I Dont Want To Cry

I Don’t Want to Cry

I’ve hung up my phone.

The conversation is over. But I can’t stand what I’ve just heard.

People are waiting for me.

But I don’t want to face them. I don’t want to burden them. Not this time of year. Not when we’re supposed to be happy. I lay back on my bed with one thought burning consciously and subconsciously.

I don’t want to cry.

I can sit there. I can be a statue. I can freeze in the moment and never move again. Let me do this, please.

I don’t want to cry.

I can fiddle with my phone. Play a game. Check email. Do something.

I just don’t want to cry.

The words echo. The thoughts brew.

Can’t wait. Tired. No more.

...

Goodbye.

Don’t cry.

Am I a failure?

I don’t want to cry.

I breathe. I sit. I tear off my glasses and close my eyes.

No more desire. Just a rigid command.

Don’t cry.

Footsteps come from the hall outside. I don’t want to see anyone, but I can’t avoid it. I sit up. My glasses are back on again. My eyes are stinging. She enters. I can’t look at her, so I don’t.

Don’t. Cry.

Two arms wrap around me. All I see is the carpet beneath my feet.

Please ... don’t.

Words flow.

I don’t ... I can’t. I just ... can’t.

...

Damn it.

Molten lead boils out my chest, into my head, and out my eyes. Noxious gas spurts in betraying hiccups from my mouth. The dreaded sob, anathema to every proud man and woman on the planet. We don’t cry. We’re not supposed to cry. Crying is weakness. Crying is shame. Crying is-- Crying is.......

Crying is happening.

I don’t want to cry. But I can’t stop it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for a lot of things. Because I don’t have the power to change my circumstances as they are. And I find myself questioning every word. Every thought. Every action I ever made. Even as those words draw each drop and spurt out of me.

I’m hot. I’m a molten mess. But still those arms hang on.

And slowly, the geyser cools. The eruption eases into a subtle series of aftershocks that gradually fade to silence.

Cracks form along my eyes as liquid dries and cools. A gentle wind blows the fumes away. And those words and actions that drew the tears out now sooth and cleanse.

They promise a better future. They promise mending. And they know.

They know, because they have lived. They have felt those tremors and survived.

I look up.

I still don’t want to cry. That hasn’t changed.

But my sister knows this well.

Love hurt me. And love will heal me. In time.

She made it through. Not once. Not twice. But three times before she found the one.

And she will help me when I’m ready to move on.

The pain still isn’t gone.

But it is at least a little less.

I still don’t want to cry. I still don’t like it.

But I did need it.

And there is no shame in that.

There is nature in it. Some pain. And most importantly, at the end, hope.

Shakespeare said it best. To be a man, I must feel like a man.

If God can cry, why can’t I?

I can.

And though I still don’t want to, I probably will a few times more before my life is done.

And that’s okay.

So long as I keep moving forward as best I can.

Then, maybe, if I’m lucky, that pile of slag will become something far more precious.

And I will be made new again, like the phoenix of myth.

Tears to cleanse. Tears to heal. And tears to be born again.

I don’t want to cry.

But I will to move forward. I will, to be born again.

And I will be.

It will just take time.

I am so tempted to do a sequel/fan story for this at some point. Great writing. While I don’t recommend the writer’s actual tumblr channel (porn content is against my religious beliefs, and I really don’t like watching it or seeing it regardless), this series is definitely incredible.

#malesockfetish #sockfetish #graysocks #malesockfetish #gaymale #gay #feet #foot #footfetish #nike #nikesocks #sockteen1 #sockteen2 #gayfeet #gaypride #gayman #gayguy #gayteen #malefootfetish #malesocks #whitesocks #anklesocks #blacksocks #underarmor #elitesocks #stinkyfeet #legday #sockporn #gayporn #sockfetish #footfetishnation #gayfootfetish

I am truly at a loss for words. This is an incredibly well written science fiction narrative that drags a reader in and compels them to continue to the very end. Please, read it. Please! You won’t regret it!

It’s a long read but worth it @every-n-anything @cazador-red @medic981 @the-armed-utahn

One Punch

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You’ve all heard of accelerants and their roles in chemical reactions, how they can speed things along, make just the right emulsion to unleash that final result that turns into a real showstopper. In bombs and fireworks, it’s sulfur.

