war.
And he’d not been compelled to touch himself like this but for a handful of times. All but twice he’d stopped. Ashamed, perhaps. He couldn’t say. This was an act he could not look directly at.
In fear of seeing just how broken he was.
He was not unmoved by the sensation. Not unmoved by his hand.
By thoughts of Anne.
He stroked himself, from the top to the tip of his cock. Growing longer and harder. His breath shuddered in his chest. And he closed his eyes and gave his cock and his hand his full attention. Sussing out all the sensations, the slight pull when his hair got caught in a finger, the stomach-dropping pleasure when his palms curled over the tip and squeezed.
And then he imagined Annie doing it. Anne’s small capable hand, using his flesh like this, handling his cock… Yes, over the top again. Harder. Again. And then again. He bit his lip, the bubble in his throat part sob, part groan.
Yes
. He braced his hand against the wash stand, jostling the basin, the dish of soap.
It was here. This he could do. This thing.
And then suddenly… without warning... he could not.
His cock did not grow soft. Not for a while, anyway. He just stopped feeling it. Just as he approached climax, he felt nothing. As if all his nerves had pulled back from his skin in fear of feeling anything that was too much. Too much pleasure, too much pain. His body was not interested in any of it.
It was as if he were back on a march. Back in prison.
Conserving resources.
And then, at the thought of prison—his erection was gone. And he was just stroking a piece of meat. Dead. Lifeless.
“Goddamnit!” he cried.
Blind and furious, he swept his hand across the wash stand and sent the pitcher crashing to the floor.
What can I do about it?
He wondered, standing now in the center of his hotel room. Blood seeping from tiny cuts on his legs.
He stood naked, among the fine furnishings that his money allowed him to buy. Fine furnishings and brandy that travelled over oceans and mountains to get to his clumsy hand. His money bought the respect and attention of the men who were building the West, railroad by railroad, smelter by smelter, newspaper by newspaper. Those men treated him like he was one of them. As if they couldn’t see the rot inside his bones. The hollow beneath his skin.
I am not alive
, he thought,
but my body will not submit. I am one of the walking dead, the skeletons of Andersonville
.
She would marry someone else. His Anne. His fierce Anne would touch and be touched by that doctor, who did not care enough about her to protect her.
What can I give her if I cannot stand to be touched? If I cannot stand to touch someone else? What does my hollowness, my deadness offer her, if that is what she wants?
Touch.
Sex.
The idea was not a bad one. The image of his Anne, naked on a bed, her bright eyes, her lovely skin—it was not terrifying. It was in fact, in a far-off way, exciting.
And he could imagine touching her. Her skin would be so soft. So perfect.
But he simply could not imagine her touching him. His body recoiled. His stomach kicked up into his throat.
But she would go elsewhere. And he could not stand it.
He sucked in a horrified breath. And then another. Each breath deeper and deeper until his entire body was in on the effort.
He got dressed with no attention to what he put on. They were pants and shirt. His nudity covered. The bare minimum done.
And then he turned, left the hotel and crossed the street to Delilah’s.
Chapter 5
I nside the whore house it was hot. Thick and damp with the scent of bodies and alcohol and the hundreds of candles burning overhead. And loud. He had not thought his life was so quiet, but here among the drunks and the whores, he realized his life was very nearly silent.
He found a place at the bar and ordered whiskey simply so he would blend in. So he wouldn’t look as odd as he felt.
There was a stage on the far end of the building, and there was a girl
And he’d not been compelled to touch himself like this but for a handful of times. All but twice he’d stopped. Ashamed, perhaps. He couldn’t say. This was an act he could not look directly at.
In fear of seeing just how broken he was.
He was not unmoved by the sensation. Not unmoved by his hand.
By thoughts of Anne.
He stroked himself, from the top to the tip of his cock. Growing longer and harder. His breath shuddered in his chest. And he closed his eyes and gave his cock and his hand his full attention. Sussing out all the sensations, the slight pull when his hair got caught in a finger, the stomach-dropping pleasure when his palms curled over the tip and squeezed.
And then he imagined Annie doing it. Anne’s small capable hand, using his flesh like this, handling his cock… Yes, over the top again. Harder. Again. And then again. He bit his lip, the bubble in his throat part sob, part groan.
Yes
. He braced his hand against the wash stand, jostling the basin, the dish of soap.
It was here. This he could do. This thing.
And then suddenly… without warning... he could not.
His cock did not grow soft. Not for a while, anyway. He just stopped feeling it. Just as he approached climax, he felt nothing. As if all his nerves had pulled back from his skin in fear of feeling anything that was too much. Too much pleasure, too much pain. His body was not interested in any of it.
It was as if he were back on a march. Back in prison.
Conserving resources.
And then, at the thought of prison—his erection was gone. And he was just stroking a piece of meat. Dead. Lifeless.
“Goddamnit!” he cried.
Blind and furious, he swept his hand across the wash stand and sent the pitcher crashing to the floor.
What can I do about it?
He wondered, standing now in the center of his hotel room. Blood seeping from tiny cuts on his legs.
He stood naked, among the fine furnishings that his money allowed him to buy. Fine furnishings and brandy that travelled over oceans and mountains to get to his clumsy hand. His money bought the respect and attention of the men who were building the West, railroad by railroad, smelter by smelter, newspaper by newspaper. Those men treated him like he was one of them. As if they couldn’t see the rot inside his bones. The hollow beneath his skin.
I am not alive
, he thought,
but my body will not submit. I am one of the walking dead, the skeletons of Andersonville
.
She would marry someone else. His Anne. His fierce Anne would touch and be touched by that doctor, who did not care enough about her to protect her.
What can I give her if I cannot stand to be touched? If I cannot stand to touch someone else? What does my hollowness, my deadness offer her, if that is what she wants?
Touch.
Sex.
The idea was not a bad one. The image of his Anne, naked on a bed, her bright eyes, her lovely skin—it was not terrifying. It was in fact, in a far-off way, exciting.
And he could imagine touching her. Her skin would be so soft. So perfect.
But he simply could not imagine her touching him. His body recoiled. His stomach kicked up into his throat.
But she would go elsewhere. And he could not stand it.
He sucked in a horrified breath. And then another. Each breath deeper and deeper until his entire body was in on the effort.
He got dressed with no attention to what he put on. They were pants and shirt. His nudity covered. The bare minimum done.
And then he turned, left the hotel and crossed the street to Delilah’s.
Chapter 5
I nside the whore house it was hot. Thick and damp with the scent of bodies and alcohol and the hundreds of candles burning overhead. And loud. He had not thought his life was so quiet, but here among the drunks and the whores, he realized his life was very nearly silent.
He found a place at the bar and ordered whiskey simply so he would blend in. So he wouldn’t look as odd as he felt.
There was a stage on the far end of the building, and there was a girl
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