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Serve It Up Hot and Steamy!
- Thread starter Sunstone
- Start date
There were things Kurt very much liked to talk about and things he very much did not like to talk about.
He very much liked to talk about cars, music, movies, and girls, for instance. And he very much did not like to talk about science, religion, politics, and girls, for instance.
"Girls" made both of Kurt's lists because, though he never outran his love for talking about girls in some ways, he was always quick to out walk his tolerance for talking about girls in other ways.
Kurt liked talking about how a girl made him feel, about what sports she liked, about what cars she liked, and about how pretty she was. He did not like talking about her feelings towards other men, about her relationships with her friends and family, about how she saw herself, nor about her dreams and ambitions.
Several people knew Kurt well enough to guess that he was most likely just another dumb sexist, but they did not know him well enough to recognize that their guess was most likely mistaken.
Almost all of the few people who knew Kurt better -- much better -- understood that he treated women as his equals. And the same people understood that he treated women as individuals, within the limits imposed by his interests. It was just that so few things really interested Kurt -- about women; or about anyone, including himself.
"Kurt might be lightly loaded, but he's happy enough", was the sort of thing most often said about him by his real friends. And they often enough would add, "He makes me feel happy, too." For Kurt possessed an easy-going, but seldom daunted, infectious happiness.
Lately, though, his natural happiness wasn't in much evidence.
The problem was Cecilia. She had not, precisely speaking, merely entered Kurt's life. Precisely speaking, Cecilia had collided with it.
The collision of the two had been a minor event, as car accidents go: Just a bumper bender on a quiet city street. But Cecilia was the one to blame. She'd been driving while distracted, as she much too often did. This time, her thoughts had been fixed on her uncle's appalling politics, and she hadn't noticed the car in front of her braking hard to avoid running over a cat.
Kurt's first feelings immediately following the impact had been a mixture of horror and dread. His car! Surely, it was hurt!
As quickly as he could after shoving the gearstick into park and turning off the ignition, Kurt ran to the rear of his car.
Unnoticed by him, Cecilia sat behind her wheel in a mild state of shock, mentally preparing herself to deal with the worse possible case she could imagine, under the circumstances. Presently, though, she snapped out of it. She then got out of her car and approached Kurt.
Kurt finished his close inspection just as Cecilia walked up to him. The damage wasn't really bad, and he was feeling relief -- surprisingly great relief -- the sort of relief someone might feel to discover their best friend had been merely grazed by a bullet.
"It's not so bad...", he began without looking up, for he'd become aware of her approach. Kurt then looked up at her.
He was instantly struck. She wore a short, pale yellow dress that from his vantage point below her, emphasized the length of her graceful legs. But it wasn't just her looks that overwhelmed him. Unknown to himself, Kurt had immediately projected his vast feelings of relief onto Cecilia. If he'd had the word for it, he would have described her in that moment as "magical".
As it was, Kurt had no words at all to describe his feelings. He'd never felt such feelings before.
Cecilia saw Kurt's face change in a flash from furrowed concern to open and generous greeting. She was astonished to feel welcomed by him, for she had anticipated everything but that.
Her own feelings of relief at not being roundly cursed nor even criticized by him for her fault in the accident soon came very near to matching in depth Kurt's feelings of relief. Within just a few moments, she felt gratitude towards him.
_____________________________________
A few days had gone by since the two had collided. Everything about the accident itself that could be settled on the spot, had been settled on the spot. Yet, Kurt was unhappy. So unhappy, his friends were becoming alarmed for him.
"You can tell me what's bothering you, Kurt. I'll listen", one of his best female friends had encouraged. "What's got into you, you sorry *******?", one of his best male friends had familiarly demanded.
But Kurt wouldn't answer. He wouldn't answer because he couldn't find the words for what was the matter with him. And it hurt him all the more that he couldn't.
Of course, the truth was Kurt missed Cecilia. Missed everything about her -- everything he knew, that is. But that was surprisingly more than one might imagine. For something very strange had happened the day they collided. Kurt had become acutely sensitive to every little thing about her.
Although he didn't really know much in the grand scheme of things, he now knew how she held herself, how she walked, how her voice sounded when she was embarrassed, how it sounded when she was relieved. Kurt even knew she was thoughtful. More thoughtful than him. Much more thoughtful than him.
Over the past few days, Kurt had pondered. He'd pondered though he had never in his life pondered before. He longed to call the number Cecilia had left him with at the scene of the accident. He wanted so much to hear her soft, feminine voice again. But he held back. He was interested in Cecilia in ways he'd never been interested in anyone, even himself.
But he knew Cecilia and he were just too different.
Entirely unknown to him, Cecilia wanted him to call.
Cecilia had her own reasons for wanting Kurt to call her. And she had her own reasons why she hadn't taken the initiative to call him.
She was lonely -- had been lonely ever since her break-up a year ago -- but it was much more than that. Her ex-boyfriend had been violently abusive, and she now feared any hint of violence or aggression in people -- especially, in men. She'd been running away from people ever since the break-up. Her loneliness had become chronic.
But Kurt had struck her as different. She'd sensed his essential gentleness, his fundamental kindness. Sensed those things despite Kurt's overt simplicity, which had almost masked his deeper nature to her.
Cecilia was in many ways a hard core realist. Certainly, realist enough to know that Kurt wasn't her type. But she also fully realized that Kurt would never provide her with many moments of wit, many engaging conversations, or even be likely to share most of her interests.
But that alone wasn't stopping her. Her ex had given her all those things -- brilliant wit, intelligent conversations, a thousand trips to museums, art galleries, readings. He'd also given her broken ribs. She valued kindness now, gentleness. Hell, she thirsted for them.
What really stopped her from calling Kurt came down to her deeply entrenched self-doubts. For Cecilia had not yet fully recovered from the abuse of her, had not yet overcome her feelings of worthlessness.
And yet...she'd been surprised...deeply surprised...when Kurt had cut through all that baggage, had made her momentarily feel valued.
_________________________
Eight days had now passed since the accident. Or was it only seven days? Neither of the two fools could easily remember. Each had been thinking excessively of the other. And each had seen his or her thoughts turn into yearnings.
Finally, there came the moment -- the moment that no one but the two of them would ever believe had really happened -- the astonishing moment when each one simultaneously dialed the other one's number.
Cecilia was the only one of the two who knew the technical name for it. "Glare". Telephone glare. There was no ringing. No warning. But the very instant she picked up her phone to dial out, Kurt was there. Almost impossibly, the two had collided, once again.
He very much liked to talk about cars, music, movies, and girls, for instance. And he very much did not like to talk about science, religion, politics, and girls, for instance.
"Girls" made both of Kurt's lists because, though he never outran his love for talking about girls in some ways, he was always quick to out walk his tolerance for talking about girls in other ways.
Kurt liked talking about how a girl made him feel, about what sports she liked, about what cars she liked, and about how pretty she was. He did not like talking about her feelings towards other men, about her relationships with her friends and family, about how she saw herself, nor about her dreams and ambitions.
Several people knew Kurt well enough to guess that he was most likely just another dumb sexist, but they did not know him well enough to recognize that their guess was most likely mistaken.
Almost all of the few people who knew Kurt better -- much better -- understood that he treated women as his equals. And the same people understood that he treated women as individuals, within the limits imposed by his interests. It was just that so few things really interested Kurt -- about women; or about anyone, including himself.
"Kurt might be lightly loaded, but he's happy enough", was the sort of thing most often said about him by his real friends. And they often enough would add, "He makes me feel happy, too." For Kurt possessed an easy-going, but seldom daunted, infectious happiness.
Lately, though, his natural happiness wasn't in much evidence.
The problem was Cecilia. She had not, precisely speaking, merely entered Kurt's life. Precisely speaking, Cecilia had collided with it.
The collision of the two had been a minor event, as car accidents go: Just a bumper bender on a quiet city street. But Cecilia was the one to blame. She'd been driving while distracted, as she much too often did. This time, her thoughts had been fixed on her uncle's appalling politics, and she hadn't noticed the car in front of her braking hard to avoid running over a cat.
Kurt's first feelings immediately following the impact had been a mixture of horror and dread. His car! Surely, it was hurt!
As quickly as he could after shoving the gearstick into park and turning off the ignition, Kurt ran to the rear of his car.
Unnoticed by him, Cecilia sat behind her wheel in a mild state of shock, mentally preparing herself to deal with the worse possible case she could imagine, under the circumstances. Presently, though, she snapped out of it. She then got out of her car and approached Kurt.
Kurt finished his close inspection just as Cecilia walked up to him. The damage wasn't really bad, and he was feeling relief -- surprisingly great relief -- the sort of relief someone might feel to discover their best friend had been merely grazed by a bullet.
"It's not so bad...", he began without looking up, for he'd become aware of her approach. Kurt then looked up at her.
He was instantly struck. She wore a short, pale yellow dress that from his vantage point below her, emphasized the length of her graceful legs. But it wasn't just her looks that overwhelmed him. Unknown to himself, Kurt had immediately projected his vast feelings of relief onto Cecilia. If he'd had the word for it, he would have described her in that moment as "magical".
As it was, Kurt had no words at all to describe his feelings. He'd never felt such feelings before.
Cecilia saw Kurt's face change in a flash from furrowed concern to open and generous greeting. She was astonished to feel welcomed by him, for she had anticipated everything but that.
Her own feelings of relief at not being roundly cursed nor even criticized by him for her fault in the accident soon came very near to matching in depth Kurt's feelings of relief. Within just a few moments, she felt gratitude towards him.
