He looks like a God sitting there, shrouded in sunlight in front of the sparkling ocean, gazing up at me as if I were a miracle come to life. When he's as deep as he can go, his mouth drops open, and I'll never tire of how his face morphs from relief, to wonder, to primal satisfaction every time he's inside of me.
"Just for the record," I say, as I stroke his beautiful face. "You're my everything, too. You always have been, and you always will be. No matter what."
When his eyes prickle with wetness, and he clenches his jaw, I know he finally believes it.
We end up making love for hours, and for the entire time, we forget about the future, and the tabloids, and the thousand issues that will be sent to try us in the coming years, because when we're together, nothing else matters except each other.
In a few months, the naked pictures will be old news, and the vultures in the media will stalk us to try and land a fresher scandal, but come what may, our relationship will only grow stronger. We've come to learn that we’re each a precious gift to the other, and when you're blessed with a love as powerful and passionate as ours, no matter what life throws at us, every day feels like Christmas.
Part Three: Happy Horny New Year
ONE
Super Josh
December 31st, Present Day
The Kane Residence
New York City, New York
No one's perfect, and anyone who thinks they are is either a narcissist or a psychopath. But we all strive for perfection, which is why every New Year's Eve, the human race takes a long, hard look at itself and promises to be less of an asshole in the year to come.
We've all done it. Promised ourselves that this time "I'm going to eat healthy", or "I'll get off my ass and exercise more", or if you're me, "I'll go to the movies this year instead of sitting in my room watching movie spoof porn." (For the record, my favorite is Edward Penishands. It's a masterpiece.)
And it's this pathological need for annual self-evaluation that currently has me standing in front my mirror in my boxer briefs, wondering why the hell I'm freaking out about going to a New Year's Eve costume party.
To put things in context, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a superhero. Badly. I mean, sure, I also wanted to be Diego from Dora the Explorer, because who wouldn't want to hang with a cool talking backpack? But still . . .
My hero envy was Serious Business.
I was so obsessed with it, I begged Mom to take me to the X-ray lab at the hospital where she worked, so I could be exposed to Hulking levels of radiation. When that didn't pan out, I mixed up superhero serums from the fridge and pantry, certain that the worse they tasted, the more likely they were to work. In reality, the only power I developed was the ability to vomit violently until my poor abused stomach purged every ounce of the disgusting concoctions made from orange juice and barbecue sauce.
Despite my failure to achieve hero-dom, my room remained plastered with posters of Superman, Spiderman, The Avengers, X-Men, and the Justice League. I even had She-Hulk and Wonder Woman, and not just because those ladies were super hot. I also respected them as kickass heroes who didn't take crap from anyone. Even back then, I appreciated powerful women.
My parents weren't at all surprised when I begged them for superhero outfits for every costume party and Halloween, and by the time I hit double digits, I had a stack of them. But even though wearing those costumes made me feel special and powerful, other kids thought the scrawny Jewish kid with glasses didn't fit the hero description, and I got teased every single time, even by my friends.
One Halloween when I was ten, I dressed as the Green Lantern. Unfortunately, Darren Pike, an asshole sixteen-year-old who lived in my building, had the same idea. He went berserk when he saw that we matched and punched me in the face so hard, he broke my glasses and my nose.
As he stood over me, ranting that I was a 'limp-dick imposter', it wasn't lost on me that even though he was a total douchebag who didn't think twice about assaulting a kid half his size, his buff physique made him look like a hero, and no matter how much I loved these characters, I never would.
That's when I realized why people always gave me such a hard time. Wearing those costumes while being a less-than-perfect physical specimen insulted the whole genre. Weaklings weren't heroes. At best, they were sidekicks. But let me ask you this: how far would Batman have gotten without Alfred? And would James Bond be anywhere near as kickass if it weren't for the geeks who made his gadgets? The short answer is 'no fucking way.' But do those backstage guys get any credit? No. Only the ripped dudes got to wear the fancy outfits and ride off with the beautiful women.