Newton’s third law, you see. For ever action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The accelerant is what makes the reaction possible. Now, there’s a little known secret about people. We have our own personal store of accelerants inside us. But instead of causing us to spontaneously combust, they’re designed to burn. Inspiration, determination, grit, endurance, mental and physical. These things all exist, and rely on these special reactions in our bodies.

Unfortunately, sometimes, these accelerants don’t get where they need to go. Sometimes, there’s a block, a disconnect. Whether it’s in the brain, the stomach, the cell, you just can’t get that reaction to start. You might get a little burn for a while, but then it peters out, and you’re back to square one. Sometimes, you’re even worse off. And that stockpile builds and builds.

I was a perfect example of this.

I used to be a fat slob. I say used to, because, well, obviously, look at me now. Enough said. My problem? I was one of those trouble cases. My body was producing the accelerant, but it couldn’t mix. It wasn’t getting delivered. And it kept stockpiling for years.

Then I met Steve. This guy knew where it was at. He took one look at me and he knew what I was going through right away. He explained everything to me, told me all about his own difficulties growing up. He even showed me photos to prove his claims.

The solution to his problem, and thus to mine, was ... difficult to believe.

He asked me to take a leap of faith.

I told him I’d have to think about it.

He asked me if I wanted to change, really wanted it.

Naturally, I told him the truth. Of course, I did.

The blow came less than a second later.

It hurt.

A lot.

I gasped. What little air I had left in me was whisked away, consumed, really by the sudden RUSH that spread from the point of impact. It was like that emulsion I mentioned earlier, like all the fat in my gut got blended up and redistributed through my body, only it wasn’t fat by the time it reached its destination. My core was a crater, the one scar left behind by the force of Steve’s punch.

But damn, was it worth it. I didn’t sprout, and I didn’t explode. I rocketed. Half a foot of growth, at least. My biceps ached not from the burn of steady working out, but the strain of my skin against the suddenly swollen biceps, triceps, and flexors. My saggy pectorals hardened and swelled into perfectly shaped mounds of muscle. My shoulders broadened. My jawline was excavated and exposed like fossils cleaned in a riverbed. My calves and thighs became expertly carved pillars formed not by hard work, but by a force of nature, a hot reaction that purified and refined before pouring into a mold to cool and set. My feet burst out of socks and shoes alike as they expanded from eleven to twelve to size freaking fourteen!

Years upon years of steady, controlled, and consistent diet and exercise exploded over me at once. Most muscle men are the result of that method, carved by a master’s experienced hand. Trainers, coaches, specialists. I didn’t need them. At least, not at that moment.

And you thought the rush from the growth was bad, you should’ve seen me when the reaction reached one of my most important parts. Suffice it to say, I caught my share of white whales after it was over.

I breathed heavily as the heat compacted and concentrated once more in my core, where it had first been unleashed. The broken muscle was seared into a powerful mass that would never yield again to blows, only to the steady ebb and flow of my diaphragm.

My much broader chest heaved as I brought in that cool refreshing air to cool the reaction, and my eyes met Steve’s. He was shorter than me now. If I’d wanted to then, I probably could have taken him on at relatively equal footing, at least from a physical perspective. He pulled his fist away slowly, never letting his guard down.

“We cool?” he asked.

Given the fact that I looked better than an Adonis, I didn’t really have much room to complain. Even if it did hurt like hell. “Yeah,” I said, and I was surprised to find the heat had even changed my vocal cords. My voice had dropped into a smooth bass that rolled and thrummed effortlessly in the air. I definitely wouldn’t have to worry about catching someone’s attention again. “We’re good.”

“Good. Now let me show you what a real gym high is like, muscleman.”

He was right. I’d never felt like that before. I’m happy to report I’ve felt like it ever since, though. I’m a gym junkie by choice, and I love every second of it, not because I’m some dumb jock, but because my body finally, finally can push itself and burn properly. Go ahead. Call me meathead. I’ll wear that title like a badge of honor. Just know this meat is well developed, and it knows how to smack down just as easily in mental combat as it is in the physical.