_____________________________________
A few days had gone by since the two had collided. Everything about the accident itself that could be settled on the spot, had been settled on the spot. Yet, Kurt was unhappy. So unhappy, his friends were becoming alarmed for him.
"You can tell me what's bothering you, Kurt. I'll listen", one of his best female friends had encouraged. "What's got into you, you sorry *******?", one of his best male friends had familiarly demanded.
But Kurt wouldn't answer. He wouldn't answer because he couldn't find the words for what was the matter with him. And it hurt him all the more that he couldn't.
Of course, the truth was Kurt missed Cecilia. Missed everything about her -- everything he knew, that is. But that was surprisingly more than one might imagine. For something very strange had happened the day they collided. Kurt had become acutely sensitive to every little thing about her.
Although he didn't really know much in the grand scheme of things, he now knew how she held herself, how she walked, how her voice sounded when she was embarrassed, how it sounded when she was relieved. Kurt even knew she was thoughtful. More thoughtful than him. Much more thoughtful than him.
Over the past few days, Kurt had pondered. He'd pondered though he had never in his life pondered before. He longed to call the number Cecilia had left him with at the scene of the accident. He wanted so much to hear her soft, feminine voice again. But he held back. He was interested in Cecilia in ways he'd never been interested in anyone, even himself.
But he knew Cecilia and he were just too different.
Entirely unknown to him, Cecilia wanted him to call.
Cecilia had her own reasons for wanting Kurt to call her. And she had her own reasons why she hadn't taken the initiative to call him.
She was lonely -- had been lonely ever since her break-up a year ago -- but it was much more than that. Her ex-boyfriend had been violently abusive, and she now feared any hint of violence or aggression in people -- especially, in men. She'd been running away from people ever since the break-up. Her loneliness had become chronic.
But Kurt had struck her as different. She'd sensed his essential gentleness, his fundamental kindness. Sensed those things despite Kurt's overt simplicity, which had almost masked his deeper nature to her.
Cecilia was in many ways a hard core realist. Certainly, realist enough to know that Kurt wasn't her type. But she also fully realized that Kurt would never provide her with many moments of wit, many engaging conversations, or even be likely to share most of her interests.
But that alone wasn't stopping her. Her ex had given her all those things -- brilliant wit, intelligent conversations, a thousand trips to museums, art galleries, readings. He'd also given her broken ribs. She valued kindness now, gentleness. Hell, she thirsted for them.
What really stopped her from calling Kurt came down to her deeply entrenched self-doubts. For Cecilia had not yet fully recovered from the abuse of her, had not yet overcome her feelings of worthlessness.
And yet...she'd been surprised...deeply surprised...when Kurt had cut through all that baggage, had made her momentarily feel valued.
_________________________
Eight days had now passed since the accident. Or was it only seven days? Neither of the two fools could easily remember. Each had been thinking excessively of the other. And each had seen his or her thoughts turn into yearnings.
Finally, there came the moment -- the moment that no one but the two of them would ever believe had really happened -- the astonishing moment when each one simultaneously dialed the other one's number.
Cecilia was the only one of the two who knew the technical name for it. "Glare". Telephone glare. There was no ringing. No warning. But the very instant she picked up her phone to dial out, Kurt was there. Almost impossibly, the two had collided, once again.
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Tobias felt his impatience turning into despair. And hour had passed. Then another. And still, no midget.
"What's keeping him?", Clarissa asked, moodily.
"How in hell do I know? The talent agency closed at five. There's no way I can call to find out."
"Don't get angry with me! It's not my fault", Clarissa protested. But she was too depressed to be feisty, really.
Tobias looked over to the motel room bed where Clarissa sat waiting, dressed in her school-girl outfit. Her hands were toying with the model train transformer, clicking the voltage switch back and forth. Click! Click! Click!
Their usual assortment of goodies lay all around her. A standard can of whipped cream, a fresh, thorny rose bush, the couple's family Bible, two or three impressively sized dildos, and Clarissa's favorite teddy bear.
"Maybe we could start without him", Tobias suggested, suddenly hopeful.
"On our wedding night? No midget on our wedding night?", Clarissa was incredulous, "But I want this night to be special!"
"What's keeping him?", Clarissa asked, moodily.
"How in hell do I know? The talent agency closed at five. There's no way I can call to find out."
"Don't get angry with me! It's not my fault", Clarissa protested. But she was too depressed to be feisty, really.
Tobias looked over to the motel room bed where Clarissa sat waiting, dressed in her school-girl outfit. Her hands were toying with the model train transformer, clicking the voltage switch back and forth. Click! Click! Click!
Their usual assortment of goodies lay all around her. A standard can of whipped cream, a fresh, thorny rose bush, the couple's family Bible, two or three impressively sized dildos, and Clarissa's favorite teddy bear.
"Maybe we could start without him", Tobias suggested, suddenly hopeful.
"On our wedding night? No midget on our wedding night?", Clarissa was incredulous, "But I want this night to be special!"
Kilgore Trout
Misanthropic Humanist
Doug felt a slight stirring of a his tiny, rarely used manhood as he watched the JCPenney's add featuring women wearing modest, two-piece bathing suits. He glanced at Linda sitting on the other end of the couch eating ice cream from a giant bowl resting upon her massive stomach. He picked his nose and rubbed it on the arm of the dilapidated sofa.
"You wanna go get frisky?" he asked his wife of 27 years, feeling acid boil up into his chest from chronic indigestion.
Linda looked back at her fat, lazy, useless lump of a husband. She smiled, rolled her eyes, and went back to watching Honey-Boo-Boo on television.
Doug's fleeting and half-hearted erection quickly faded, and within moments he fell asleep on the couch, as was usual each night at about 8:45 PM.
"You wanna go get frisky?" he asked his wife of 27 years, feeling acid boil up into his chest from chronic indigestion.
Linda looked back at her fat, lazy, useless lump of a husband. She smiled, rolled her eyes, and went back to watching Honey-Boo-Boo on television.
Doug's fleeting and half-hearted erection quickly faded, and within moments he fell asleep on the couch, as was usual each night at about 8:45 PM.
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Ted wasn't about to tell Suzanne his secret. Not yet, at least.
Instead, he casually laid his hand on her lower thigh, as near to her knee as he could comfortably reach. She sat next to him on the couch, pretending not to notice, pretending to still be completely absorbed in watching Savage Love, the Mini-Series, on the couple's over-sized TV.
"Juanita!", the TV gasped, "Juanita!"
Ted took that moment to lightly glide his hand ever so slowly towards Suzanne's upper thigh. Again, Suzanne pretended not to notice, but then she almost imperceptibly parted her legs in welcome.
Ted paused just short of his goal. His hand was so close now, it could feel the warmth of her. He teasingly advanced no further.
"But Father Ernest! Oh, please Father...Oh, please Ernest! Your vows of celibacy!", the TV protested with no apparent effect on either actor.
When Ted finally touched her soft, silk panties, he discovered them moist, almost wet.
The TV broke into a commercial. Ted quickly judged the moment had arrived: "Darling! Badran fruballed me today! He finally fruballed me for a post I made in the Hot and Steamy thread!"
"Oh!", Suzanne replied, surrendering herself to the ecstasy of it, "Oh!"
Instead, he casually laid his hand on her lower thigh, as near to her knee as he could comfortably reach. She sat next to him on the couch, pretending not to notice, pretending to still be completely absorbed in watching Savage Love, the Mini-Series, on the couple's over-sized TV.
"Juanita!", the TV gasped, "Juanita!"
Ted took that moment to lightly glide his hand ever so slowly towards Suzanne's upper thigh. Again, Suzanne pretended not to notice, but then she almost imperceptibly parted her legs in welcome.
Ted paused just short of his goal. His hand was so close now, it could feel the warmth of her. He teasingly advanced no further.
"But Father Ernest! Oh, please Father...Oh, please Ernest! Your vows of celibacy!", the TV protested with no apparent effect on either actor.
When Ted finally touched her soft, silk panties, he discovered them moist, almost wet.
The TV broke into a commercial. Ted quickly judged the moment had arrived: "Darling! Badran fruballed me today! He finally fruballed me for a post I made in the Hot and Steamy thread!"
"Oh!", Suzanne replied, surrendering herself to the ecstasy of it, "Oh!"
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David has had just about enough of Melanie. They've worked out at the same gym for 10 months now, he's worked all possible angles short of asking her out, and nothing seems to get her attention.
No matter how hard he tries, she doesn't seem to notice. If it were that she wasn't interested in him, he would've coped. Yet that was not the case, she simply didn't seem to ever notice. She's always friendly, but completely oblivious to his moves.
"It can't be that she's pretending.", he thought. "No one's that good". He felt her lack of response was genuine obliviousness rather than fake in attempt to reject him kindly, but he wasn't totally sure.
"Tomorrow, all that is gonna change.", he decided. "No more of this uncertainty. I'll simply ask her out. That way, if she's not interested, i'll know for sure". After an hour of video gaming, he went to sleep, still thinking of the long awaited moment.
The next morning, Melanie was there early, as usual. She was still warming up, and as David got in, she looked up and smiled at him.
"Hey Melanie!", greeted David. "Hey David! You're early today."
"Yeah, i woke up early, had something on my mind." "Listen, i wanna talk to you about something.", he added quickly.
"What is it?", Melanie replied, fully attentive as she stopped her warm up.
David started to panic. It seems he underestimated the moment. The gym was empty, it was very early, and the silence, coupled with Melanie's maintained eye contact almost made him faint.
"Actually, it can wait.", David finally said, with an attempt to seem casual. Melanie looked away for a bit, seemingly reflecting. "Cool.", she then responded, as she started warming up again.
