickled down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the knuckle of his left index finger.