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“Just hit me as hard as you can, okay? No questions. No hesitation. Just your fist in my face. I want your flesh touching my flesh. Don’t think. Just hit me.”
He’s crazy, I think, purely insane. I want to hit him so bad.
Tyler is bouncing on the balls of his heels, strung up with adrenaline. If I didn’t know the only thing he’d had to drink that night was a shot of rancid vodka followed by a grimace and a cigarette, I would’ve thought he was shot up. Full of buzzing, electric heroine that turned his brain voltaic and his thoughts incoherent– but this was just Tyler Durden slightly tipsy, drunk off the cold air of the night and the anticipation of an orgasmic fight to knock him back to consciousness, to set him straight. This was Tyler grinning, Tyler on a night out where he hadn’t gotten the sex he wanted the night before and was bubbling out of his skin with exertion and pure sexual drive, mixing incoherently with the bodily excitement of a man who pleads to get his nose caved in and knows it’s eminent. I can’t say no to what Tyler wants, because it’s usually what I want too. I want to pummel his chest into a patchwork of bruises. I want to see blood dribble out of his lips as he laughs it up.
I am Jack’s vicious hard-on. I am Jack’s animalistic hatred and want combined into a tropical margarita with an umbrella and cherry on top.
Tyler sees my unconscious pause and mistakes it for hesitation, instead of what it truly is– a rush of arousal so potent it makes my head spin for a second.
“You can be gentle if that’s what you want. I just want you to hit me, okay? Strike out your fists and find what you’ve been searching for. I know you need it too. C’mon, baby.”
Has anyone ever told you you talk too much, I want to tell him, but my mouth and my body have no room for speech any longer. It seizes up with the billowing red of violence, the tightness of skin that itches against its demanding desire, the overwhelming urge to feel pain so good it doesn’t even hurt.
“C’mon,” he’s rambling, throwing up his fists in mock brutality, trying to get a rise out of me, and there’s an ugly laugh spindling out of his chest as I hit him in the stomach, right below his rib cage, right above the dip of his hipbones curving into his battered jeans, and I hit him as hard as I can, as hard as I ever have, and flashing lights of red go off in my vision like the golden light of heaven as he goes down hard, sprawling on the pavement covered in piss and shit and spilled drinks. His chest is heaving and he lets out a cry of pain so hoarse it almost sounds like a moan and I’m barrelling back down on him, straddling his hips with my slacks still wrinkled from work five hours previous, digging my knees into the pebbled pavement as I grab his face and curl my fingers around his jawbone. I wish I could feel the pavement dig into my knees without the separation of fabric, feel the way the grit bores into my skin, but the way that Tyler is grinning through heaving gasps that I can feel between my legs is good enough. His teeth are sharp and glinting in the dim streetlights, and I want to beat that stupid smile off his gorgeous face. I hate him so much that desire and disgust are starting to swirl together, where I can’t tell if I want to suck him off or sock him in the jaw.
I usually go with the latter. I am Jack’s sense of overwhelming masochism, after all.
My fist, the one unoccupied from its twin’s grip on Tyler’s jaw, drives into his ribcage, where I know there's a healing bruise from last week’s Club– I know because I put it there. He howls beneath me and bucks his hips up, trying to writhe away from me, but I know he likes it, I know this is what he wants, because this is what he asked of me. This is what he always asks of me, and something I’m never hesitant in giving him.
That, and I can feel his dick’s wetness from his jeans. He gets wet fast, in a way that should be embarrassing for anyone except Tyler Durden, who just smiles and grinds his dick against my ass from where I’m planted on top of him. He doesn’t get embarrassed, doesn't even know the definition of the word– Tyler takes everything in stride, like everything he does is something he means to do. I believe it, fall into the act that he puts on every time, and let loose my hand on his jaw to smack him across the cheek. The sound echoes through the empty parking lot.
Do you always get a hard-on when someone hits you? I ask, even though I know the answer.
“No,” he smiles, his head flat against the pavement so that I can only see one half of his smug, ecstatic face. “Only when you do. Hit me again.”
I do– I grab his face and yank it to the other side, turning the other cheek so I can unleash a strike like a gunshot against his battered skin. He gasps, and the sound chokes in his throat, more of a gurgle as he wraps his hands around my forearms, catching me off guard. He flips us, slamming my back into the pavement, my head into the small patch of grass near the dumpster. We’re half-hidden behind crates and a dumpster, but if anyone came out and saw the flash of movement, the groans and smacks of skin on skin, they’d get the wrong idea.
