Journal Entry #9
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
What. A. Fucking. Day.
I don’t even know where to start except to say I may never emotionally recover and also I’m possibly glowing?? A slutty radioactive raccoon caught in a dumpster fire of my own making. But a hot one.
So. Morning: Jett bailed me out. Plot twist: Benji bailed him out.
Further plot twist: I went home with Jett and we completely shattered each other in the way you’re probably contractually obligated to frown at but spiritually you know it was necessary.
Sometimes people aren’t puzzle pieces. Sometimes they’re jagged shards and the only way to make them fit again is to smash them hard enough they melt a little.
That’s what Jett and I did. Therapy by way of carnage-fucking.
Not gentle. We had to break ourselves apart just to feel right again.
Glass-shard kisses. Bruises. Claw marks.
One of us might be cursed now, not sure which. We needed it.
Anyway. Moving on!
I left you a present. And one for Benji. And another for Jett. You all got little breadcrumbs from my delirious little heart, glitter-coded and scandalously specific. I think you liked yours, because, well. You kissed me.
Rhys.
You.
Kissed.
Me.
And not in the way you kiss someone you’re still trying to keep in your caseload, okay?
? That was a full-body, soul-melting, career-ending kiss with tongue and intentions.
That kiss had consequences. It was not a kiss like “oh thank you for the roses, m’lady.
” You kissed me like you forgot we weren’t fucking yet.
Oh, and I may have possibly stalked you into art class.
Surprise! I kindly suggested the original model explore a new path in life, somewhere far away, ideally in mime.
She left. I posed. You judged me with those silently feral eyes of yours.
It was glorious. But still you kissed me so I assume that’s forgiven.
Benji took me to his place post-bar. We’ll go get my car tomorrow unless I die from too much love.
Okay I gotta go now.
He’s about to fuck me.
Rhys Journal
Your restraint is honestly kind of cute?
Admirable. But like. Silly.
Because Tuesday? Oh babe, Tuesday is on. You know it. I know it. The gods of questionable decision-making know it.
Anyway, gotta go. Benji’s on the phone with some weird little art pervert supplier trying to order body paint, and he needs my flavor input.
They have cake flavor. Cake, Rhys.
We need that in our lives. You need that in your life. It’s the crossover episode of food kink and abstract expressionism.
Also we’re ordering plastic sheets for the bed and the floor so we can Jackson Pollock each other into next week.
Benji Journal
You’re watching me write this. Right now. Like a pervert. Like the filthiest little voyeur in a cardigan. You’re the only one who ever gets to see these.
Because I love you. And I like that you’re right here. Breathing beside me.
I love you more. Hurry up. scribbled in Benji’s loopy boy handwriting.
Jett Journal
This morning is etched into my soul. Branded. Like you are. Like the scratch marks I left on your back.
I see you trying to make this whole beautifully fucked-up sharing thing work. And it will. Because you’re stubborn, and hot, and weirdly soft inside no matter how many walls you punch. And because of them. And me. (Mostly me.)
You better have that damn magnet on the fridge. I will check.
Are you missing your glove yet.
I gotta go, Benji’s being an absolute menace and it’s rude to be journaling while getting licked into a religious experience. My penmanship’s gone to hell.
He says hi. So does Mr. Wriggles. That’s our worm, don’t be gross. Mr. Wriggles is a gentleman and currently minding his business over on the dresser like a proper gentleman.
Don’t miss me too hard. (Miss me just right.)