AN: normally don't do these, but...blatant plea for a beta! I think this needs it...or even if you review with an error that you notice, it would be beyond appreciated

<hr>

Tertius Epistula

Quibus verum est duplicitas

<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>

I finished Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil today, and I was pained by how much I identified with, and perhaps even envied, Jim. Now, if you know the book, you know that this is illogical. He lived in Savannah--a small, traditional city in the South that is so set in its ways that he cannot be accepted, because of what he is. He may have been wealthy, as I admittedly, painfully obviously am, but he was on trial for the murder of his lover-a sexy boy-toy (and sometime hustler) named Danny.

I am apparently on a streak of empathy, however. Two in two days-a new record for me. First a drug-addicted musician with a father that never loved him and now this, a millionaire in a traditional, small town with a penchant for fine alcohol and younger men. However, in this case, I find it easier to find the places where his world ends and mine begins. After all, Smallville is a farming town, not the seat of old Southern gentility. I haven't tried to murder any ex-lovers recently, though they have tried to murder me. I am half-ashamed to admit that I envy his closeness with Danny. Though the subject of his desires was tempestuous and violent, it was clear that the two shared a passionate, even caring relationship, at least for a time.

Again in a black mood, I envied this closeness and intimacy.

And the fact that felt myself envying Jim for this reason made me feel remarkably guilty. I was doing it again-lusting after Clark. Though the age difference is less in our case (since when is there an "us"?) the basic circumstances in the time leading up to Danny's death was enough to make the description click. But what really did it for me was a simple, five-word description of Danny.

"A walking streak of sex."

These words echoed in my head as I lowered the book to the table. Clark may be the opposite of Danny in every other way--from his innocence to his calm politeness--but this, he most certainly is. They continue to resound vaguely through my skull, like a bell that should have forgotten that it has been struck, but continues to reverberate.

And so, I desire him. What of it? I have desired many others in the past, and I am capable of restraining myself.

Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata.

Ovid, the spring of truth. The desire in my veins, however, is too potent to be called anything other than longing. How odd-I was under the impression that Luthors never needed any one. Apparently, this is another of my childhood "lessons" that was later contradicted by the real world.

<hr>

Again, I find myself staring at wine. This time, however, I am more civilized; I have managed to pour my drink into a glass before downing it like a football player chugs his Gatorade after a draining match. Perhaps, I do not have the burning need to get drunk that I did the last time I wrote. I am able to approach life more calmly...or I have worn myself out with the mental football game that is emotion. I understand, now, why my father cautions against emotion.

Hear that, Dad? I'm admitting you're right.

To quote you, "you only get one."

I certainly make quite an image right now, and it is one that I can take pleasure in. I sit a couch in front of a fire, writing a letter by hand on expensive paper. (I write by hand so that I can be sure there is only one copy. Computers always leave trails, so sometimes the most primitive method is the best for recording one's private thoughts.) The fire in front of me casts a glow on my skin that makes me seem rather more healthy than I normally look, nearly the color of Clark's honeylit skin. The flames sparkle through my nearly empty glass, the Bordeaux glowing like a ruby on fire.

Oh , inconcessus diligo , vestri virus est dulcis quod magis decadent quam teres vinum. Ut particeps vestrum necne , aut est morior.

Interesting. I am honestly not sure where that came from.

However, I have now accepted that I am becoming a clandestine poet. Handwritten notes and letters have always appealed to my creative side, because of their simple physical beauty, and inherent intimacy. The truth behind this statement is...ambiguous. I have no idea what created the verse, whether it was my thoughts of Clark or the beauty of the wine in the firelight. If I am a poet, does that make Clark my muse?

I am banking on the idea that "in vino veritas," may not hold true.

Love, though? No. I think not. These letters to myself, in their intimacy, have prompted me to become introspective with regard to my desires, emotions and ...feelings. Yes, Lex Luthor has feelings, too. Just because I don't show them to you doesn't mean that I don't cry myself to sleep at night.

Just kidding. Of course.

I don't.

Really.