David kept staring at her for a few seconds, fantasizing about punching her in the throat, then took a quick look at her magnificent tight shorts and her perfect thighs, then turned around and got in to change.
"Hah! 'Cool', she says. 'Cool'. What horrifying personality. What dreadful manners. What arrogance.", David kept thinking. "Thank god. THANK GOD i didn't ask her out! This this sexy little snob. No more of this nonsense. I'm done with this affair."
He changed and returned to warm up, with the sulkiest expression. A little bit later, as he finished a set of push-ups, his eyes accidentally contacted Melanie's, and she smiled, very earnestly.
He trembled and grinned, most savagely, and immediately turned around in shame at his exaggerated reaction. "Fool, FOOL!", he thought to himself. "It doesn't matter, she probably didn't notice. But her smile, oh my god, what smile. Sweet Melanie's smile."
He was quite happy, and decided against his original resolution. It seemed far too reactionary now, and a bit immature. "After i'm done with the work out, i'll ask her out.", David thought. "I can feel it, this is gonna work."
As he was finishing up, Andrew entered the gym, and instantly noticed Melanie. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile. David noticed that she showed teeth this time, unlike when she smiled at him. Indeed, it was clear to him that this smile was far more earnest than the one she gave him.
Hey Melanie!, said Andrew. Hey Andrew!, replied Melanie enthusiastically, with what seemed to be cheeks getting a bit red. David stared at the scene in horror.
"No more of this.", David thought in anger. No more. Melanie's dead to me., he decided, far more resolutely than the first time. He changed quickly, took his bag and started for the door, with nothing that can stop him short of a bullet.
Melanie was already changed. She had her bag on her shoulder and was chatting with Andrew. As David saw them, he almost died. He blinked 3 billion times and went for the door.
David..., Melanie called.
He paused, and his heart fluttered, but he wouldnt give in. He looked back, maintaining his rage, and awaited rudely for her to say what she wanted without saying anything, with his eyes almost closed.
Youve got a security breach at Los Pantalones., she said while restraining her giggles.
David looked down and saw that his fly was unzipped. Andrew could be heard laughing.
No matter how hard he tries, she doesn't seem to notice. If it were that she wasn't interested in him, he would've coped. Yet that was not the case, she simply didn't seem to ever notice. She's always friendly, but completely oblivious to his moves.
"It can't be that she's pretending.", he thought. "No one's that good". He felt her lack of response was genuine obliviousness rather than fake in attempt to reject him kindly, but he wasn't totally sure.
"Tomorrow, all that is gonna change.", he decided. "No more of this uncertainty. I'll simply ask her out. That way, if she's not interested, i'll know for sure". After an hour of video gaming, he went to sleep, still thinking of the long awaited moment.
The next morning, Melanie was there early, as usual. She was still warming up, and as David got in, she looked up and smiled at him.
"Hey Melanie!", greeted David. "Hey David! You're early today."
"Yeah, i woke up early, had something on my mind." "Listen, i wanna talk to you about something.", he added quickly.
"What is it?", Melanie replied, fully attentive as she stopped her warm up.
David started to panic. It seems he underestimated the moment. The gym was empty, it was very early, and the silence, coupled with Melanie's maintained eye contact almost made him faint.
"Actually, it can wait.", David finally said, with an attempt to seem casual. Melanie looked away for a bit, seemingly reflecting. "Cool.", she then responded, as she started warming up again.
David kept staring at her for a few seconds, fantasizing about punching her in the throat, then took a quick look at her magnificent tight shorts and her perfect thighs, then turned around and got in to change.
"Hah! 'Cool', she says. 'Cool'. What horrifying personality. What dreadful manners. What arrogance.", David kept thinking. "Thank god. THANK GOD i didn't ask her out! This this sexy little snob. No more of this nonsense. I'm done with this affair."
He changed and returned to warm up, with the sulkiest expression. A little bit later, as he finished a set of push-ups, his eyes accidentally contacted Melanie's, and she smiled, very earnestly.
He trembled and grinned, most savagely, and immediately turned around in shame at his exaggerated reaction. "Fool, FOOL!", he thought to himself. "It doesn't matter, she probably didn't notice. But her smile, oh my god, what smile. Sweet Melanie's smile."
He was quite happy, and decided against his original resolution. It seemed far too reactionary now, and a bit immature. "After i'm done with the work out, i'll ask her out.", David thought. "I can feel it, this is gonna work."
As he was finishing up, Andrew entered the gym, and instantly noticed Melanie. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile. David noticed that she showed teeth this time, unlike when she smiled at him. Indeed, it was clear to him that this smile was far more earnest than the one she gave him.
Hey Melanie!, said Andrew. Hey Andrew!, replied Melanie enthusiastically, with what seemed to be cheeks getting a bit red. David stared at the scene in horror.
"No more of this.", David thought in anger. No more. Melanie's dead to me., he decided, far more resolutely than the first time. He changed quickly, took his bag and started for the door, with nothing that can stop him short of a bullet.
Melanie was already changed. She had her bag on her shoulder and was chatting with Andrew. As David saw them, he almost died. He blinked 3 billion times and went for the door.
David..., Melanie called.
He paused, and his heart fluttered, but he wouldnt give in. He looked back, maintaining his rage, and awaited rudely for her to say what she wanted without saying anything, with his eyes almost closed.
Youve got a security breach at Los Pantalones., she said while restraining her giggles.
David looked down and saw that his fly was unzipped. Andrew could be heard laughing.
I can only hope this piece was auto-biographical. At least, the ending.
Seriously, David deserved it! You adroitly withered any respect I had for him when you mentioned his fantasizing about punching Melanie. Well done!
"Quinton is going to marry someone, someday, and he's going to marry the wrong someone", Louise thought.
She hesitated, wondering for a moment if she was a bit too certain of that. Nope. It was very likely true. Very likely true.
"And it's also 'very likely true'," she added, "that his friends will be quite able to see she's the wrong someone. That won't matter to Quinton, though. He's not accustomed to taking advice."
The core problem with Quinton, Louise reflected, was that he was a young, inexperienced intellectual who was not yet aware -- not yet really aware -- of just how easy it is for intellectuals to fool themselves.
"If only I was in love with that impossible fool, Kilgore", Louise pathetically thought for perhaps the hundredth time in her life.
Kilgore was a brilliant intellectual who regularly posted on her favorite website, Alarming Faiths, and who often showed sure-footed insight into humanity's foibles and weaknesses, very much including the foibles and weaknesses of intellectuals.
"I mustn't be too critical of Kilgore", she reminded herself while pointedly ignoring how good it felt to loathe him, "it's so easy for me to be too critical of people...including myself."
Of course, Louise herself was very much an intellectual. Unlike Quinton, however, she'd grown up with a remarkable uncle -- an uncle who had firmly, perhaps a bit too firmly, taught her both to make the most of her intellectual strengths and to cope with her intellectual weaknesses. Consequently, Louise had become precociously aware of how easily she could fool herself.
Just then, Louise noticed Quinton approaching her cubicle.
He was holding, with both his hands, the leather-bound copy of Savage Love she'd lent him a week ago. She'd first thought of loaning him her dog-eared paperback copy, but had then decided against it -- she really wanted Quinton to have the best she could offer him, even down to which book she lent him. Ergo, the leather-bound. And besides, the final pages of her paperback were all too obviously wet-stained.
What was so peculiar about the way Quinton held her book, she wondered?
When she had lent it to him, she had first run her finger along its gilded top edge to pick up some gold dust. Then she had slowly (and she hoped, seductively) reached out to stroke a bit of the dust onto Quinton's forehead. "There!", she'd teased, "Now you're worth even more to me!"
Quinton's slow approach gave her time to wonder once again what was so peculiar about the way he was holding Savage Love in both of his hands. Then she had it!
Quinton was holding the book in just the same way her favorite pastor had been in the habit of holding his Bible. Not clutched protectively to his chest with both arms, but lowered before him, about waist high, as if he was about to offer it to someone. "Pure coincidence", she thought, "but funny."
"I've been reading your novel...", Quinton began, while tapering off as he was so prone to doing.
Louise allowed her brief, but predictable, impatience with Quinton's just as predictable tapering to pass. Then, she smiled encouragingly, "Have you become addicted, yet?"
"I've found it...quite educat...quite stimulating, actually", Quinton replied, then all in a rush added: "Especially the forty-eight and a quarter pages of detailed foreplay that is the astonishing essence of Chapter 29."
Only Quinton -- my dear Quinton -- could spontaneously ejaculate a sentence like that one, Louise thought fondly.
"But didn't you think the moment of penetration came a bit too quickly?", Louise suggested.
"Actually, I was rather moved by that part of it." Quinton then quoted at length: "Slowly, gradually, impossibly slowly, Ernest's adamant desire to remain celibate had been overwhelmed by the ever rising juggernaut of Juanita's impassioned cravings for his long neglected cocksmanship. He was like a drowning man, a drowning man desperate to reach the surface, desperate to suck in the sweet, precious air that he knew would mean life to him. He rose above her, agonizingly stretched himself out along the full length of her. 'I want to infuse you with bliss, absolute bliss', Ernest whispered throatily, his vow of celibacy no more an obstacle to him now than a bra on prom night. 'Yes!', Juanita ecstatically encouraged, 'Do it! Oh, yes!'"
Louise felt herself moisten. She glanced down to happily notice Quinton had been moved as well. But then she thought moodily: "I just wish his woody was for me, and not my book." Her thoughts of Quinton marrying the wrong someone came flooding back to her.