But who knows. Maybe you’re just bitter, because you’re like I used to be. There’s one way to find out.

The question is, are you willing to let me try?

This man was a large part of my childhood. I loved Sesame Street as a kid. We’d watch the Christmas special every year in our house growing up.

sesame street, episode 15.4 (thanksgiving, 1983)

much love to caroll spinney (1933-2019), who played big bird and oscar the grouch until 2018. he passed away today on december 8, 2019. may a hero and a legend rest in peace.

Management

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“Time for selfie and report, Narcissus,” the pulsing blue circle in my mirror chirped, and I obeyed. I mean, why shouldn’t I? My body is incredible. Mmm ... can’t wait to send this to my trainer. Another one to add to the photo album. Number 2156, I believe.

I used to think this was weird, frightening even. I’d gone to Nemesis for help. The hypnotist was supposed to work miracles. Models, actors, you name it, Nemesis could and would help.

...

For a price.

My price was my sense of selflessness. The more I change, the more I feel like I have to look out for number one. And the more I feel like only number one matters.

...

Number one matters.

...

Number one....

My fingers are flying across the screen on my phone. The message is the same. It’s always the same.

Narcissus reporting.

The image is sent.

Damn, I look hot.

I look at myself, and in my tranced state, I can’t help but agree. My six pack is starting to show without my having to flex. My pectorals are perfectly symmetrical. My new piercing complements my eyes and pulls attention toward my masculine jawline. The size of my traps and the way my neck bends and curves into the shoulder leaves me looking more and more like a Greek statue. No, better than a Greek statue. I look amazing! It’s wonderful being so comfortable in my own skin. Everyone should want to be like me. And why not? My body is the kind that men and women alike would swoon over. Hell, I bet Nemesis is doing that right now.

The message that comes is like a depth charge to my former personality.

Good. Then you won’t mind a proper nude pic next time, will you, Narcissus?

A test. I know it’s a test. I know it’s to push me toward that final vault. I’ve been so hesitant for the last month. Time and again the command was sent. Time and again, I snapped out of trance because of it. Because of my own doubts.

The smart mirror chirps, and a familiar voice gradually plays over the speaker.

“I know you’re scared, Narcissus. But you trust me, don’t you, Narcissus? You trust my voice. You trust my guidance as I lead you deeper and deeper.”

And I can’t deny it. Already, I feel my lips moving in response. “Yes....”

“Deeper and deeper. Smoother and smoother. Warm and safe and completely in my power, the power of Nemesis.”

“Yes, Nemesis....”

“So deep. So full of my words. Words about you. Words about yourself. Full of yourself. Because...?”

“I am Narcissus. I am number one. I am hot.”

“And you are proud.”

“I am proud....”

Proud men do not fear. Proud Narcissus only cares about himself. Only cares about admiring his form, making it better, stronger, more beautiful. Proud Narcissus is a showoff. His body is to be adored. He is to be adored.”

“Showoff ... adored....” I ... I must....

“Do you wish to be adored, Narcissus?”

“Yes....” I wish....

“Good, Narcissus. Listen, Narcissus. Confident Narcissus, beautiful Narcissus, arrogant Narcissus. Proud Narcissus....”

So many triggers. All at once. I ... I ... I ... “Narcissus is ready for instruction.”

“Tomorrow, you will take a nude picture. Tomorrow, you will take pride in the glory and beauty of your whole body. Because your body is perfect, and it deserves to be admired. Confirm, Narcissus.”

“I will take a nude picture. I will take pride in the glory and beauty of my whole body. My body is perfect. It deserves to be admired.” Admired ... must ... show....

“Good Narcissus. Arrogant Narcissus is in control today. Proud Narcissus will stand with him. You will show off. You will revel. Your body is a gift to mankind. You are a gift to mankind. Remember and show that fact to the world.”

“Yes, Nemesis....” Yes, Nemesis....

“Good Narcissus. Wake.”

Fuck, that feels so good after a session. You liked what you saw, didn’t you? I don’t blame you. After all, I’m one sexy son of a ... well, you know. So, are you going to stand there all day, or are you actually going to make your request? I know what you want.

All you have to do is ask.

I might be willing to grant it.

...

For a price.