Or the right one. With Tyler, desire and disorder are intertwined, unable to exist without each other. He kisses my bruised lips and grabs me by the shirt, picking my torso up and slamming it back into the ground. I can feel the way his hips subtly grind down into my own, the stutter in his movement as I push back against him. He grips my hair and hurls me down into the pavement, and I see stars. I think I’m hard, but he doesn’t let me find out, just keeps ramming my head into the ground until my vision’s blurry and I think I feel blood at the nape of my neck.
Stop trying to kill me and fuck me already, I say, half conscious as the world swims around me, and I’m definitely hard now. Tyler’s face is leaning up over me, the only spot of clarity in a world of vision that can barely focus on the bar’s brick wall, the rusted awning hiding the polluted night sky from my eyes. Tyler pulls my head back once more, and I think he’s going to ram it into the gravel, knock me unconscious for the night, but he smothers my breathless mouth with a kiss so hard it brings blood to my lips. He’s not gentle– for when have we, two parallel cuts in the same wound, ever been gentle with each other?-- but his mouth wraps around mine, and I can feel his tongue pushing into my mouth, and I don’t need softness, I don’t need tenderness or kind words, I need Tyler Durden’s filthy mouth on mine and my dick in his hand. My hand is a flurry of movement against his belt buckle, even though I can barely find purchase as his tongue invades my mouth, traces my canines and feeds scarlet-tinted spit to mix with my own. I need to feel his flesh against my flesh. I need to feel just how wet he is, just how soaked his boxers are that I can feel it as he pushes against my hand, rutting like a wounded animal.
“Goddamn,” Tyler pants, muffled against my lips. My hips buck up at the roughness of his voice, wrecked and hoarse with the pack of a punch. “I’m trying to, baby, I’m tryin’ to.”
I hate it when he calls me baby, like I’m one of the girls he likes to fuck; like what we have is casual, something that can fit into the box that society always wants relationships like ours to. It makes me wetter to hear him call me baby, where I can feel it down my leg, and that abrupt and repressed response of libido makes me hate it even more.
In exchange for the softness Tyler lets leak through, I bite him hard, bite the plump flesh of his lower lip so hard he yelps, harsh and dog-like in the sordid, sweltering air. I grab his hand from where it’s wandering on my hip and drag it down to my zipper, crushing his fingers in the metal teeth so he’ll have no doubt what I want, what I need from him. He can take and take and take as much as he wants from me, but I want something in return. I want to feel something like an equal in this relationship of give and take, one cemented by bruises and cuts and late night trips to the clinic where he scowls the whole way and eats me out in the exam room.
Tyler, I say, my voice wavering like cigarette smoke in the wind. Tyler, if you don’t fuck me, I’m going to pound you into a pulp and leave you for the morning shift to find.
He moans at that, faltering in his hasty unzipping of my pants, his hand jolting against the metal teeth of my now-ripped dress pants.
“Hit me again.” he says, and I can hear the desperation in his voice. I imagine his dick wet and pulsing, aching for any sort of friction. “Hit me again and I’ll fuck you. Give me what I want and I’ll give you your reward.”
It’s not a fucking reward, I want to tell him, it’s what I deserve after all this, but I drag my hand up, across his crotch to his muscled chest, skating across a nipple until my fingers find purchase in his soft, wiry hair. I pull, I pull as hard as I can, and as soon as I hear that cry warp his lips I hit him with an open palm against his cheekbone, clipping the whorl of his ear. He howls, and his hips jerk fervently against mine, and still– finally, finally, finally, Tyler Durden has been sated, and now it’s my turn. He’s unzipped my pants and is beginning to slide his hand down my boxers, down into the mess of arousal that has turned my thighs sticky.
I used to hate when anyone touched me during sex– I would clam up, hot sweat turned cold and icy, appetite gone as soon as it came. I hated being perceived in any way that I wasn’t, that the fact I didn’t have the six inches and aching balls that people seemed to expect, but a scorching crux of flesh, meant that I was any less of a man or any more of a woman than I said I was. But Tyler didn’t care– Tyler was like me, had put himself under the ministrations of his own hand to create a self-made man. He took hormones and shot himself in the spare fat of his thigh like I did, and his dick wetted like mine did. He was a man, with the stupid goatee he paraded around, and his hairy chest unobscured with scars– “Pre-op makes me feel more myself,” he’d say, but I wormed my way around insurance fraud to have my own arcs of scar tissue and I didn’t care what made him feel like a man– and even his engorged clit, the patch of hair that arched down from his chest to his thighs, wiry blonde and brown. He’d jerk himself off in front of the mirror and watch me through the crack in the door, teeth bared in a smile as he rode his hand to orgasm.
