In the subway, on the streets, it’s easy not to let him get too close. There’s a buffer of strangers all around them, keeping their talk light, their thoughts clean. Or, in Vince’s case, as clean as it gets, though he still can’t seem to shake the image of his fist in Eric’s gut every time his friend laughs. He can picture all too well the boy falling forward, clutching his stomach, as Vince unstraps his belt. The sound that strip of leather would make across Eric’s bare buttocks makes him throb with desire. In his mind he sees the pale flesh redden into welts, he sees bruises left behind from the buckle—he hears the endless chatter taper off into muffled sobs. He’d whip every last ounce of emotion out of his body and into Eric’s, breaking him, see how he likes that. And that. And that.
B
