Dear Daniel III
Jack’s journal entries during season 6.
Episode covered: Smoke and Mirrors
I haven’t been in jail since Iraq, though I sure as hell tried getting there after Charlie died. Went out, got totally shitfaced and did some damage to a pool table. But did I go to jail? Nope. Sara showed up to tell the cops what my ‘problem’ was. Seems the cops either had kids themselves or were sympathetic in general, I don’t know. Um, getting off the subject here.
So, aside from being severely pissed off about being thrown in jail for something I didn’t do, I found myself feeling strangely ticked that the shooter who’d pretended to be me made me look bad by *not* getting the job done. Seriously, Daniel. I’m a crack shot. You know that. If it *had* been me, the man would’ve been dead. Absurd thing to focus on, but what the fuck.
I’ve been the bad boy of the Air Force all my life, Daniel. I really don’t give a rat’s ass what the public thinks of me. The only reason I agreed to the charade they had me play in front of the cameras was because I needed to vindicate the Air Force, not myself. In so doing, however, Kinsey was almost positive that I’d landed him in the White House. The man is nothing but inventive, the miserable glory hound. Scary thing is, he could pull it off if he got rid of enough people. I wanted to puke as I stood there and shook his hand in front of the press. At that moment, Daniel, I really did wish I had killed him.
I really need to have a chat with Barrett. I’ve a feeling I’ll need that information on Kinsey to go along with the information I already have on him.
Right now, I’m back on leave. Hammond’s given me an extra week. I really, really need it after this huge clusterfuck.
I’d planned on going back up to my cabin. But I ended up in Boulder. At that bar. Are you out there giving me subliminal messages? ‘Cause if you are, stop it. I want you here, giving me not-so-subliminal messages.
I went into that bar thinking that the chances were 30-70 that the guy would be there. After all, it was a Thursday, you know? Not exactly a day where you’d be looking for… someone. That’s usually reserved for weekends, isn’t it? Or is it? God, I’m so out of the loop on this ‘dating’ thing. I don’t think I even want to be on the fringe.
Anyway. I walked in and the guy was there, sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender about whatever game was on the TV. I didn’t notice what game or anything else because all I remember feeling was that I’d left my stomach in the truck. The guy was better looking than I’d remembered and I still couldn’t help but wonder why he thought I was worth fucking. I’m hardly the go-to guy anymore, but this guy thinks I am. You did.
Considering the way my hormones were feeling at the time, as well as my ego (which needed stroking, sad to say), I was the one who suggested we go out – elsewhere.
We went out to dinner. I went because I needed to check him out. I was interested — am interested — and I want to feel something other than grief and loneliness. So, I did my usual threat-assessment. He passed my usual tests, but nothing happened after dinner. I couldn’t let it. Not yet.
He didn’t act *too* disappointed. We walked back to our vehicles and after I got in my truck, he gave me his phone number and asked me to call him. Then he suddenly grabbed my head and kissed me. In the fucking parking lot. Jeez. Talk about risky. But what was more risky was that I kissed him back.
So I went back home, thought about it, then packed a bag, including this journal. It’s become some sort of lifeline. How weird is that? I called up a reservation at a Boulder hotel then drove around for awhile. I had to make up my mind that I was really going to go through with this and I had to make sure that no one was following me.
I really wanted this guy… to be you. I still couldn’t get the idea out of my head that I was planning on having sex with someone else. It almost felt like I was cheating on you. Which is extremely stupid, isn’t it? How can I cheat on you? You’re not even flesh and blood anymore. It’d be a lot easier if you were really dead. Or would it? I don’t know. This shit’s confusing.
After screwing around with my conscience, I drove to the hotel, which is where I’m at now. I’ve been lying here on the bed, alone, thinking about what I plan to do… and wondering what the fuck I’m hesitating about.
