#165 Saturday Night
Today is Sunday, and my life will finally end. Something most men dread, but I anticipate the peace it will bring. I’ll never forget the good loving we almost had last night when we first met.
How we walked on the beach, held hands, and watched the sun set and the moon rise. The stars shone so brightly that their light burned through my heart at a blazing speed, and I became star-struck for you.
Together we watched the moon set, the sun rise, and all that time I thought you were a woman, and I fell in love. You and I lay in bed all night long enjoying one another; until the sunrise lit the room and revealed that you, just like me, are a man.
How could it be that I enjoyed your embrace? Someone who needs to shave, has a cock, two balls, and looks a lot like me. My stomach churns. I want to puke at the thought of touching you, but my little brain remembers the delight and wants to forgive and do it over and over again.
Impossible, I think. I’m a man. Even to think of touching another like me is so unnatural that I can’t believe my little brain is thinking like that. You deserve to die for what you’ve done. Changed me from a heterosexual to a bisexual who, I believe, doesn’t have a place in the human race.
I sharpen the straight razor on the leather strap that my father left me when he died because he thought I was a real man. What would he think if he saw you lying in my bed? I stroke the razor back and forth and press a bit harder with every stroke as images of my family points fingers of ridicule and shame at me.
My honor was at stake. To redeem myself, I did what any real man would do. Took your deceiving cock and balls in my hand and stroked them hard with the straight razor. It cut them off on the first swipe, and when you tried to scream, I filled your mouth with your own body parts.
Your eyes wanted to know why before their lights went out and slowly died. I told you I did it to prove I was still a man. But deep inside, my star-struck heart broke and sent remorse through my blood and it filled my brain.
Why couldn’t I accept you and admit that life with you could have been more than all right? The need to repent for what I had done was too much. The only penance I could do would be to take the razor to my throat and pray for forgiveness before I died.
I gaze into the mirror and put the blade to my throat, wondering if I should cut through my Adam’s apple or leave it intact. Pressing on the razor caused blood to flow. Could I cut off my head before I died, or i should I even try.
Looking into my eyes I saw fear not the relief I sought. They told me I might go to hell for killing myself. I pulled the razor from my neck and told myself there were other ways to redemption. I know you’re dead and it’s too late for you, but to prove I was still a man, on Saturday night I’d wear your clothes and do what you did to me, and if he’s a real man, he’ll end my life and I won’t have to do it myself.