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“[instrumental]"

Stars of the Lid,

' Articulate Silences, Pt. 1'

I was so horny I couldn't help it. Three hook ups in a row, night after night, nothing but faceless dick filling my throat and ass for me to pound into the bed sheets. Sorry about all the noise Saph. She laughed at my apologies every morning and told me she was happy for me, really.

I regret that I only slept with Jay a few times when he was over. Some part of me was holding out for Feather, but the more I come to terms with reality, the more ridiculous that reasoning reveals itself to be. Feather is poly and in an open relationship, what held me back was my own damn hang ups. I'm getting over them now, clearly, although I do retain that hit of post-orgasmic regret every time I bring someone home. I vow to rid myself of even that when I arrive in the States.

And I'm arriving soon. Here I am at the airport, waiting at the gate so bored that my mind wandered to thoughts of the past few nights. So bored I got horny. I cover my lap with my backpack and act disinterested, try my best to think dull thoughts. Here I am at the airport. It feels like my entire life has revolved around airports, it seems that every event that impacts me most happens in the physical or temporal proximity of an airport. All that circumstance and yet here I am, daydreaming about dick.

Okay, I admit it: I caved. I signed up to Feather's OnlyFur a few weeks ago and every time they post I can't open my phone quick enough or stroke myself hard enough. I can't get their naked body out of my mind. I routinely sear their latest pinup into the back of my eyelids and the forefront of my mind and before I know it I've jerked off once, twice, three, five times. A few of their posts feature Jay's dick on their tongue, his cum on their face, his knot in their ass. Jealousy doesn't describe it. With those pics, the count starts at five and ends up who knows where. With my knot in some app date's ass, usually, but even that isn't the end of it: I'm still thinking about them now, feeling the tightness in my jeans as I shift my backpack about my lap, waiting for the call to board.

Don't worry, I was upfront about it. I half-jokingly threatened to sign up to their OnlyFur a couple of times and all they did was egg me on. I direct messaged them and asked if it really would be okay, all they said was: Babe, if you want to give me your money for a sneak peak, don't let me stop you x

A sneak peak. Fuck. So, things have been going well between us. Or, 'well' with an asterisk. We're taking it slow, like they requested, but the flirtation has grown more graphic, even bordered on role play at times. Alright, maybe it's no wonder I've been so horny.

My mind is everywhere right now, on everything. Them especially. I'm excited, that's why. Nervous, scared, but excited.

I lost twenty pounds in the last few months and I'm fucking proud. I'm still a big guy, but the difference is noticeable and I feel better for it, physically and mentally. I've never really cared about being slim, but I liked how I looked back when I lived in the States. My progress here is a significant step in returning to that point. Since Eve and her lovers left I've done a lot of walking and a good deal of swimming, utilizing the ancient and powerful technique of multitasking to combine my usual music listening time with something practical. The exercise has helped, but when it comes to losing weight the main thing, as obvious as it sounds, has been eating better. I still get cravings at times, especially late at night when I know I've eaten enough yet feel this irrational need to eat more. Sometimes I cave, but only sometimes. It's not a perfect system but I'm doing better, and I really am proud. Having something to strive for has helped. The idea that I might enter a relationship with Feather has made me want to look my best and though I don't know how much they care about my size, it doesn't matter. I want to look good and when I'm comfortable with my weight I wear it better; everybody knows confidence is sexy.

Finally they call my boarding zone, waiting in line I manage to wrest my mind free from its musings by the time I reach the front of the queue. I find myself face to face with a stocky otter and it takes a beat for me to realize he's a flight attendant. I hold out my boarding pass at arms length, keeping as much distance from him as I can, then snatch it back when he waves me through. Proceeding to the plane I feel the fur on the back of my neck rise. I don't like turning my back on otters. In fact I don't like being in the same room as them, let alone the same plane.

Settled in my seat I see him again, minutes later. I tense and wrap my arms around myself, sinking into my chair. Why does he have to be here? I try to distract myself with reminiscence. A lot has happened over the past few months and my mind is abuzz with hopes and memories. I feel like I should put them all in some sort of order before I arrive in the States, ready myself to face whatever future lies in wait for me there.