"Louise...Louise." Quinton was gently trying to get her attention. She only half returned from her thoughts, but nevertheless looked up at him again.
"Louise, I don't want to be too abrupt, too very abrupt at suggesting this, but I would enjoy supper with you tonight. And a movie. A movie afterwards."
"But why me, Quinton?" Louise was still fixated on her thoughts of his marrying the wrong someone.
"It's not your book. Not really." Quinton had correctly guessed what might worry her. "It's just that I'd like to know more about you. A lot more about you, and I thought supper and a movie might be a good way to start."
"How about...", Louise paused, then became decisive, "How about supper and my place for a drink or two afterwards?"
A moment's confusion appeared in Quinton's face, but it was quickly replaced by relief. Relief cautiously growing into happiness.
She hesitated, wondering for a moment if she was a bit too certain of that. Nope. It was very likely true. Very likely true.
"And it's also 'very likely true'," she added, "that his friends will be quite able to see she's the wrong someone. That won't matter to Quinton, though. He's not accustomed to taking advice."
The core problem with Quinton, Louise reflected, was that he was a young, inexperienced intellectual who was not yet aware -- not yet really aware -- of just how easy it is for intellectuals to fool themselves.
"If only I was in love with that impossible fool, Kilgore", Louise pathetically thought for perhaps the hundredth time in her life.
Kilgore was a brilliant intellectual who regularly posted on her favorite website, Alarming Faiths, and who often showed sure-footed insight into humanity's foibles and weaknesses, very much including the foibles and weaknesses of intellectuals.
"I mustn't be too critical of Kilgore", she reminded herself while pointedly ignoring how good it felt to loathe him, "it's so easy for me to be too critical of people...including myself."
Of course, Louise herself was very much an intellectual. Unlike Quinton, however, she'd grown up with a remarkable uncle -- an uncle who had firmly, perhaps a bit too firmly, taught her both to make the most of her intellectual strengths and to cope with her intellectual weaknesses. Consequently, Louise had become precociously aware of how easily she could fool herself.
Just then, Louise noticed Quinton approaching her cubicle.
He was holding, with both his hands, the leather-bound copy of Savage Love she'd lent him a week ago. She'd first thought of loaning him her dog-eared paperback copy, but had then decided against it -- she really wanted Quinton to have the best she could offer him, even down to which book she lent him. Ergo, the leather-bound. And besides, the final pages of her paperback were all too obviously wet-stained.
What was so peculiar about the way Quinton held her book, she wondered?
When she had lent it to him, she had first run her finger along its gilded top edge to pick up some gold dust. Then she had slowly (and she hoped, seductively) reached out to stroke a bit of the dust onto Quinton's forehead. "There!", she'd teased, "Now you're worth even more to me!"
Quinton's slow approach gave her time to wonder once again what was so peculiar about the way he was holding Savage Love in both of his hands. Then she had it!
Quinton was holding the book in just the same way her favorite pastor had been in the habit of holding his Bible. Not clutched protectively to his chest with both arms, but lowered before him, about waist high, as if he was about to offer it to someone. "Pure coincidence", she thought, "but funny."
"I've been reading your novel...", Quinton began, while tapering off as he was so prone to doing.
Louise allowed her brief, but predictable, impatience with Quinton's just as predictable tapering to pass. Then, she smiled encouragingly, "Have you become addicted, yet?"
"I've found it...quite educat...quite stimulating, actually", Quinton replied, then all in a rush added: "Especially the forty-eight and a quarter pages of detailed foreplay that is the astonishing essence of Chapter 29."
Only Quinton -- my dear Quinton -- could spontaneously ejaculate a sentence like that one, Louise thought fondly.
"But didn't you think the moment of penetration came a bit too quickly?", Louise suggested.
"Actually, I was rather moved by that part of it." Quinton then quoted at length: "Slowly, gradually, impossibly slowly, Ernest's adamant desire to remain celibate had been overwhelmed by the ever rising juggernaut of Juanita's impassioned cravings for his long neglected cocksmanship. He was like a drowning man, a drowning man desperate to reach the surface, desperate to suck in the sweet, precious air that he knew would mean life to him. He rose above her, agonizingly stretched himself out along the full length of her. 'I want to infuse you with bliss, absolute bliss', Ernest whispered throatily, his vow of celibacy no more an obstacle to him now than a bra on prom night. 'Yes!', Juanita ecstatically encouraged, 'Do it! Oh, yes!'"
Louise felt herself moisten. She glanced down to happily notice Quinton had been moved as well. But then she thought moodily: "I just wish his woody was for me, and not my book." Her thoughts of Quinton marrying the wrong someone came flooding back to her.
"Louise...Louise." Quinton was gently trying to get her attention. She only half returned from her thoughts, but nevertheless looked up at him again.
"Louise, I don't want to be too abrupt, too very abrupt at suggesting this, but I would enjoy supper with you tonight. And a movie. A movie afterwards."
"But why me, Quinton?" Louise was still fixated on her thoughts of his marrying the wrong someone.
"It's not your book. Not really." Quinton had correctly guessed what might worry her. "It's just that I'd like to know more about you. A lot more about you, and I thought supper and a movie might be a good way to start."
"How about...", Louise paused, then became decisive, "How about supper and my place for a drink or two afterwards?"
A moment's confusion appeared in Quinton's face, but it was quickly replaced by relief. Relief cautiously growing into happiness.
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"I think the constant references to Savage Love (The novel or the mini-series) alone make this thread quite a success.", Badran said, "If it was out there for sale, i would pay everything i own to get it."
Phil fanned himself with both his hands -- furiously, but completely ineffectually -- while desperately thinking: "My salts! Where have I placed my damn smelling salts! I haven't had the vapors this bad since the very first time I read Chapter 29! "
Phil fanned himself with both his hands -- furiously, but completely ineffectually -- while desperately thinking: "My salts! Where have I placed my damn smelling salts! I haven't had the vapors this bad since the very first time I read Chapter 29! "
The wind had risen, and with it came the thunder. Sitting on his open deck, Elmore hoped it would rain hard enough to break the heat.
Suddenly, he heard Jen's voice. Elmore felt disoriented. Was he imagining her calling to him? No, that was really her. But the two had broken-up, sealed their break-up with excessive farewells a week ago.
But now, she was striding towards him across the large grassy yard. "That's her favorite cotton summer dress", Elmore noted, impossible hope rising in his chest, "the dress she wears so often when she really, really wants to get laid."
As Jen drew near, she called out, "Don't get in a huff, Elmore! I'm only back to pick up my Lucky Handful Chinese vibrator. I left it with you. By accident."
Elmore sighed, almost sank back in his chair. "Just like Jen to send mixed signals", he thought. Her habit of mixing messages had charmed him when they'd first met, but then, after they'd moved in together, she'd begun to expect -- no, to demand -- that he unerringly sort them out.
"I haven't moved it, Jen. It's still where you left it, in the box." The "box" was Elmore's word for the former fire extinguisher box that Jen had prominently mounted on the bedroom wall to hold her vibrator.
She swept past him into the house, merely glancing his way. Elmore thought hard for a moment, then rose to follow her in.
He found her already in the bedroom. She was simply standing in front of the box, studying it, as if honestly intent on reading, "Break Glass in Emergency".
"Don't you dare try to rape me", Jen said, in a quiet voice, and without looking away from the box. Elmore at once wondered if that wasn't another mixed signal.
The couple's favorite bedroom game had been fake rape. Was Jen seriously worried he might assault her? Or was she suggesting he might "assault" her? Elmore hesitated, knowing that everything -- everything -- might hinge on his getting it right.
He so desperately wanted her back. During the dismal week she'd been gone, he had become all too acutely aware that Jen was more than his lover. Much more than that. She was his best friend and companion. The best friend he'd ever had.
Over the painful course of the week, every once huge issue he'd had with her had become small.
Suddenly, he knew how to clarify her meaning!
"Do you still remember our safe word, Jen?"
Jen slowly nodded, but still not looking away from the box, "Yes, I remember it. Badran."
"Well, if you don't say 'Badran' again..."
Jen said nothing.
Easing into it, Jen and Elmore each stood silently.
Each voluntarily immobile.
Each allowing his or her anticipation to build, to achingly build...
Suddenly, he heard Jen's voice. Elmore felt disoriented. Was he imagining her calling to him? No, that was really her. But the two had broken-up, sealed their break-up with excessive farewells a week ago.
But now, she was striding towards him across the large grassy yard. "That's her favorite cotton summer dress", Elmore noted, impossible hope rising in his chest, "the dress she wears so often when she really, really wants to get laid."
As Jen drew near, she called out, "Don't get in a huff, Elmore! I'm only back to pick up my Lucky Handful Chinese vibrator. I left it with you. By accident."
Elmore sighed, almost sank back in his chair. "Just like Jen to send mixed signals", he thought. Her habit of mixing messages had charmed him when they'd first met, but then, after they'd moved in together, she'd begun to expect -- no, to demand -- that he unerringly sort them out.
"I haven't moved it, Jen. It's still where you left it, in the box." The "box" was Elmore's word for the former fire extinguisher box that Jen had prominently mounted on the bedroom wall to hold her vibrator.
She swept past him into the house, merely glancing his way. Elmore thought hard for a moment, then rose to follow her in.
He found her already in the bedroom. She was simply standing in front of the box, studying it, as if honestly intent on reading, "Break Glass in Emergency".
"Don't you dare try to rape me", Jen said, in a quiet voice, and without looking away from the box. Elmore at once wondered if that wasn't another mixed signal.