Was it right to do what I did? I’m hoping you would have approved simply because he made me feel better. And he did. I really have no idea why the fuck I’m feeling guilty. Maybe because I used him? Maybe because I don’t *feel* anything personal for him? No. Neither of those. He offered and I took him up on it. He’s using me, too. He wants sex. I want sex. What’s there to feel guilty about? Nothing. Except that I was wishing that he was you.
I said he didn’t look like you, but when I met up with him, I realized why he reminded me of you. He sort of has your mouth. Sort of has your build. He definitely has your hands. He’s my height, which is close enough to yours. I knew he wasn’t you. I wasn’t that delusional. Instead of blue eyes, he’s got green. And very, very black hair. Still, I let myself pretend he was you. He wore the same scent, so he smelled like you. Actually, that’s what first caught my attention.
We met up at the bar, then went to a different hotel. This was a first time ‘need’ thing. There was no finesse about foreplay. We’d already had it with that dinner. My showing up at the bar was ‘yes’.
When we got into the room, he kissed me first. It was weird because he did it slowly, carefully, as if he expected me to bolt out of the room. I think he knew I was nervous. Because of that, I kissed him back hard. When I did that, I felt that need inside me grow. In more ways than one. And I stopped being nervous, letting that need take over.
It was kind of surreal as I opened my pants and sat down at the foot of the bed, let him blow me. He felt good. For a while, I let myself believe it was you. Even if he didn’t move exactly the way you do, or push at me, or twist his tongue in that one way you have when you’re going to make me come. He took my pants completely off, then swallowed my cock down his throat and finger-fucked me till I came.
I was a terrible disappointment, I’m afraid. The only goddamn thing I could do was give him a hand job while he kissed me. It was strange to feel a cock in my hand that wasn’t yours. He wasn’t as thick as you, but a little bit longer. He was uncut though, and I found that even more weird, what with all the other comparisons I was making to you.
Why wasn’t he you, dammit? Why?
Fuck, I miss you. I hope you don’t hate me for this. I can’t seem to think straight. Ha ha. That’s funny. Think straight and have gay sex. That’s funny. Is it funny to you, I wonder?
I saw Dylan again. I did mention his name, didn’t I?
Um, no, I see I didn’t. Shit. Guilt or convenient omission. You decide.
We met up in another restaurant, had dinner. When we got to the hotel room, I found myself even more nervous than before. I think it’s because I was thinking of doing *everything*. I wasn’t sure if I *should* — didn’t matter that I wanted to.
I felt this hungry need when I sat down on the edge of the bed. You know, when I said it felt weird to have another man’s cock in my hand, it felt just as weird to feel and taste someone else. He tasted okay, but very… different. That surreal feeling came back, as if I were dreaming what I was doing. But I wasn’t. No way the taste of his cock could be that real. Smooth, kind of tangy, sometimes sweet.
I didn’t waste time getting him off. I sucked him right then and there, not letting him lie down. I imagined it was you when he came in my mouth, even though his taste was different. His sounds were the same, but different. He made this rapid panting noise before he let out this high pitched whine, said my name, and came down my throat. Nice to know I haven’t lost the touch – so to speak. He then dropped to his knees and returned the favor, and Jesus-god, he really is good. I still wish he was you.
I thought I could wait, but after four beers and staring at Dylan’s ass, I found that I couldn’t. We went to his apartment this time. Didn’t live more than five minutes away — walking distance. So, after getting there, he fixed me a drink, which I downed in two gulps. I had only one thing on my mind, Daniel, and I don’t remember being this single-minded in a very long time. Not even with you, because I was always *thinking* with you, even when we were extremely hormonal that first time. Though I seem to remember not being able to think too long.
I was rough with him. I shoved him on the bed face down. I looked at him and god, he was gorgeous. Did the usual prep, wore a condom, then I buried my dick in his ass and went to town. I got off on the fact that he was new, fresh, that he moaned and squirmed under me. When I sped up and hammered into him, he was shouting out every filthy thing he could think of that he wanted me to do to him.
