I really need to think of a name for this boy whom I’ve declared my sub. Nothing sticks yet, though.
He’s becoming an interesting puzzle. At first glance he looked completely Joe Average to me. Standard thirtysomething white guy with glasses, jeans, plaid shirt and baseball cap. Manual labour job. Not much of a talker, and not someone who seems particularly precocious when he does talk. I’m usually drawn to people more like myself: offbeat personal style, talkative, smart and analytical and snarky.
But he has eclectic musical tastes and one of his favourite movies is Swedish vampire flick Let the Right One In (which I own, btw). He’s self-aware enough to have figured out last year that he was clinically depressed, and to know precisely what he wants kink-wise even though he’d never explored much of anything before I came along. He still doesn’t talk much, but I’m beginning to sense that there’s more to him than meets the eye – and I want to pry him open and see.
I am reminded, once again, of a passage from the book A Home at the End of the World:
Although I kept my hands off him I couldn’t deny Bobby’s shaggy, lost-pony appeal. He had big square hands and a face blank and earnest as a shovel. If it weren’t for his eyes, his innocence would have been too lunar to touch. It was his eyes that cut through. Imagine a snug little house in the suburbs, with a plaster dwarf on the lawn and petunias in the window boxes. Then imagine someone ancient and howlingly sad looking out through an upstairs window. That was Bobby’s face. That’s what it was about him.