I had nothing planned for my thirtieth and would likely have spent the whole day laying on a sofa had Saph not coaxed me out of my shell in the preceding days. And, I admit, I'm glad she did. In truth I don't have many friends who live locally, but I invited a couple folk from work, another person from survivors' group and a few who would need to fly in to actually make it. Surprising me greatly, one of them did. I put on a pretty basic house party all told, hitting all the key points: loud music, copious alcohol and an obscene order of pizza. It was fun, and at the time it felt like a sort of love letter to my twenties. Now though, with the passing of mere weeks, the entire affair has acquired an elegiac quality in my memory, becoming less a celebration and more a funeral for a failed youth. Funny thing is, my youth was stolen from me years ago, thirty was just the final nail. I don't mean that in a purely negative sense, age has brought change that I have steadily grown more acclimatized to, found less reasons to fear, even found reason to enjoy. I am more my own person now, both freer and more in control. Well, I'm still a roiling ball of emotion, trauma and repression, but I'm more cognizant of that than ever. I can see myself from the outside, even steer sometimes.

Thirty though? Thirty. The number has settled on my heart as a weight. It feels like I'm supposed to have some kind of plan by now. Well, whether or not it's the 'right time' for me to experiment with long distance and poly, that's what's happening. Fuck it, I've always been a mess, perhaps my thirties are the time to embrace it.

I'm in the aisle seat, beside me in the window is a middle aged zebra keeping to herself, intent on devouring her paperback before we've even made it to the runway. I suppose I'm glad, I prefer solitude, watching a movie or listening to music while I fly, talking to strangers is rarely my idea of a good time. Today though I'm less thankful for the personal space, it means I'll be left alone with my thoughts, the same ones that have been whirring around my head like crazy all day.

I could have afforded business class and guaranteed privacy, but the idea of flying back to the city where I killed a man in a fancy seat I bought with the money I got for staying silent about him seemed gross. Honestly, every time I spend that money on something extravagant I feel guilty, it just doesn't always stop me. The fucker deserved what he got. Still, I'm flying economy.

I've kept in touch with Kale and Adrian with some degree of regularity ever since Eve's visit, but I have deliberately kept the content of our interactions as phatic as possible. I sense a storm brewing between those two, whether it will be the kind that leads to catastrophic damage or little more than a strong breeze I don't know. Either way I felt no need to find out in advance, why go out of my way to stress myself out? Still, I couldn't avoid intensity entirely: I don't believe Kale found out the content of my call with Adrian, but he became agitated when he learned that I had spoken to the fox so soon after my chat with him. I talked Kale down, delayed, obfuscated, pushed back the inevitable. I hate politicking, but I wasn't sure what else to do. Mostly I've been ignoring the whole mess. Of course that means I haven't told Adrian the whole truth either. When I think too much about it I become frustrated and start hyper-fixating on every little detail, trying to find a perfect solution to a complex situation working off a dearth of information, so for the most part I don't think about it at all. The plane's trundling as it moves along the airport grounds on its way to the runway reminds me I won't retain that privilege for long.

So then there's Feather, and my abundance of hopes and fears surrounding them. We've been talking, a lot, and now that the forced civility of public travel has curtailed my horniness I can reflect in earnest on how things have gone. In fact I'm borderline forced to, being left alone with my thoughts like this. I could shut my eyes and try to zone out to music, but no, my mind is in overdrive and- And, fuck, I'm going back to the place where I- Where it happened.

The flight attendants are acting out their safety spiel, but I've seen it so many times by now that the entire performance is white noise. The attendant performing closest to me is a dog breed I can't immediately place, my gaze is drawn instead to the attendant behind her, that stout otter who - when I squint just so - becomes reminiscent of Marty. My paws ball into protective fists on my lap. Eventually the show concludes and all of the attendants sit somewhere out of the way as the plane readies for takeoff.

