Chemical attraction. Animal magnetism. The physics of lust.
There is always animosity between us. During those rare times when we are working towards the same objective - or at least our paths run beside each other instead of meeting with an explosion that sends us speeding different directions - we start off snarling, bat each other around a few minutes and end up straining against some hard surface, pressed together, breath burning throats and lungs as we grapple and then snarl some more.
We're remarkably similar to large, predatory cats whenever they mate.
We connect our bodies together. Force is always an issue. The more force, the more power, the more connection. Longer, more suggestive as we invade each other, swap fluids that run and trickle from our bodies to the other as we share space. Breath, heat, energy all expend as we argue with our bodies as much as our minds and mouths. I manipulate his mind to where I need it to be as much as he does my body.
And then we walk away with memories of heat and touch and scurry to our respective lairs where we pull up the best remembered sensations and jerk off without having to worry about a knife, a gun or a painfully knuckled fist interrupting the moment of rut. We go off to lick the wounds we've both created, easing the pains in the most enjoyable method we have available and get ourselves off quickly, reveling in the new fluid joining the mix of blood and sweat, adding to the mess. I bet he says sully - it's such a fucking Oxford-education thing to do.
Some encounters the pull is more insistent - more there, the urge to stake our claims. But we never get any closer than a cracked rib or a bruised eye because we will never forget the cardinal rule of our fucked relationship: we are enemies. Doesn't matter the side. We fight, we kill, we die; we are enemies. We use whatever weapons we have available to us until they are no longer usable and we trade in for better models. And sex, in all its variations, is a weapon, potent and dangerous for everyone involved.
We have a certain level of trust between us. It's the natural state of enemies. We can always count on the other to be an enemy, to not forget or sully our relationship with the taint of camaraderie. Fucking him is an academic exercise in thought alone, for me. Twisting his belief as he twists and pummels my body is more satisfying. Feeling him get off on the power, remembering the primality of our encounters as we both jones on the rawness revs me to a point where I can sate my body later.
Something has always stopped us from destroying the other though. We understand each other, why and how we tick - but that's entering into the esoteric realm of psychology. We feed each other's psychoses and beat the shit out of each other whenever there's a chance and we try to do our best to destroy each other's careers. And we never actually push that final step and do it. We've had the courtship of the century. There hasn't been anything this good since the Bolsheviks threw their tantrum. "Wow, we actually did it. Now what are we supposed to do? Let's kill people - I guess that's what we're supposed to do."
I don't want to be near him for longer than absolutely necessary; I don't want to be his friend; I don't want him to be my brother. I know him, and he knows me and we never really surprise each other anymore. It's our instinct to be enemies. We've been mutual enemies from the first we saw each other, instinctive. We're intimate; always; necessarily.
He's mine. We'll never be together; I'll never want to be, he'll never want to be; it's not natural. But he's mine. We said our vows. We've dedicated to each other. We expend energy, time, thought, action to our private insanity. We'll hurtle into one another's lives until death because neither one of us can give up our obsessions. It's only natural.