As you stand silent in this very private room, playing the role of invisible voyeur (a part whose quasi-fictitious boundaries are beginning to blur more and more toward some scary semblance of reality, of painful truth), consider this image, and this one only:
You see before you now a figure, silver-gilded beneath the moonlight that pours in through the window; and your mouth goes dry--dry as a fucking desert in the hottest part of the day, dry as the dust at the bottom of an empty well--as you realize with a sense of growing despair just who it is you're looking at, just whose room this is that you've somnambulated your way into in this most profound hour of the night.
Goddammit, it's true; he really is a veritable Adonis, you think somewhat dazedly and with not a little chagrin as you drink in the sight before you, absorbing with raw hunger the night-shaded mystery your sly subconscious has lured you here to see. You can feel your pulse and respiration increase as your body flinches strongly, unable any longer to suppress the agonizing pangs of unrequited desire that have been steadily devouring you from the inside out and are even now rumbling up from your gut, tearing at your heart and savaging your groin as desire's sharp-edged teeth drip the ichor of this hellishly frustrated longing that can never be assuaged...
And for the space of one heartbeat you almost resent the one who lies langorous and quiescent in his bed across the room, his nude form sprawled with careless grace atop the rumpled satin bedding that has become bunched beneath the curve of his buttocks, one trailing end draped strategically over the shadowed rise of his well-formed genitalia. The jet black sheets--both the fitted and the flat--cling to his sweat-slicked skin like jealously possessive lovers, molding themselves so seamlessly to the smooth, unbroken contours of his body that it is difficult in the dimness to separate flesh from fabric, to tell where the slinky, decadently sensuous bits of black satin leave off and the night-shaded lusciousness of warm human skin begins.
You stand there like an idiot minute after long, agonizing minute, realizing with distant ruefulness that you only thought your mouth was dry before; any moisture left in the arid cavern sealed behind your tightly compressed lips evaporates completely as the figure in the bed stirs languidly, lifting and sliding one naked, beautifully muscled leg along the slippery exanse of black satin sheet until the artfully draped bit of fabric covering his groin slips more and more and finally!--Dear God, you know you can't go on like this, that you won't be able to deal with these feelings inside you much longer, won't be able to continue your silent, ruthless repression of the lust and need and hopeless longing rampaging night and day within you like some knuckle-dragging, steroid-crazed primitive.
Sometimes it amazes you that none of the people who work side by side with you day after day have caught on to the fact that you've become possessed, that your body, your mind, your very soul, are no longer yours alone. At odd moments you want to leap to your feet--whether it be in the middle of some new mission crisis offworld, or at your regular table in the mess hall scarfing fruit loops for breakfast, or while slumped in your very own living room during Friday night video time, listening to Carter and Teal'c debate the graceful prowess of Spiderman against the brute power of the Hulk--and it doesn't even matter where or when it is, you only know that in those odd moments you want to leap up and scream and growl and roar out your frustration and your bitterness over this almost overwhelming COMPULSION rising within you to grab the object of your forbidden desires--yes, just grab his ass and slam him up against the nearest solid, immovable object and screw the living FUCK out of him in front of any and every goddamned person around at the time...
The almost-violent fantasy plays out in your head ad infinitum these days, springing fullblown and with such vivid clarity from the darkest reaches of your passion-starved mind that you almost expect the images in your over-heated brain to literally explode in gory, glorious technicolor detail from the shattered, spongy ruin of your cranium, splattering all over anyone unlucky enough to be standing in your immediate vicinity at zero hour. And you think to yourself that if and when it happens--in that fateful moment when every lustful, forbidden wet dream you've ever had about your very male, very straight best friend is exposed for all to see--that the one person you will be least able to look in the eye is the one lying in that bed right now, completely oblivious to your creepily pathetic presence here in his private quarters.
This has to end, you think dully to yourself now as the figure in the bed sighs and mumbles and rolls over onto his stomach, the lean, graceful line of his naked back gleaming like alabaster against the black satin sheet twisted around his torso. I can't do this anymore, you whisper mutely to yourself and to any feckless love gods who might be listening; I can't work beside him like this day after day, pretending I don't feel what I feel, lying awake night after night in a sweat-soaked purgatory of empty yearning...And now it's come to this--this aimless roaming in your sleep tonight, your conscious mind subdued and overpowered by the part of your soul that's been drawn as if by some dark alchemy to the bedside of this man who lies so vulnerable and clueless before you now. The picture he presents to you as you stand barefoot and trembling in a stray beam of moonlight is almost surreal in its perfection; your heart literally stumbles within your chest with the force of its fearsome longing as your gaze falls on the pale outline of his hand resting peacefully over his naked chest, those graceful fingers of his gently curled inward as though beckoning you closer...Yes, come closer, Jack, come to me, be with me here, tonight...
OUT...get the hell OUT of here, you sick, freaking...STALKER! you hiss silently to yourself,the rational part of you feeling both scandalized and incensed on behalf of the unwary, innocently sleeping man in the bed even as your traitorous heart refuses to release its burden, its insatiable need bleeding you dry, sucking the very life from you as you just stand here, mute and numb and too damned stupid with LOVE/LUST? to move. STALKER. The word resounds hollowly in your head, dark and fetid and sepulchral, and you find yourself suddenly backing frantically toward the invisible doorway hidden in the darkness somewhere behind you. Your pulse is racing madly, your heart pounding out a wild, quasi-rebellious tattoo as you attempt a soundless retreat, trying not to choke to death on the terrible dryness clogging your throat. Despite your best effort to move in total silence, something like a strangled moan claws its way up past the thickness of your tongue, and you find yourself freezing solid as Daniel jerks and twitches in half-wakeful startlement in his bed, his limbs flailing convulsively as he cries out a slurred, disoriented, "WHA--?" and struggles to pull himself to full consciousness.
No, no, please, don't wake up! you cry desperately inside your mind to the man threshing restlessly on the satin-draped mattress; God, just let me get out of here before he sees me! And you begin to backpedal doubletime, presenting what must undoubtedly be a ludicrous picture to anyone witnessing your ignominious retreat from this dark, heretofore peaceful bedroom. For one long, breathless moment it's a toss-up as to whether you'll make a successful withdrawal before Daniel comes fully awake and demands to know just what the hell you're doing standing in his bedroom at 3 am, your moonlight-limned body with a hard-on the size of a mountain leering obscenely at him from your BDU's; but as you force yourself to freeze in place, Daniel's disturbed mutterings and rustlings settle back into blissful quiescence, his long limbs flopping sideways with boneless ease till he lies fully outstretched in a pool of luminous lunar radiance, his unmistakable masculinity revealed in all its naked glory.
I'm fucked, I'm fucked, I am SO fucked, you moan silently to yourself; and as you stumble/stagger your way from the exquisite torture chamber Daniel's innocent bedroom has become, back to the empty solitude of your own spartanly spacious quarters, the translucent full moon trails you in window after window all along the corridor, its gleaming, featureless visage privy to this newest evidence of your madness but offering no counsel, none at all, to get you through the endless hours remaining till dawn.