The couple's favorite bedroom game had been fake rape. Was Jen seriously worried he might assault her? Or was she suggesting he might "assault" her? Elmore hesitated, knowing that everything -- everything -- might hinge on his getting it right.
He so desperately wanted her back. During the dismal week she'd been gone, he had become all too acutely aware that Jen was more than his lover. Much more than that. She was his best friend and companion. The best friend he'd ever had.
Over the painful course of the week, every once huge issue he'd had with her had become small.
Suddenly, he knew how to clarify her meaning!
"Do you still remember our safe word, Jen?"
Jen slowly nodded, but still not looking away from the box, "Yes, I remember it. Badran."
"Well, if you don't say 'Badran' again..."
Jen said nothing.
Easing into it, Jen and Elmore each stood silently.
Each voluntarily immobile.
Each allowing his or her anticipation to build, to achingly build...
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BeckyRose1998
PICKLES THE KID
Jack was rubbing Bea's feet. Oh, how he loved her beautiful feet. Jack was a senior and Bea was a junior in high school. They were both in band.
This is wrong, she thought, but it feels so good. Who would have thought a band geek...
"Oh, Bea, do you know how long I've waited to do this?" Jack whispered.
"I've waited a long time too. Oh, Jack," Bea said softly, "I want it."
Jack's eyes widened. He wasn't expecting her to want it this quickly. She's more turned on than I thought.
Jack picked up Bea and sat her on his lap, facing him. He placed a passionate kiss on her lips and smiled. "You know I love you right?"
She nodded. "I love you too."
His green-gray eyes stared intensly into her dark green eyes for several minutes. Then, his pushed her back on to the couch and looked down at her beautiful face. Her light brown hair was hanging off the armrest and her face and neck were completely exposed. Jack leaned down and kissed her neck. Bea smelled amazing. Bea wrapped her legs around Jack's waist. Then she put her hands under his band t-shirt and felt his rock-hard abs.
The next thing Bea knew was she was only in her bra and panties and Jack was only in his plaids.
"Bea..." Jack whispered against her chest.
________________________________
When the two awoke, the air in the front room wasn't moving.
"Man, is it muggy in here," Jack said. He stood. Bea looked at him and giggled at him. She was happy. Jack looked over at her and laughed. They were thinking the same thing.
I love you.
This is wrong, she thought, but it feels so good. Who would have thought a band geek...
"Oh, Bea, do you know how long I've waited to do this?" Jack whispered.
"I've waited a long time too. Oh, Jack," Bea said softly, "I want it."
Jack's eyes widened. He wasn't expecting her to want it this quickly. She's more turned on than I thought.
Jack picked up Bea and sat her on his lap, facing him. He placed a passionate kiss on her lips and smiled. "You know I love you right?"
She nodded. "I love you too."
His green-gray eyes stared intensly into her dark green eyes for several minutes. Then, his pushed her back on to the couch and looked down at her beautiful face. Her light brown hair was hanging off the armrest and her face and neck were completely exposed. Jack leaned down and kissed her neck. Bea smelled amazing. Bea wrapped her legs around Jack's waist. Then she put her hands under his band t-shirt and felt his rock-hard abs.
The next thing Bea knew was she was only in her bra and panties and Jack was only in his plaids.
"Bea..." Jack whispered against her chest.
________________________________
When the two awoke, the air in the front room wasn't moving.
"Man, is it muggy in here," Jack said. He stood. Bea looked at him and giggled at him. She was happy. Jack looked over at her and laughed. They were thinking the same thing.
I love you.
That evening, Sandra insisted on doing the dishes alone. John was puzzled, of course, because the two had long ago established a habit of jointly cleaning up. "Is everything alright?"
"Oh, everything's alright, John. I just want to keep my hands busy while I think about one of my patients. Maybe my busy hands will inspire some thoughts."
John paused just long enough to shift gears, then said, "Well, don't worry too hard."
Sandra watched him just long enough to be satisfied he was wandering off. She'd come to the realization two, maybe three years ago that John had lost interest in her. "Our marriage was always on shaky ground, even from the beginning", she thought, "It's just inertia that keeps us together now. Inertia and John's church."
Sandra had come to think of it as "John's church", though she had once been as passionate about the faith as he still was. Slowly, over the past decade, she'd become an agnostic. But she had declared her agnosticism to no one, not even John. In fact, she still attended church.
That was partly because of her career. She was a therapist. And not just a therapist, but she'd built her practice on being a "Christian Therapist". Perhaps a deeper reason she still attended church, however, was her desire to somehow regain her faith.
"But is it faith I need?", Sandra thought as she inattentively washed, "I've been thinking it was; I've been thinking all along that regaining my faith would put an end to the emptiness, but I no longer know that." Sandra was in her mid-40s. Over the past decade, she'd not only lost her faith, but she'd become increasingly aware that her life had been, all along, essentially sad.
"Mostly sad. But easy, too. I've had a very easy life." She reminded herself, for Sandra felt guilty admitting to herself that she was discontent. "I should feel grateful for how easy it's been."
Even John's loss of interest in her had been easy to take -- at least, as easy as such things could ever be taken. She'd been lucky, and she knew she'd been lucky, for John had made it easy on her.
He hadn't blamed her for it. He hadn't launched himself into criticizing her, much less condemning her. If anything, he now went out of his way to be civil to her. At first, his civility had made her cry, so often cry. But she was over that now. She'd grown to accept that John's religious beliefs would never allow him to divorce her, that civility was his compromise.
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the loudness of ringing metal. She'd dropped a pan on the floor. Dumbly, Sandra stared at the pan, and thought of Paul.
After a moment, she bent down. Paul was her patient of nine months. The State licensing board required therapists to take one or two pro bono cases each year. She'd taken Paul on to make her quota. Chronically depressed, he'd been very much in need of help that he couldn't afford.
Paul was an unusual patient for a Christian therapist because he was an atheist. He had never, in fact, been religious. But he was very close to being a model patient.
Like so many professional care-givers, Sandra had begun her career with idealistic dreams of healing people. But, over the years, she'd come to face the reality that she was mostly in the business of helping people to tread water. Paul, on the other hand, actually seemed under her care and encouragement to be swimming to the shore.
Sandra wasn't surprised when Paul fell in love with her. Something like that was almost predictable, common enough between a therapist and her patients. She knew all the ways of nevertheless maintaining a professional relationship, and she had been practicing those ways with Paul.
No, what surprised Sandra was that now, a few months after Paul first showed signs of loving her, she was beginning to reciprocate. Quite unprofessionally reciprocate.
She'd noticed it in her last two or three sessions with him. She'd looked forward to those sessions more than she should have. Each time, when he'd shown up, she'd felt relief -- relief that he hadn't suddenly dropped out of therapy, like some patients did -- and excitement that he was there.
There was much more than that, of course. Perhaps the most damning thing was she'd allowed the sessions to turn into lively, personal conversations. The two of them were now gabbing away on every topic that came to mind -- every topic except Paul's problems. But the worse thing of all was that she'd shared some of her secrets with him. Sandra almost felt like she was facing a crisis now.
"I know what I must do", Sandra thought, "I know I must end it. Before our session tomorrow, I will tell him I can no longer be his therapist."
She thought it, but thinking it failed miserably to settle her thoughts.
Sandra stood watching the sink drain. When the last water had drained, she unnecessarily rinsed the sink of its few remaining suds. She could hear the TV in the other room, and she momentarily thought of joining John, hoping to be distracted from the pain that had now welled up in her chest.
"If I don't end it tomorrow, I'll have broken with everything. My marriage, most certainly. And, probably, broken with all my friends, too." All of Sandra's friends attended John's church. She felt they were very unlikely to tolerate her getting a divorce. And would her Christian therapy practice survive? Possibly not. Most likely, she'd lose patient after patient as word got around.
Sad, but easy. That had been her life until now.
And though Sandra knew she should be grateful for the "easy", the "easy" had never left her feeling fulfilled.
She could trace back to her first stirrings for Paul. They'd come to her on cat-feet, quietly come to her when she'd begun to grasp how deeply he needed someone like her in his life, and how deeply compatible the two of them were.
Sandra reflexively brushed her left cheek with the back of her hand, and thereby became aware of the tears. She had patients who had faced in their lives moments like the one she now faced. Moments when a whole life hung on a single decision. Moments when all could be forever changed, or all could be lost.
But she herself had never faced such a moment -- not in all of her life.
When it came, her decision -- her real decision -- came not from her conscious mind, but from well inside of her. For that reason, Sandra did not feel she had actually made the decision herself. She felt she was merely acknowledging, merely accepting, a decision resolutely formed by the needs of her heart.
Almost at once, her tears began flowing more freely than she'd ever known them to flow before.
"Oh, everything's alright, John. I just want to keep my hands busy while I think about one of my patients. Maybe my busy hands will inspire some thoughts."
John paused just long enough to shift gears, then said, "Well, don't worry too hard."
Sandra watched him just long enough to be satisfied he was wandering off. She'd come to the realization two, maybe three years ago that John had lost interest in her. "Our marriage was always on shaky ground, even from the beginning", she thought, "It's just inertia that keeps us together now. Inertia and John's church."
Sandra had come to think of it as "John's church", though she had once been as passionate about the faith as he still was. Slowly, over the past decade, she'd become an agnostic. But she had declared her agnosticism to no one, not even John. In fact, she still attended church.
That was partly because of her career. She was a therapist. And not just a therapist, but she'd built her practice on being a "Christian Therapist". Perhaps a deeper reason she still attended church, however, was her desire to somehow regain her faith.
