I'm probably too old for this. When I started this journal, I was young and wild. I did whatever with whomever. Now, I'll do just about anything—but only with Clark. And most things I know he won't go along with. Slowly, as he becomes his own man and his parents' prohibitions fall off, I have a slightly larger scope of influence. Clark turned 20 this past week, and I was able to give him the truck that was returned when he was 15, following on our first meeting. Not the same truck exactly, of course, but a contemporary equivalent. He needs a reliable vehicle to drive between our apartment in the city and the farm. It was a practical gift. Red, and large, and practical.
I'm sure Mr. Kent didn't approve, but I'd been given the green light, and I haven't had the truck returned to me, as of yet, so this time round it would appear it's a go. When I arrived in the truck Friday afternoon, the look on Clark's eyes was absolutely delicious. Pure, materialistic joy—something I rarely get to see in his face. I wanted to spoil him, I wanted to see him indulged. He deserves to be indulged. Of course, I also wanted him to fuck me against the truck—right there in the farmhouse driveway. That would have been part of the gift, if his parents hadn't been inside the living room at the time. A pity.
The truck was the material gift, but I had planned every element of the weekend, designed it carefully to give Clark a sense of security and control. And old fashioned fun. He's 20, but he doesn't need the weight of the world on him at every moment. I want to be able to keep him safe from the worries, to let him feel that the world is his.
So, Saturday morning started out with video games and a menu of his choice. Eventually we left the apartment , for dinner at a little place I know in Little Italy. No need to foist strange foods on him—pasta it was. And red wine. I'm trying to give him a taste for the better things in life… with time.
And then we hit a certain night spot where privacy is guaranteed. I didn't want to push Clark to do anything he was uncomfortable with, but he seemed anything but. My intentions were that he might recover some of his sense of control in a space where prohibitions we've long lived with were lifted. Here we could touch, we could do whatever we wanted, in public, with no fear of recrimination. An expensive privilege, one that I would have paid for long before, if I had thought Clark were so inclined. I should have tested the water earlier.
He went much further than I imagined he would. Had me up against the wall, legs spread, begging him for it, with people mere feet away. We were hidden in shadows; no one was watching, but they were there. And he seemed to almost get off on it, like it were a drug. Not that I want Clark under the influence. I just… like to see him let go like that. And I don't mind reaping the benefits. Selfless, no?
We eventually retired to a private room, but left the door open, to maintain that edge—of danger, of safety. Clark seemed to revel in it, and it reminded me of who I was and who I've become. We didn't go near my limits, but then with Clark I have very few.
Maybe we both needed to forget, and to get away. And so, well into the work week, as my mind wanders back to Saturday night, I feel young and old at once, thanks to our excursion. But how I feel doesn't matter: Clark is what matters.