My pants are wrinkled and sliding down my thighs as his hand circles my dick, and I’m gasping and panting like I’ve just ran a marathon at the feeling of his fingers cocking into my wet folds, the way he runs them up and down my clit and teases my hole like we’ve got all the time in the world. I hate him, I want him so bad it’s driving me crazy, I want to clasp my hands around his neck and squeeze until the life dribbles out of him.
I am Jack’s imminent orgasm. I am Jack’s substitute of fighting for foreplay. I am Jack’s hatred and desire swirling into a mass of blind craving.
Tyler, I say, Tyler, Tyler, you fucking asshole, Tyler.
“I know, baby,” he says, and his middle finger sinks into my hole, punching a gritted moan through my sealed lips. “You’ll get what you want,”
I fucking better, I snarl, and I don’t care about the way his hips are bucking into mine, how I know his dick must be aching with the need to cum, to be touched, to be acknowledged– but for the damn near first time in my life, things are about me, and I want to cum with the knowledge that Tyler Durden has to get me off before he even thinks about getting himself off. He has two fingers sunk into me, and he’s curling them so sweetly my vision starts blurring, and his other hand is on my mouth, thumb brushing against my lips, swiping against the wet sharpness of my teeth as I open my mouth in a moan. He’s got his fingers in my hole and his fingers in my mouth, and I bite down as soon as I feel the sudden wave of orgasm rush over me. Tyler whines, like a squeaking car break, and I let myself go, feeling that rush of blur and incoherence that follows climax crashing over me. The world goes silent, my vision a crash of red and hazy blackness, and I’m not Tyler’s fighting man, his play friend, his sometimes buddy he uses to get off on violence and punches. I’m Jack’s completion. I’m Jack’s satisfaction.
Reality comes back to me at the sound of Tyler thrusting a hand down his own pants, the wet rub of his arousal like an alarm clock. I’m lying boneless on the concrete parking lot, a spray of blood arched across the imprint of my head, and I’m watching Tyler jerk himself off to completion against my thigh. He pants fervently, eyes screwed tight and mouth open in a silent moan, and I watch as a shudder goes through him, as his hand slows and removes itself, as his heaving chest covered in sweat judders against the cold night air. The god of war is sated– the deity of inconceivable violence has been subdued by his own dick.
Tyler finally opens his eyes after what seems like hours, pale blue irises seeking out my own. His face is red and spotted, a sheen of blood and sweat mixed together sliding down his chin.
“Did you get what you wanted?” Tyler has the gall to ask, still panting from his apparently earth-shattering orgasm. He always gets this way after sex; inquisitive, nosy, like a hunting dog smelling out a fox in the deep woods.
Did you, Tyler? I respond, not wanting him to forget who asked for this in the first place.
He smiles at my obstinance. “Oh, yeah. I guess I did.”
I hate him. I love him. I want to rip open his skin and live in it, feel the pulse of his heart and the rise and fall of his breath against me.
Yeah, me too. I sit up, running a hand through my hair. There’s sticky blood at the back of my head, dried against my scalp, but I can’t find it in me to care. I like when our violence leaves scars against each other’s skin.
“I’ve got a new idea for a soap,” Tyler says, shakily standing like the past fifteen minutes had never happened. “Let’s get back home before the bartender catches us again.”
I feel like a teenager, running away from the figures of authority who don't like it when two men get too close. Tyler makes me feel stupid, like I haven’t spent decades of a life and just want to go smoke a blunt in the park without my mother knowing.
He reaches out a hand to me, knuckles bruised and swollen. I like them this way. I take it.
Let’s go home, then, I say, and pick myself off the floor. We walk out of the parking lot together like two ghosts trailing one another, and my dick hurts against the rough dryness of my pants.
I am Jack’s self-hatred. I am Jack’s self-fulfillment. I am Jack’s insatiable appetite.
I am Tyler Durden’s uneasy bitch, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.