"But is it faith I need?", Sandra thought as she inattentively washed, "I've been thinking it was; I've been thinking all along that regaining my faith would put an end to the emptiness, but I no longer know that." Sandra was in her mid-40s. Over the past decade, she'd not only lost her faith, but she'd become increasingly aware that her life had been, all along, essentially sad.
"Mostly sad. But easy, too. I've had a very easy life." She reminded herself, for Sandra felt guilty admitting to herself that she was discontent. "I should feel grateful for how easy it's been."
Even John's loss of interest in her had been easy to take -- at least, as easy as such things could ever be taken. She'd been lucky, and she knew she'd been lucky, for John had made it easy on her.
He hadn't blamed her for it. He hadn't launched himself into criticizing her, much less condemning her. If anything, he now went out of his way to be civil to her. At first, his civility had made her cry, so often cry. But she was over that now. She'd grown to accept that John's religious beliefs would never allow him to divorce her, that civility was his compromise.
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the loudness of ringing metal. She'd dropped a pan on the floor. Dumbly, Sandra stared at the pan, and thought of Paul.
After a moment, she bent down. Paul was her patient of nine months. The State licensing board required therapists to take one or two pro bono cases each year. She'd taken Paul on to make her quota. Chronically depressed, he'd been very much in need of help that he couldn't afford.
Paul was an unusual patient for a Christian therapist because he was an atheist. He had never, in fact, been religious. But he was very close to being a model patient.
Like so many professional care-givers, Sandra had begun her career with idealistic dreams of healing people. But, over the years, she'd come to face the reality that she was mostly in the business of helping people to tread water. Paul, on the other hand, actually seemed under her care and encouragement to be swimming to the shore.
Sandra wasn't surprised when Paul fell in love with her. Something like that was almost predictable, common enough between a therapist and her patients. She knew all the ways of nevertheless maintaining a professional relationship, and she had been practicing those ways with Paul.
No, what surprised Sandra was that now, a few months after Paul first showed signs of loving her, she was beginning to reciprocate. Quite unprofessionally reciprocate.
She'd noticed it in her last two or three sessions with him. She'd looked forward to those sessions more than she should have. Each time, when he'd shown up, she'd felt relief -- relief that he hadn't suddenly dropped out of therapy, like some patients did -- and excitement that he was there.
There was much more than that, of course. Perhaps the most damning thing was she'd allowed the sessions to turn into lively, personal conversations. The two of them were now gabbing away on every topic that came to mind -- every topic except Paul's problems. But the worse thing of all was that she'd shared some of her secrets with him. Sandra almost felt like she was facing a crisis now.
"I know what I must do", Sandra thought, "I know I must end it. Before our session tomorrow, I will tell him I can no longer be his therapist."
She thought it, but thinking it failed miserably to settle her thoughts.
Sandra stood watching the sink drain. When the last water had drained, she unnecessarily rinsed the sink of its few remaining suds. She could hear the TV in the other room, and she momentarily thought of joining John, hoping to be distracted from the pain that had now welled up in her chest.
"If I don't end it tomorrow, I'll have broken with everything. My marriage, most certainly. And, probably, broken with all my friends, too." All of Sandra's friends attended John's church. She felt they were very unlikely to tolerate her getting a divorce. And would her Christian therapy practice survive? Possibly not. Most likely, she'd lose patient after patient as word got around.
Sad, but easy. That had been her life until now.
And though Sandra knew she should be grateful for the "easy", the "easy" had never left her feeling fulfilled.
She could trace back to her first stirrings for Paul. They'd come to her on cat-feet, quietly come to her when she'd begun to grasp how deeply he needed someone like her in his life, and how deeply compatible the two of them were.
Sandra reflexively brushed her left cheek with the back of her hand, and thereby became aware of the tears. She had patients who had faced in their lives moments like the one she now faced. Moments when a whole life hung on a single decision. Moments when all could be forever changed, or all could be lost.
But she herself had never faced such a moment -- not in all of her life.
When it came, her decision -- her real decision -- came not from her conscious mind, but from well inside of her. For that reason, Sandra did not feel she had actually made the decision herself. She felt she was merely acknowledging, merely accepting, a decision resolutely formed by the needs of her heart.
Almost at once, her tears began flowing more freely than she'd ever known them to flow before.
Last edited:
BeckyRose1998
PICKLES THE KID
(continuing the Jack and Bea one)
Jack and Bea were sitting on that same couch. They were watching Iron Man. Cuddled under his arm, Bea smiled up at the handsome boy.
"What?" he smiled back.
"It's just that you're very handsome."
"And you're very beautiful."
Bea laughed, leaned up and kissed Jack. The kiss became more intense and Jack laid Bea back on the couch. His hands were placed firmly on her hips. Bea's Rolling Stones t-shirt was bunched up just above her belly button.
After a few minutes, Jack sat up and took off his We Butter Bread With Butter t-shirt. Just as Jack leaned down and started kissing Bea again, his mother walked in. She didn't notice anything out of the ordinary and walked into the kitchen with the gorceries she was carrying.
Jack stood, put his shirt back on and looked down at Bea. "Come on," he said. "Let's help Mom."
Jack and Bea were sitting on that same couch. They were watching Iron Man. Cuddled under his arm, Bea smiled up at the handsome boy.
"What?" he smiled back.
"It's just that you're very handsome."
"And you're very beautiful."
Bea laughed, leaned up and kissed Jack. The kiss became more intense and Jack laid Bea back on the couch. His hands were placed firmly on her hips. Bea's Rolling Stones t-shirt was bunched up just above her belly button.
After a few minutes, Jack sat up and took off his We Butter Bread With Butter t-shirt. Just as Jack leaned down and started kissing Bea again, his mother walked in. She didn't notice anything out of the ordinary and walked into the kitchen with the gorceries she was carrying.
Jack stood, put his shirt back on and looked down at Bea. "Come on," he said. "Let's help Mom."
As he did every Monday morning, Pastor Frank sat alone reviewing the most recent Twittering Hour on the oversize TV in his mega-church's study. But unlike most Mondays, this Monday Pastor Frank was embarrassed. Embarrassed and even shocked by his poor performance as host and star of The Twittering Hour TV Ministry and Prayer Outreach Program.
"I knew I was off my feed yesterday, but not this far off", Pastor Frank cringed. The video had yet to run its full course, but he'd already counted a half dozen times that he'd stumbled over the pronunciation of words. Instead of saying, "JeeeSUS", for instance, he'd pronounced the Lord's name, "Jesus". And that wasn't all.
When it had come time for Pastor Frank's voice to swing, it had not swung yesterday, it had not found the cadence. His dramatic pauses had been too short to be dramatic. He'd forgotten to thump his Bible each time he mentioned homosexuality. And he'd no more pronounced "homosexuality" right than he'd pronounced "Jesus" right.
Understandably, the shots of the audience showed them hopelessly confused, perhaps even bored. It was all a mess, and the video wasn't even half through.
Pastor Frank clicked the off button on his remote. "I even forgot one or two times to pass the plate!" But his heart wasn't really into self-criticism at the moment.
His heart was into his newly found, recently discovered, but almost certainly forbidden, love.
He'd met Sira only three days before, improbably late on Friday night. "We meshed immediately. That's the thing, the tragedy of it -- we meshed immediately." Pastor Frank thought, for he now wished their meeting had never happened.
Sira -- the name was just as strange as the person who had declared it theirs. Pastor Frank was more worldly than he let on. Much more worldly than he let on. A surprising number of choir girls would testify to that, if it weren't for the payments he made to them. Just as might certain male prostitutes.
Pastor Frank was worldly, but not worldly enough to have ever before been with someone like Sira. Was Sira a she? Was Sira a he? Pastor Frank honestly had no idea, so he had taken to calling Sira an "it".
Tragically, they had meshed. Tragically, because Pastor Frank was pretty sure now that their love was forbidden. Technically, the Bible didn't actually say sex with an "it" was forbidden. But Pastor Frank wouldn't kid himself: His congregation would never understand. Never. Hence, it was forbidden.
"Congregations will usually look the other way when it comes to choir girls", Pastor Frank thought, "They won't look the other way when it comes to homosexuals, but you can always start a new church a year or two after that skunk hits the fan. But an 'it'? Who's going to forget their pastor made it with an 'it'?"
He sank into his chair. What hurt -- hurt so bad that he did not want to face it -- was that Sira might be gone forever. Might never come to him again. "Does Sira love me? Love me as...as intensely...as I...?" Pastor Frank could even now barely force himself to think about the full depths of his love.
_______________________
Pastor Frank had stayed late in his office that Monday, and was now driving home in the dark. Just like the Friday before, it happened the very moment he stopped his car at the rural crossroads, before turning north onto the road that led past his ranch. His car went dead. The radio, the headlights, the engine all died at once.
Pastor Frank felt sudden hope.
He looked from window to window, searching the night sky. There! He could see the strange lights slowly approaching from the East! It was exactly like Friday night! Pastor Frank was suffused with anticipation.
It turned out not quite an exact repeat of Friday, however, for this time, Sira's anal probing of him lasted for hours and blissful hours longer.
"I knew I was off my feed yesterday, but not this far off", Pastor Frank cringed. The video had yet to run its full course, but he'd already counted a half dozen times that he'd stumbled over the pronunciation of words. Instead of saying, "JeeeSUS", for instance, he'd pronounced the Lord's name, "Jesus". And that wasn't all.
When it had come time for Pastor Frank's voice to swing, it had not swung yesterday, it had not found the cadence. His dramatic pauses had been too short to be dramatic. He'd forgotten to thump his Bible each time he mentioned homosexuality. And he'd no more pronounced "homosexuality" right than he'd pronounced "Jesus" right.
