Rowland sat alone. The temporary
satisfaction of the moment laying across his stomach, a bitter reminder of his
failure to stand up to his own principles. His friends had laughed at him, when
he tried to explain, why doing this hurt so much. They had scoffed, when he
said he felt used objectified, wrung out like an old dish rag, all by his own
hand. He had tried to explain his deep yearning to satisfy, to bring happiness
to another. He had tried to help them see that lust wasn’t a drive for sex, but
acceptance. They didn’t hear and he couldn’t hope to explain, why he felt dirty
and perverted, raping his own passions and desires.
He finally looked down at the sticky mess, and
an exasperated sigh escaped his mouth as he tried to figure out how to avoid
getting anything on the ground and get into the shower so he could clean the
broken promises from his skin.
The cold water fell down his back
and across his wings, sliding in rivulets down the plane of his stomach. His
raging mind kept chanting whore, whore, whore, eternal failure. After
some quiet breathing and small tears pressed out through clenched eyes, the
chanting quieted to just a dull pain. Rowland quickly finished up, making sure
he had washed away the scent of his desire.