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I stare at Tyler across from me, squaring up in the parking lot. It hasn’t happened this way in a while; normally, it was in the basement, surrounded by other men in the dingy light. This kind of encounter is rare these days, but with a bottle in his hand, here he was: Tyler Durden, in all his glory, staggering around the lot with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
As a rule, I was never a religious man. I never went to church on Sundays, or prayed every night. But here, in front of this man, I’m about to be absolved of my prior ways.
Tyler tosses the bottle behind him without turning to see where it lands. I hear it crash into a million tiny, dangerous pieces. I'm still staring into his blue eyes. I don't care if I die right now, since I've gotten to stare into those eyes.
Just as I'm about to ask him if he wants the first hit, he swings for me. That answers that, I guess.
His fist connects with my jaw and I hear a pop. I nearly moan at the feeling of pain radiating from where Tyler touched me. Something must be wrong with me, God must have messed me up to make me this way. But Tyler is God, and Tyler has made me this way. Tyler has trained me like a dog, responding to his every whim unrestrained.
Deliver me, Tyler.
I am broken from my train of thought by his fist connecting with my sternum. Ignoring the reflex to grab the spot where I have been hit, I instead punch him in the gut as hard as he can. This is unexpected, and he doubles over as the wind is knocked out of him.
I aim for his knees and push him forward, where he staggers back, losing his footing. He claws blindly at my leg and I fall forward, landing on top of him. We meet eyes again, stunning me for just long enough for him to flip me over, stand, and land a solid kick to my right shoulder.
My brain can’t seem to process what reaction is warranted, so my eyes clench shut and I wince. I hear a high pitched whine and realize it’s coming from my own mouth. As I roll over to shakily climb to my feet, I see him laugh out of the corner of my blurred eyes.
And God, is he a vision, bathed in flickering streetlight, like a halo behind him. But I can’t let him catch me off guard again. If I don’t fight back, it’ll all be over sooner.
I lunge forward, shoving him as hard as he can with an open hand to the middle of his chest. He just laughs again, and I understand it. I want to laugh too; the thrill of the night, the chase, and the pain creates a unique sense of euphoria. Nothing else will ever feel like this.
He lands his hands on both of my shoulders, shoving his palm right into where he kicked me earlier. The wires crossed in my brain finally reveal themselves and I cry out. It sounds more like pleasure than pain.
This causes Tyler to pause. Nothing can stand between Tyler and a fight, but apparently I've finally found something that can.
He barks a laugh at me. "What's wrong with you?"
I am Jack's kink realization. Same thing that's wrong with you, I reply. I'm unable to muster the bravado necessary to make the jab land.
Tyler takes a step toward me, and it feels predatory, but not in the way he usually does during a fight. I'm scared out of my mind and rooted to the concrete.
He slaps me across the face, hard. I yell out, loud; this one definitely sounded like a moan. I reflexively reach up to hit him back, but before I can, he has a hand wrapped around the base of my neck and his lips crash into mine.
I am Jack's pathetic inexperience. He kisses me and it feels like a punch. My hands fly up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
Finally, Tyler breaks away, breathing heavily into my mouth.
“We should get out of here, head back to my place sometime soon.”
I couldn’t agree more.