Understandably, the shots of the audience showed them hopelessly confused, perhaps even bored. It was all a mess, and the video wasn't even half through.
Pastor Frank clicked the off button on his remote. "I even forgot one or two times to pass the plate!" But his heart wasn't really into self-criticism at the moment.
His heart was into his newly found, recently discovered, but almost certainly forbidden, love.
He'd met Sira only three days before, improbably late on Friday night. "We meshed immediately. That's the thing, the tragedy of it -- we meshed immediately." Pastor Frank thought, for he now wished their meeting had never happened.
Sira -- the name was just as strange as the person who had declared it theirs. Pastor Frank was more worldly than he let on. Much more worldly than he let on. A surprising number of choir girls would testify to that, if it weren't for the payments he made to them. Just as might certain male prostitutes.
Pastor Frank was worldly, but not worldly enough to have ever before been with someone like Sira. Was Sira a she? Was Sira a he? Pastor Frank honestly had no idea, so he had taken to calling Sira an "it".
Tragically, they had meshed. Tragically, because Pastor Frank was pretty sure now that their love was forbidden. Technically, the Bible didn't actually say sex with an "it" was forbidden. But Pastor Frank wouldn't kid himself: His congregation would never understand. Never. Hence, it was forbidden.
"Congregations will usually look the other way when it comes to choir girls", Pastor Frank thought, "They won't look the other way when it comes to homosexuals, but you can always start a new church a year or two after that skunk hits the fan. But an 'it'? Who's going to forget their pastor made it with an 'it'?"
He sank into his chair. What hurt -- hurt so bad that he did not want to face it -- was that Sira might be gone forever. Might never come to him again. "Does Sira love me? Love me as...as intensely...as I...?" Pastor Frank could even now barely force himself to think about the full depths of his love.
_______________________
Pastor Frank had stayed late in his office that Monday, and was now driving home in the dark. Just like the Friday before, it happened the very moment he stopped his car at the rural crossroads, before turning north onto the road that led past his ranch. His car went dead. The radio, the headlights, the engine all died at once.
Pastor Frank felt sudden hope.
He looked from window to window, searching the night sky. There! He could see the strange lights slowly approaching from the East! It was exactly like Friday night! Pastor Frank was suffused with anticipation.
It turned out not quite an exact repeat of Friday, however, for this time, Sira's anal probing of him lasted for hours and blissful hours longer.
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Although Paul was much older than Jennifer, he was her chosen confidant. She usually didn't seek him out unless she felt troubled. She was troubled now, confiding in him again -- this time over a pitcher of beer she'd bought for the two of them.
"I'm going to leave him", Jennifer said. But Paul noted the lack of resolution in her voice, and silently recognized that she was just venting. That morning, Jennifer had found a hypodermic needle in Ted's van, and had realized at once that he was back on heroin.
Paul knew that Jennifer had been horribly abused through-out her childhood and adolescence. He'd once spent a full eight hours listening to her, attentively listening to her tell him her life story.
Once or twice, Paul told others about Jennifer, and then he'd briefly summed up her story: "She was raped in a public park by a stranger at age six. At eight, she was placed in foster care. For a year she was raped daily by her foster dad, his brother, and his cousin. At eleven, she witnessed the person she was closest to, her older brother, shot to death. After that, she told me -- and she wasn't trying to be funny when she said it -- she said, 'things got rough'."
But Paul had come to admire Jennifer even more strongly than he had been horrified when first hearing her life story.
She was a survivor. More than that, she genuinely discounted her suffering -- almost dismissed it. "I read a book once about a boy who had it ten times worse than I ever did", she'd told him, "It opened my eyes to how lucky I've been." And she meant it.
Jennifer had survived, but had not fully escaped the consequences of her abuse. Paul knew it would have been miraculous if she'd had. She almost always made open, bold, nominally sexual advances on him, for instance. She might plunge her hands down the front of his pants saying, "My fingers are cold". Or she'd beg him to dance, then grind herself so close to him, her leg thrust so far between his, that he would no longer know whether he was supported by two feet or three.
He'd seen similar behavior from other women he'd known who had also been sexually abused. Jennifer's behavior was more extreme, often much less subtle, but the same basic pattern, and Paul thought Jennifer might secretly harbor such low or twisted self-esteem as to believe she could not be valued by men in any other way than sexually.
At any rate, Paul tolerated Jennifer's teasing both without trying to take her up on it, and also without trying to reform her. Paul just wasn't in the reform business. If anything, he was in the listening business.
And he was listening to Jennifer's irresolute fears and complaints about Ted when Chuck walked in to the bar. After the greetings and introductions, Chuck joined the two, and Jennifer generously ordered another pitcher.
Now and then Paul and Chuck worked together doing odd jobs, like hanging sheet rock or building a simple staircase. Paul liked Chuck barely well enough to allow Chuck to sit with them, and, unlike his feelings for Jennifer, he did not admire Chuck.
So far as Paul had been able to find out, Chuck had suffered only one major crisis in his charmed life -- and he'd handled that one poorly. For Chuck was just as bent on nursing the abuse once done to him as Jennifer was bent on dismissing her own.
Paul had quickly discovered while working with Chuck that Chuck simply could not go more than a couple hours without saying something derogatory about women. All women. And most often, it was that all women were unfaithful sluts.
Chuck had once walked in on his wife making love to another man. The first time Paul heard the story, Chuck had told it in such a way that Paul formed the impression it had happened quite recently. Recently enough to explain the freshness of Chuck's outrage.
But Paul eventually found out that it had happened years ago. Chuck had nursed his outrage, kept it fresh, for a long time.
The one thing that kept Paul from being thoroughly repelled by Chuck's attitude was that Paul recognized Chuck wasn't too bright. Paul even had moments when he felt sorry for Chuck.
Jennifer had continued to go on about Ted despite Chuck's arrival. She'd moderated her tone, however, and was no longer talking of leaving Ted. Paul dimly grasped -- or he thought he did -- how a person who'd led as troubled a life as Jennifer might come to tolerate things that other people would be appalled by.
Towards the bottom of their third pitcher, Paul noted that Jennifer and Chuck had hardly interacted at all. They were both at times talking to him, but not much to each other. "Well, they must sense how incompatible they are." He thought.
Incompatible, yes. But did the two of them sense it? Paul couldn't have been more wrong.
_______________________________________
Three years went by before Jennifer and Chuck next came across each other. Jennifer had forgotten all about Chuck, but Chuck had remembered her, and he reintroduced himself to her.
What had brought on their reintroduction was Jennifer's new job as a convenience store clerk in Chuck's neighborhood. She was single now, and a bit lonely. When Chuck asked her out, she accepted.
The arguments began almost simultaneously with the first signs of Chuck making a commitment to her. Jennifer wasn't even sure yet that she wanted a commitment from Chuck, especially since he was already accusing her of paying too much attention to other men. Somehow, though, she managed to tolerate his jealous behavior.
Improbably, the two of them formed a couple for a brief few months.
__________________________________
Jennifer had sought out Paul again. She'd called him that afternoon, had asked him to come over, had given him her new address -- for she seldom was able to keep an apartment for long. She'd then begun telling him about the break-up with Chuck. They chatted for a long time on the phone, despite their plans to meet that evening.
After he showed up, they quickly made plans to go out for supper. She went to change. A few minutes later she called to him. When he entered her bedroom, she was topless, as he'd half-expected. She had some little thing to ask him. Probably no more than a pretense to show him her breasts, he thought.
Uncharacteristically, Paul didn't answer her question.
Jennifer talked on for a moment, brushing her hair in her mirror, half-turned away from Paul. Then, she noticed his silence. She turned to him with a puzzled look, a look that didn't need words.
Paul looked at her steadily. He was feeling extraordinary tenderness towards her. Tenderness bordering on sadness. A part of him realized Jennifer could not understand how complete his compassion was for her. She'd never experienced such compassion from another person in her young, unhappy life; would necessarily fail to recognize it, though she might -- some part of her might -- crave it.
In the years he'd known her, there had usually been a Chuck, a Ted, a Tony.... And he knew there would usually be a Chuck, a Ted, a Tony. Her periods of being single were always brief. So far as he knew, the only man who'd been a constant in her life over the years he'd known her was he, and he was merely her confidant. But he had wanted no more than that.
This evening, though, he felt different. It wasn't quite that he wanted to make love to her -- though, if that improbably came about, he'd certainly consent to it now. But it was something a bit like wanting to make love to her. It was that he wanted -- intensely wanted -- to give her a whole new world, a new life and a whole new world.
The two stood in silence for a very long time, surprisingly comfortable silence. Jennifer's expression gradually changed from puzzlement to something else. Paul didn't recognize it immediately. He'd never seen that look on her face before.
Then it came to him as openness. As undefended, vulnerable, completely trusting openness.
It seemed to him that any relationship between the two of them could be chosen now. Simple friends, best friends, father-daughter, even lovers. They had all, for a moment, an equal potential of being realized.
"I'm going to leave him", Jennifer said. But Paul noted the lack of resolution in her voice, and silently recognized that she was just venting. That morning, Jennifer had found a hypodermic needle in Ted's van, and had realized at once that he was back on heroin.
Paul knew that Jennifer had been horribly abused through-out her childhood and adolescence. He'd once spent a full eight hours listening to her, attentively listening to her tell him her life story.
Once or twice, Paul told others about Jennifer, and then he'd briefly summed up her story: "She was raped in a public park by a stranger at age six. At eight, she was placed in foster care. For a year she was raped daily by her foster dad, his brother, and his cousin. At eleven, she witnessed the person she was closest to, her older brother, shot to death. After that, she told me -- and she wasn't trying to be funny when she said it -- she said, 'things got rough'."
