The Drowning Child

76

Jimmy Lyle had left Tate behind, left DEAD TO ME in his wake. He felt free, untethered. He was who he was meant to be. He had a stolen laptop, a burner phone, he had a new wig, he wore clothes that were two sizes too big, clothes, again, that were for women.

He sat back on the motel bed with his laptop. He checked his messages. The only name he wanted to see now was the newest one: BoyUndr15. He had screen-grabbed some of their earliest exchanges. Every time he read them, he got hard.

The first one had blown his mind.

Jimmy’s heart pounded now, as it had pounded then.

Instantly hard. It was the same now. He started pulling at his dick. He remembered how desperately he needed to know what the boy meant, was it what he hoped.

The wait had almost killed him. He felt a head rush, like white noise. He had been rooted to the spot, his eyes transfixed by the screen. Then the words appeared.

BoyUndr15 had signed off, then, and Jimmy had nearly passed out. He imagined the pain of never hearing from him again. But BoyUndr15 came back, and was back almost every day since.

The last message Jimmy had sent BoyUndr15 was two hours before he checked into the motel. He described exactly what he wanted to do to him. He ended it with:

His screen lit up with a reply.

Jimmy’s heart was bursting.

One hour later, BoyUndr15 sent another message.

Jimmy could barely breathe. He pushed his dress up around his waist, ran to the tall narrow mirror against the wall, trying to pull down his pantyhose as he went. But he fell to his knees first, yanked them down his thighs, scratching his thighs as he did it. He pulled the belt from his dress, wrapped it tight around his neck.

He had never gotten so hard, so quickly... all because of words and the beautiful images they conjured. He stared at the words as they glowed in the mirror’s reflection. He was glowing too, his eyes fixed on the dwindling o’s. The smartness of this boy. He was only fifteen, but he was like... he was... he was... he was his soulmate.