There's that familiar falling of my stomach that comes with the first moments of flight, that brief instant of weightlessness, soon replaced by the grounding force of acceleration. I feel naked without my switchblade. There was no way I was going to try and sneak it through security, but still I feel naked. With that otter aboard especially. No, I know. I know it's stupid. I know it's fucking- Ugh. I know it's bigoted - even if I don't intend it to be - but, regardless, I haven't been able to shake it. Being around otters makes me uncomfortable, their presence leaves me feeling unsafe. Only when the plane reaches cruising altitude do I let myself relax.

So, Feather... I haven't been avoiding the subject. Okay, maybe I have. But it's not for a lack of passion, it's out of fear. Lately I made a point of calling them up to make my thoughts on our arrangement clear. I can still feel the hammering of my heart when I think back on it. I told them that, while I am interested, any romance that emerges between us has to be on a trial basis, that I simply won't know if polyamory works for me until I try it, that in truth I don't know if I have it in me to love so freely. I told them that, straight up. We talked it through a good bit, and we moved on. No earth shattered, no trees fell, we moved on. So, now? Now I'm scared.

It's not so much the internal 'will they, won't they?' - although there is a little of that - it's more of a 'will I, won't I?' I want to, but I have to admit that when I picture my desires I find Feather, nobody else, no strings, no complications. But like I told them, I won't know until I try. My stomach whines at me, a sort of indigestion fueled exclusively by anxiety. I am in an in-between place in so many ways. It's unsettling.

Flight is liminal no matter how you slice it. It's all about borders: physical, social, literal, metaphorical. For me, this truth is self evident. Flights have always marked off new stages of my life, re-evaluations, tragedies. So here I come, at long last, to the point of all this internal meandering. Little of any real note has happened to me in the past few hours, days or weeks, which means my life is about to be upturned. It may be a superstitious belief but, fuck it, I know Pandora's box will open when I land. All I can hope is that whatever chaos my arrival unleashes will ultimately be for the better. The undulating dread that sits in the pit of my stomach which has me clawing for the non-existant switchblade in my pocket wagers otherwise.

Now was not the right time for the otter attendant to ask me if I want a drink. I seize up completely, staring him dead in the eyes, neck locked stiff, unspeaking. His plastic, professional, toothy smile falters momentarily at my hesitance. He restates his question. I breathe in, not breaking eye contact nor blinking as I shake my head once, tensed joints practically creaking. The zebra next to me orders a soda. When he reaches over to give it to her I lean so hard back into my seat that I wonder if I might fuse with it. The attendant moves on and I can finally exhale.

Fuck, it's not usually this bad, though I suppose it's no shock I'm at my worst right now: I'm flying back to where it happened. Every minute I spend in quiet contemplation I find myself thinking more about that city and the time I spent there, not everything that happened, but the big stuff. Every good time is overshadowed by the bad, the pain, trauma and fear. I am fiddling, paws crawling over one another in an aimless expression of nerves. For an instant I am convinced that all of this is a mistake, that I should stay the hell away from the States, that somehow in the very act of returning I will inflict on myself a curse, that the past will crawl up from the earth and show it's ugly head, it's shredded, bleeding neck and consume me whole, that by coming here I will bring down my years-built house of cards, that I will be raped or murdered or found out for the killer I am, that all of this is inevitable.

And then I'm out of body, observing myself only to find a husky sitting safe in an airplane, finding that nothing bad has happened yet and that there's no guarantee anything will. I calm a little, close my eyes, ride it out. And then we're descending, and I can't help believing I will emerge from the plane not only into a new country, but a new world, perhaps even a new life. The plane is my aluminum chrysalis in which I undergo my soaring metamorphosis. God, I have read too much Shakespeare.

I tell myself it will be okay, over and over. The craft makes its shuddering contact with runway concrete. We slow and slow until we stop. I grit my teeth and wait my turn to leave the plane, not anticipating the moment but dreading it, believing somehow that I will find Marty there to greet me when I emerge, not Eve.

No. Fuck that, no. No matter what happens I will not let myself be dragged back into the past by him, or anyone. I will break free from any grip with bare teeth and claws if I have to. I will forge on into the future and live my own fucking life, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much it might hurt.

Here I am America. Open arms, open mind, open heart.

Do your worst.