I so got off on that. So much so that a few minutes later, I came off before he did. Shit. He said it wasn’t necessary to reciprocate. He’s a nice guy but an awful liar. I turned him over and went down on him while shoving my fingers inside him. You know how I used to do that one thing, when I’d crook my fingers in that one way and wiggle them?
Well, like you did that first time, he fucking howled when he came. And wants to see me again.
Is that why I feel so smug?
I don’t know why I ever thought that I wouldn’t have another man inside me. I thought that I’d never want this again. But we were having a small dinner that he’d cooked at his place and suddenly I wanted to feel his cock. I wanted to feel that weight slapping against my ass, my balls.
My need was so intense that I blurted it out as I finished my glass of beer. Made him choke on his. He then did something that surprised me. He asked me *where* I wanted it. At first I was confused because all I thought of was the bed. But he asked me if I wanted it on the couch, in the shower, over the kitchen table, or in bed. He actually made me think about it and in thinking about it, I got harder and wanted him even more. In the end, my knees dictated the least weight-bearing position, so as much as getting fucked in the shower appealed, I chose the bed.
You know how I liked to watch you while you fucked me? I couldn’t do that with him. I’m sorry but — I needed to pretend he was you and I couldn’t do that on my back. Didn’t get on my knees though. I told him about them, so he pushed me flat on my stomach. He didn’t waste time. That is, waste time in doing what he wanted to do. He spread my legs and rimmed me for five minutes (it seemed that long), so by the time he’d prepped me with his fingers, my body was begging for it.
I was gripping the bed so freakin’ hard when he finally pushed inside me. He fucked me good, too, just the way I like. He went slow. Like you used to when you wanted it to last a long time. And something happened. There was a moment where I thought he was you. I really did. He was speeding up, slamming into me as I got close and the rhythm he was using made me think he was you. Sense memory? Whatever, it’s what made me come really hard. And I did a horrible thing when I did. I shouted your name into the pillow.
He didn’t seem to mind.
I’m such an asshole.
Dylan just left. He showed up at my hotel room right after I wrote the above. He wanted more; had a hard-on. I’m easy and fallible and I wanted my ego stroked along with everything else. So I did him again; bent him over the foot of the bed and fucked him good and hard.
This time I did not pretend he was you. This time I got off on the fact that he was who he was — a sexy, handsome young guy that I’d picked up in a bar and was currently fucking over the edge of my hotel bed. He was spread-eagled, gripping the bedcover in his fists, calling out words that weren’t too loud.
I wanted to tie him down. He kept saying, “You fuck so good.” Repeated it like a chant. When he came, he stuffed his mouth with the bed’s comforter and screamed.
I didn’t come right away, though I was getting off on the fact that I’d actually made him scream. Then I felt it. That feeling I mentioned. The Zone. I didn’t want it to end. But it did. Spectacularly. When I felt that rushing tingle travel over my balls as they slapped rapidly against his ass, I knew it was time. Looking at him reacting to me, I came fucking hard.
I’m writing this from home, by the way. I wanted to stay with Dylan, or rather, my reawakened hormones wanted me to. We talked. Kinda sorta. You know how I am. I just told him that I enjoyed his company a lot. A lot. What I couldn’t say was that he helped me out more than just simply satisfying my need.
I told him that I didn’t know when I’d get the chance to see him again but that I wanted to. I was sincere, Daniel. I actually wanted to. He guessed that I was in the Air Force, and more specifically, based at NORAD. I let him think that. It’s almost true.
He made me feel very good, Daniel, and for a very short time, I stopped missing you. I have no idea how, either, but I did. I also know that I won’t see him again. He was a one-time only deal. He let me feel something again, and I think that’s what I needed.
Right now, I’m fixing on grilling some hotdogs on the barbecue and just taking it easy till I go back to work in a few days. Need to plug in the stereo out here. Too damned quiet.