There's more to it, though, than simple sexual associations. If I quiet my body a bit, shove aside the pleasant rush of gonna-get-laid, I can hear this quiet whisper, just behind my left ear. Home home home home home it says, warm tones curling in my brain and settling on the back of my tongue. Those sounds tell me I'm almost home, approaching the place where I stay.

The loft is home, even when it's not my official residence, and has been since that first night. I left my heart here the night Gus was born; its scattered amongst our clothes, his expensive shit, my drawings, the condoms, the toys, the puddles of come and blood and tears we've both left on every surface. I embedded it into the walls with my fingerprints, ingrained it in the floor with every ecstatic wail, and plastered it to the ceiling during my nightmares. My heart is here, in this loft, and although Brian chucks the rest of my body out on occasion, he's never bothered to evict my heart. He has to know it's here; after all he's forced to hide from it whenever he brings a trick into this place. Maybe that's why he's cut back so much, at least at home. Home home home home home. The loft is home to many memories, good and bad, and I'd like to think we'd both prefer the balance to favor the former over the latter.

I know I would. Home.

Brian brings me back into the present by way of some casual groping, stroking my cock like I'm a well-loved pet cat. Feline I may be, but I'm most assuredly not a pussy--something my cock seeks to remind him. I can feel the part of me he utterly controls taking over, literally sucking all my attention away from this lazy introspection I do when he's not actively fucking me. Oh, I'm not complaining; we do our best talking when our mouths are full of each other and the only sounds our throats make sound like a Discovery Channel soundtrack. I don't mind talking to myself, though, but it's impossible when he's got any part of himself focused on me. Home. I am his home.

He must not be planning anything especially sudden, since he lets go of me when we reach his floor. He doesn't need both hands to get the loft door open, but tonight he actually leaves me standing in front of the elevator. The door is a somewhat curious structure, its transparent camouflage extremely effective at hiding what lies behind it. It is scarred and dented, roughhewn and utilitarian, and quite possibly the most erotic part of Brian's loft. The door reminds me a lot of Brian himself; they both demand to be taken at face value, to be appraised on the merits of what the casual glance can find. They are in-your-face, abrupt and unyielding--unapologetically hard. Brian's illusion is his perfection, the door's is its ugliness. I've been closer to both than most people can claim, and I know better. Brian's beauty lies in his imperfections, in the rough patches he claims not to have. Every part of my body has been intimately introduced to that door; it held me up through more than one fuck, kept me in the loft when I wanted to run and locked me out when I wanted in. I see past its marred surface and see now its strength, its steadfastness. The thing has an uncomplaining patience to it, ungreased track aside.

I can almost hear it welcoming me home as Brian leads me through it tonight Welcome home home home home home. We work together to close the thing, lock it and set the precious alarm, lest whatever-we-have suffers though another robbery. Brian's loft has been emptied twice since he met me--once due to my fallibility and once thanks to his honor. I don't care to speculate on what would happen if the place went through that again, for any reason. Masochism is a trait I'm not planning to cultivate in either of us.

His eyes are on me now, touching the places his hands were just a few minutes before. He keeps the pressure light, simply reminding me of why we cut our evening short--some things are better done here, and we'd best be getting to them. His mouth is just inches from mine, breath sliding down my face in a warm rush. I want to kiss, to taste and feel; he pulls back with that trademark smirk. Someday I'm going to kiss him until he forgets how to make that expression. He spins on one heel and stalks away, head tossed back in regal disdain. Before I can get too pissed off at his teasing arrogance, I notice just where he's going.

The shower has always been one of my favorite parts of the loft. Home.