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Lochlan isn’t proud of it.
Lochlan is, in fact, pretty ashamed of it. He never quite stops feeling like that; the shame makes a termite nest out of his body, and they gnaw and gnaw and gnaw. They’re docile little creatures, but they are persistent. Every day they crawl through him, Lochlan loses a part of himself. It’s tiny, really, but erosion accumulates, and one evening he looks in the mirror and is briefly startled by his own gaze. For a second, he doesn’t quite recognize himself. Something has faded—maybe the termites have chewed through the last remnants of childhood clinging to him. This guy in the reflection doesn’t seem to have his innocence preserved much: his eyes miss a certain spark.
It was these very hands that snuffed it out. The temptation upon seeing Saxon’s unlocked laptop was just too much, and one glance at his iCloud photo folder was enough for Lochlan to step carefully over the line. He crossed his fingers in one hand—please, let that door stay closed—while the other one trembled as he selected the most explicit photos he could find. Some videos, even: Saxon jerking off, or with girls, the camera most often on them, but still capturing flashes of his naked skin in the permanence of recording. Lochlan performed the antsiest airdrop in history. Then he shut the laptop and tiptoed his way to his room, and that same night, he indulged in lust like a true feast.
And one day, he ventured into a sex shop—places Saxon had once offhandedly called so '90s—because ordering online risked someone else opening the package, and he really didn’t want to have to explain himself. He bought himself a dildo. He can still remember the flush that seized his cheeks in the store when he asked for it, and the slight tremor in his voice. Something to get started with anal. They recommended a small one, and he’s pretty sure they barely held back from patting his head like some naive kid. The small dildo they brought out, though, just wasn’t cutting it—it didn’t resemble Saxon’s cock, which Lochlan had seared into his memory after hours and hours of staring at those photos. This wasn’t what he wanted—he wasn’t looking for a pleasurable experience, for his first foray into this world, but for a realistic one. This sad piece of plastic was meant as a substitute for a brother he could never have in the way he wanted. At least, not in the flesh—in his imagination, he was king, so he stared at the floor and declared, um, I think I’ll need something bigger.
That something bigger lies beside him in bed tonight, like every other night. His phone in one hand, lube in the other, and the termites inside, gnawing—this is a sin of the highest order, and it never lets him rest, this irrefutable truth. Still, it always loses the battle against desire, a syrupy slickness that spills inside him, coats his tongue, makes it crave. Lochlan craves and he craves carnality and warmth and, in its place, he has the cold indifference of his phone, videos he’s watched hundreds of times.
So be it. He can watch all he wants—they never lose their allure, nor the way they set him aflame. Saxon is a sexual being and makes no effort to hide it—if anything, he flaunts it openly. Lochlan has heard story after story of his escapades, each one recounted with relish, and he’s had to dig deep for the strength not to harden in his pants. Seeing him now, in his element… Saxon is, indeed, a creature of sex, and Lochlan wants nothing more than to partake in that sexuality with him. Maybe he has the wrong body—maybe, more crucially, the wrong blood—but the ceremony would be magnificent, and he believes it might mend something inside him that’s been broken for a while.
To start the session, Lochlan revisits the dick pics. There are several, most following the same format, but it doesn’t matter; each one is a world unto itself. The lighting, the subtle shift in angle, the firmness of his grip, the presence of semen—each builds a fuller picture of the reality of Saxon’s cock, and Lochlan can almost taste it when he slips the dildo between his lips, licking the tip. He’s put a condom on it, so he can pretend the plastic taste is for protection, not for lack of flesh. The warmth is missing, and so is the hand in his hair, guiding him gently like Saxon does with the girls in the videos, but it’s fine. It’s fine. Lochlan lingers on the photo where Saxon’s hand, cock, and blond pubic fuzz are all streaked with come, then sinks the dildo deep until it hits his throat and wrings a gag from him. (He likes to think Saxon would be proud of his dedication.)
