Chapter 3: Can You Feel My Heart

Donovan

I am used to being alone. Being around Aiden for this long is making me a bit uneasy, so I ask him to look around the place and become familiar on his own. Tell him I have some things I need to take care of. Aiden asks no questions, nods in understanding, and proceeds down the long staircase. I go back to my bedroom and turn on my music. I blast the Radio Playlist on Spotify entitled "Can You Feel My Heart." The first song to play is Bring Me The Horizon, and I run my hands through my hair and do precisely what Aiden asked. I mess my hair up. My door is locked, so I know I have privacy. I imagine him here with me. I lift my cashmere sweater over my head, sleeves still on my arms. Slowly run my hand down my abs, picturing Aiden. While "can you feel the high" plays. I unbutton my pants. One hand behind my head, eyes closed. I put my right hand down my pants to feel my rock-hardness, and I cannot remember a time I felt this way.

I stroke it downward, picturing Aiden is the one touching me, that it is him doing the stroking, not I. He is teasing me, taunting me. I beg him to take me out of my pants or touch me in other ways, to put me inside of his warm mouth, to put lips to tip. I pull all seven and a half inches of hardness out of my pants and begin to stroke. I am flexing every inch of my torso, and as I stroke myself, I start to shake while picturing Aiden here with me, kissing my neck, sucking my lips, moving down to my nipple, and softly biting it. I do not last long. My eruption is fast and hard, and I was not prepared; to tissue or anything. I lay in bed for a moment, trying to replay what just happened, all while my "stuff" is spread across my chest. I tuck myself back into my briefs and slacks. Stand up and go to the bathroom. Look at what's become of myself in shame and tell myself: never again and wipe myself clean. Wash my face and fix my hair combing back perfectly tamed, not a single flyaway hair.   

My watch now says 11:02, and I am late for French lessons. Shit! I turn off my music and rush out of my room to Dupont Library Hall. Yes, we have our library in our home. I know, it is a lot. It is the hall I have all my lessons. I refer to it as DLH. It takes a few minutes to get there, and my Maître is not happy. The first thing he asks me is "pourquoi étaus-tu en retar." Which sounds terrible when you say it, but he just asked why I was late, to which my response is a lie: "jail eu en appel téléphonique trust important, mes excuses Monsieur." Which means I had an important phone call, my apologies Sir. He buys it, and we continue with our French lessons, and he gives me twice as much homework for my tardiness. Yay me, this is what I get for deviating from my schedule. Aiden is already proving to be a problem. I will ask mother to fire him. 

After French lesson areas, the piano is my favorite class; when I arrive at precisely 2:00 pm, Aiden is there, which angers me. I put my left hand in my pocket and walk up to him, and with a stern voice, I ask him why he is here. His reply is quiet. He says that he works for me, remember. I lean back a bit and say that, of course, I know that, but why is here at my piano lesson he could be ironing something.  Aiden retains his composure that of calm and sexy. Aidens response is again simple. He explains that his job is to keep me on schedule and be around if I need anything, and he does this side smile either his lips where he doesn't open his mouth. It is like he knows something.

There is no way he knows what happened earlier. So why does he have this smile!? I turn away quickly because he is pissing me off. I sit at the piano and decide I will go with a piece to let off some stress. So I plan article called "Fire" by Brian Crain. When I play, I forget everything and everyone exists. It is just me, and the keys of the piano and the music and the imagines in my head; created. This song, to me, is one of passion and desire. When water and fire try to dance and as I play, my hair can never stay in its' place, but I do not care. How could I with such music playing? The notes rebound off of the walls, off of my body, through my ears, and into my heart. Does the universe hear me as I play? Do the heavens listen to me? A tear falls from my face.

Am I alone in this world? Aren't we all?  Or maybe there is a silver lining somewhere not yet found but visible if you search for it. I suppose you have the stamina and the courage to look. Maybe true love exists. I hope true love exists for me. And as I play, I hope my notes call out to you, that whoever you are in the world. You hear my notes of desire. Of pain and need. Of hope and love and desperation.  I am a rich man with a poor man's soul in need of so much more than what surrounds me. I need passion, in need of an authentic touch. In need of you. In need of love. For thee, rest of the notes,s all I can do is play without any thought. Just play in hopes they are heard across the galaxies. Across the oceans. Across countries, the cosmos. You out there, the one for me. It would help if you listened to my need for you. The notes are loud as they echoed through these massive halls. Hear me, feel me, see me, find me.