What the hell was all that about? I stand looking at the closed door of Spike's crypt and wonder for a moment if it had ever opened. Did I ever go in, did Spike snarl his out his bad-tempered invitation - spelt o-r-d-e-r - to come in, or have I been stood here all the time wondering what to do?
One thing hasn't changed - I still have no idea what to do.
I have to assume, from what I can see of me, and what I can feel - still feel - that what happened, um, happened and wasn't the result of an another-knock-out-blow-to-the-head dream.
What the hell was all that about? Was that good or bad? Did I really kiss Spike? Did he really kiss me back? Did he really play footsie with my cock? Did he really make me all but come just by talking to me?
So what the hell was that all about?
Should I be thinking, 'Hey! sexy-vampire sex games' or, 'Yeah, sexy-vampire mind games? For the sake of my own sanity, er make that remaining sanity, I refuse to think, 'Oh, sexy vampire mind-sex games'.
Should I be thinking sexy vampire at all? OK that's an easy one, I can do this one. Clue: two-letter word begins with n ends in o. Answer: too late.
Did he mean it when he said he'd consider it - us doing what he talked about? - cock , mine - mouth, his - gnargh! - letting me - mhwmm, oh, god, his legs, my shoulders - open to me - and him and looking and doing and - beautiful? Did he mean I was beautiful - or looking at - or doing - or can I take the knocked-out-dream option, please? I can do unreal. Unreal good, unreal friend, unreal nice and warm and fuzzy and unreal never answer back and kiss back and talk back what you want to do so badly you wish it was unreal...
Umm, yeah, OK losing it a bit here. Don't know which is more frightening, me understanding me, or me not understanding me.
Mwaah, my magnificently mind-numbing moral-mind-maze, marking maudlin meanders, making me more madly moronic, muddling mawkish manly-musings; muddying mesmerising memories. OK, a lot, losing it a lot. (Did I really think a semi-colon? Willow would be soo proud!)
And I still haven't got any further, I'm still standing here not knowing what to do. First steps, little steps, easy steps. Fingers through hair, hands across mouth, adjustments in pants. Good to go.
Little steps is right. That son of a bitch has left me with a boner that makes walking next to impossible. And he just stood there as icy cool as, as, yeah OK, the corpse he actually is.
So how come, if he's so damn cool, did he manage to burn every part of me he touched, just by touching me? Hah, think you're so smart? Go figure that one out, Mister Cool-walking-dead-vampire-guy. And you needn't think you're going to get away with distracting me by having hands and lips and... feet. I don't believe he's got me thinking erotic thoughts about feet - one foot, anyway, with fine bones and strong muscles that push against and up and down and across what's preventing me from getting home as quickly as I need to in order to be able to think about that foot pushing against and up and down and across what's preventing... aghh! Just. Don't. Think.
Home at last, it never used to be this far away. When did they move my apartment all the way to Pittsburgh? And why didn't someone tell me?
When I finally close my own front door behind me, I slump back against it unable to take another step. Nice door, good door. Just stay there, nice-and-good and still-and-strong so you can prop up poor little Xanny, 'cos he's can't do 'stand-up-by-himself' right now. I'm a trembling mess of two emotions: gibbering terror and pheromonic first-base buzz (are there are any moans like phero moans?)
Oh, look, they're coming up to each other and talking, oh they're agreeing a merger. Yes, they've shaken hands on the deal and are going to call their new joint emotion 'Is-Spike-gonna-kiss-me-again-or-kill-me-just-the-once? anticipation'. Oh, that's cool, now I've got just the one emotion to beat me up. Got to be an improvement there, somewhere.
Ya know, I like this door, we could become buddies. I stretch my arms up and wide, elbows spread and splayed hands almost meeting above my head. The burning pull in my shoulder muscles is good and I try to picture my tension as drops of water rolling down from my hands, along my arms and dropping onto my shoulders, until finally falling from me altogether and disappearing in to the floor. Yes I do like this door.
This must be what gets people hugging trees. It is so easy, right now, to imagine a powerful, primal strength pulsing out of the wood behind me, restoring my own exhausted energy reserves.
I still can't move away and I feel guilty that I haven't taken more notice of this nice door in the past. Wonder what it's name is? I'll call it FD, short for Front Door. I'm going to have to make up to it, somehow, for my thoughtless neglect - perhaps we can watch TV together some nights, have man-to-portal chats, go shoot some pool. Ah, not a good idea there. Could be related to the cues and might not feel too happy about how small they've been chopped up. Just a beer then, that shouldn't be a catalyst for any unpleasantness about things-they-do-to-you-when-they-stop-letting-you-be-a-tree.
Do appreciate your help here, pal, no way can I stay up by myself - oh except that bit of me. That bit is standing up by itself very-well-thank-you. And, give it its due, it's standing up under pressure.
At last, a really good idea, a practical idea moreover!
Aaah, that's better. Why can't they make jeans that stay the same size all day? A man can't be undoing his zip at all hours of the day and night just to correct stupid mistakes made by over-paid designers
Okay, we have ignition. I peel myself away from my friend, FD, and stag... saunter with diginity to the sofa.
Letting my pants drop to the floor, I step out of them and give them a nasty look. They choose to ignore me. I throw my shoes at them. Still no reponse. Just so as they realise who's the boss around here, I bombard them, item by item, with rest of my clothing and there's only one thing to do now.
I drop on to the sofa - mmmh, nice an' comfy and relaxing, might just lie here, stretched out like this, all night - and allow myself to think of everything I know I shouldn't be thinking of and proceed to bask in the ministrations of my five-fingered fan club.