Next, he graduates to the videos. The girls in them are objects of the most savage envy Lochlan has ever known—they get to have Saxon after just one night, while he has to keep his distance despite years of longing. One of them, though, he’s more grateful to than anything: she must have stood tall in wanting to hold the phone herself, and in her three videos, Saxon is the star. These are Lochlan’s favorites—no mystery there—and he knows every second, every brush of skin.
First, he goes for the one where Saxon eats her out. If Lochlan concentrates hard enough, at certain moments he can erase the mole on the girl’s thigh and replace her black curls with his own brown ones, and pretend it’s him Saxon is devouring, swallowing him to the hilt. Lochlan slicks himself up and strokes in time with their ragged breaths. Saxon is flushed, lusciously flushed, and his eyes, when they lock onto the girl’s face, burn with a hunger that makes Lochlan’s mouth water.
In the next video—and this girl is an anonymous heroine, truly a saint for documenting Saxon like this—Saxon is fingering her, mapping her body with his mouth. He seems insatiable, starved for skin. He feasts on her, glancing up now and then when his thumb presses just right against her cunt, as if studying her reactions, adjusting to her. Saxon is an attentive lover, which contrasts a little with the stories he tells, where sex sounds more like conquest than succulent ritual. Lochlan slides his fingers in at the same rhythm as Saxon’s hand. His own are smaller, less convincing, but he supposes that’s the nature of these fantasies—honey touches his lips, but he never quite gets to taste it.
The third and final video is the crown jewel, truly, and Lochlan lets out a needy noise through his nose just clicking on it. The mole-girl is getting fucked, fucked right, by Saxon, and she frames him perfectly in the camera. Saxon is sculptural, every bit the conqueror—but God, what a delicious one, so man, so uninhibited and ravenous. So devoted, too, to grinding his fingers on her cunt, making her moan like an animal. The camera shakes sometimes; once, Saxon grins right into it without stopping. He holds its gaze for a few seconds. And he just keeps fucking.
Lochlan slicks up the dildo and takes it in one thrust, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan. The experience really is quite something, no matter how many times he’s done it. The plastic—Saxon—is big, and Lochlan is fucked without mercy, and he loves it, he loves it, damn him, he loves it.
“Sax—” The name spills from his lips because Lochlan is full to bursting with him. It’s a delicious name, and he whispers it like a prayer, soft and reverent: “Saxon, Saxon, Sax…”
When he was little, his mother had taught him—detachedly—how to pray. One Pater Noster before you go to bed, and I think you’ll probably avoid Hell. She’d said it with the same weight as I think it’s gonna rain today, but it had struck Lochlan to the bone—if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was Hell. So he prayed at night, without conviction, but dutifully, just to guarantee that when he died, he wouldn’t stumble downward.
Now, Hell seems like a certainty, branded in fire: Lochlan is a sinner, and a formidable one at that. But this prayer now—his brother’s name on his tongue—feels more sacred than any he’s ever aimed at God. He doesn’t know God, and God has never answered when Lochlan’s begged him to take this desire away. But he knows Saxon, and the desire is so vast it’s as if the man himself almost becomes divine.
Lochlan comes when Saxon does, radiant with sweat, flushed down to his chest, driving into the girl with relentless thrusts. Lochlan matches the rhythm of his own hand and almost convinces himself he can feel Saxon’s come spurt inside, that he gets to keep it.
Saxon pulls out of the girl, removes the condom, ties it off, gets up to toss it away. The video cuts to black—she must have set the phone down—but the audio lingers. Hey, her voice comes through. Come back. I haven’t come yet. A pause, then Saxon’s laugh, bright and so dearly familiar. Well, we can’t have that, can we? And the moans start up again until, minutes later, they crest in a soft cry.
Lochlan listens and prays: Sax, please. Please. He’ll stay broken forever if Saxon doesn’t do something about it.
The video ends. Lochlan turns off his phone. He stares at the ceiling and swallows the lump in his throat, which seems to have crept up quietly these past minutes. He mourns what will never be: this beloved god of his, after all, doesn’t answer prayers either.