But Paul had come to admire Jennifer even more strongly than he had been horrified when first hearing her life story.
She was a survivor. More than that, she genuinely discounted her suffering -- almost dismissed it. "I read a book once about a boy who had it ten times worse than I ever did", she'd told him, "It opened my eyes to how lucky I've been." And she meant it.
Jennifer had survived, but had not fully escaped the consequences of her abuse. Paul knew it would have been miraculous if she'd had. She almost always made open, bold, nominally sexual advances on him, for instance. She might plunge her hands down the front of his pants saying, "My fingers are cold". Or she'd beg him to dance, then grind herself so close to him, her leg thrust so far between his, that he would no longer know whether he was supported by two feet or three.
He'd seen similar behavior from other women he'd known who had also been sexually abused. Jennifer's behavior was more extreme, often much less subtle, but the same basic pattern, and Paul thought Jennifer might secretly harbor such low or twisted self-esteem as to believe she could not be valued by men in any other way than sexually.
At any rate, Paul tolerated Jennifer's teasing both without trying to take her up on it, and also without trying to reform her. Paul just wasn't in the reform business. If anything, he was in the listening business.
And he was listening to Jennifer's irresolute fears and complaints about Ted when Chuck walked in to the bar. After the greetings and introductions, Chuck joined the two, and Jennifer generously ordered another pitcher.
Now and then Paul and Chuck worked together doing odd jobs, like hanging sheet rock or building a simple staircase. Paul liked Chuck barely well enough to allow Chuck to sit with them, and, unlike his feelings for Jennifer, he did not admire Chuck.
So far as Paul had been able to find out, Chuck had suffered only one major crisis in his charmed life -- and he'd handled that one poorly. For Chuck was just as bent on nursing the abuse once done to him as Jennifer was bent on dismissing her own.
Paul had quickly discovered while working with Chuck that Chuck simply could not go more than a couple hours without saying something derogatory about women. All women. And most often, it was that all women were unfaithful sluts.
Chuck had once walked in on his wife making love to another man. The first time Paul heard the story, Chuck had told it in such a way that Paul formed the impression it had happened quite recently. Recently enough to explain the freshness of Chuck's outrage.
But Paul eventually found out that it had happened years ago. Chuck had nursed his outrage, kept it fresh, for a long time.
The one thing that kept Paul from being thoroughly repelled by Chuck's attitude was that Paul recognized Chuck wasn't too bright. Paul even had moments when he felt sorry for Chuck.
Jennifer had continued to go on about Ted despite Chuck's arrival. She'd moderated her tone, however, and was no longer talking of leaving Ted. Paul dimly grasped -- or he thought he did -- how a person who'd led as troubled a life as Jennifer might come to tolerate things that other people would be appalled by.
Towards the bottom of their third pitcher, Paul noted that Jennifer and Chuck had hardly interacted at all. They were both at times talking to him, but not much to each other. "Well, they must sense how incompatible they are." He thought.
Incompatible, yes. But did the two of them sense it? Paul couldn't have been more wrong.
_______________________________________
Three years went by before Jennifer and Chuck next came across each other. Jennifer had forgotten all about Chuck, but Chuck had remembered her, and he reintroduced himself to her.
What had brought on their reintroduction was Jennifer's new job as a convenience store clerk in Chuck's neighborhood. She was single now, and a bit lonely. When Chuck asked her out, she accepted.
The arguments began almost simultaneously with the first signs of Chuck making a commitment to her. Jennifer wasn't even sure yet that she wanted a commitment from Chuck, especially since he was already accusing her of paying too much attention to other men. Somehow, though, she managed to tolerate his jealous behavior.
Improbably, the two of them formed a couple for a brief few months.
__________________________________
Jennifer had sought out Paul again. She'd called him that afternoon, had asked him to come over, had given him her new address -- for she seldom was able to keep an apartment for long. She'd then begun telling him about the break-up with Chuck. They chatted for a long time on the phone, despite their plans to meet that evening.
After he showed up, they quickly made plans to go out for supper. She went to change. A few minutes later she called to him. When he entered her bedroom, she was topless, as he'd half-expected. She had some little thing to ask him. Probably no more than a pretense to show him her breasts, he thought.
Uncharacteristically, Paul didn't answer her question.
Jennifer talked on for a moment, brushing her hair in her mirror, half-turned away from Paul. Then, she noticed his silence. She turned to him with a puzzled look, a look that didn't need words.
Paul looked at her steadily. He was feeling extraordinary tenderness towards her. Tenderness bordering on sadness. A part of him realized Jennifer could not understand how complete his compassion was for her. She'd never experienced such compassion from another person in her young, unhappy life; would necessarily fail to recognize it, though she might -- some part of her might -- crave it.
In the years he'd known her, there had usually been a Chuck, a Ted, a Tony.... And he knew there would usually be a Chuck, a Ted, a Tony. Her periods of being single were always brief. So far as he knew, the only man who'd been a constant in her life over the years he'd known her was he, and he was merely her confidant. But he had wanted no more than that.
This evening, though, he felt different. It wasn't quite that he wanted to make love to her -- though, if that improbably came about, he'd certainly consent to it now. But it was something a bit like wanting to make love to her. It was that he wanted -- intensely wanted -- to give her a whole new world, a new life and a whole new world.
The two stood in silence for a very long time, surprisingly comfortable silence. Jennifer's expression gradually changed from puzzlement to something else. Paul didn't recognize it immediately. He'd never seen that look on her face before.
Then it came to him as openness. As undefended, vulnerable, completely trusting openness.
It seemed to him that any relationship between the two of them could be chosen now. Simple friends, best friends, father-daughter, even lovers. They had all, for a moment, an equal potential of being realized.
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Wherenextcolumbus
Well-Known Member
Sweet story
"Pastor Stan, your three o'clock is here. Ruth Clemons."
Pastor Stan keyed the intercom. "Have her wait ten minutes, then send her in, Pam."
He returned to the papers on his desk. Pastor Stan thought it was necessary to play power games with people. He would make this Ruth wait. Then, when she was at last admitted to office, he'd make her stand waiting even a little longer while he nominally ignored her, absorbed in his paperwork. In truth, he was a busy man, but not so busy he actually needed to slight people.
When Ruth eventually did enter, she entered with such silent grace that Pastor Stan, even though he was expecting her, failed to notice her at first. But Ruth didn't remain silent. Nor did she wait to be acknowledged. After only a moment's pause, she was talking.
Pastor Stan was almost startled. One moment, she hadn't been there; the next, she was. When he looked up, Ruth was already cheerfully rambling on about the presumptuousness of anyone thinking they knew God.
He was instantly struck by her broad, open grin, and by the friendly tone of her voice. Was that why he uncharacteristically -- very uncharacteristically -- took no offense at Ruth's lecturing him, nor even took offense at her scandalous notion that he knew nothing of God? Whatever the reason, the thought he should take offense failed -- improbably failed -- to cross his mind.
In fact, Pastor Stan wasn't really listening to Ruth, but he was otherwise paying acute attention to her, and to what little he could recall about her. To her innocent grin, to the warm tones of her voice, to her easy posture, and even to the distance between them -- for Ruth had advanced not further into his office than a few steps beyond the door.
She was, he remembered, the oldest daughter of one of his elders. Was she 16? Or 17? That much he couldn't recall. But he remembered she had been sent to him by one of her teachers at the mega-church's school, sent for disciplinary reasons. Ruth, he'd been told, was in pressing need of a good, solid dressing down for being "haughty" -- and because she was the daughter of an elder, the dressing down should come from him.
Pastor Stan felt a need to regain the upper hand, but he hesitated. He was being charmed by her, and -- though he wasn't prepared to admit it -- he was enjoying being charmed by her.
Momentarily, Pastor Stan compared himself -- his old self -- to Ruth. She was apparently earnest in her religious beliefs, and he had been earnest, too, at her age. He had tried, like she was apparently trying, to make sense of God. And he had come to much the same conclusion as she: That it was presumptuous to think you knew much of anything about deity.
That had all been before he'd faced the real world. The world he'd found himself in after graduation from college. Six years of fruitless struggle and biting poverty, alleviated only by the occasional hand out from his family, had been enough to convince Pastor Stan that his only real hope lay in building a business. A lucrative business like the one his father had once owned before the economy tanked. The religion business had seemed to Pastor Stan the easiest to enter.
Ruth had finally wound down. She was looking at him expectantly now. The strangest feeling overcame him. He wanted, more than anything else, to close the distance between them. He wanted to cross the room to stand in front her, to stand at conversational distance from her -- and to just chat with her.
But he didn't. Instead, he dutifully forced himself to speak of her haughtiness. But he only fumbled along, unable to adopt the proper tone of demanding authority with her. He knew, even before he finally dismissed her, that he'd made no deep impression on her.
Pastor Stan felt discontent for the rest of the day.
_________________________________________
Over the course of the school year, Ruth was sent back again and again, until her appearances in Pastor Stan's office became weekly events -- sometimes, even twice-weekly events. Each time, the charge against her was the same: She was haughty.
Pastor Stan was wholly unprepared for Ruth's effect on him. By early January, he'd given up all pretense of disciplining her. He even no longer made her wait.
They chatted now. Simply chatted. And, almost impossibly, they chatted as all but equals. The little remaining inequality between them came solely from Pastor Stan's greater experience of life, rather than from his position as her Pastor. And Ruth seemed to be enjoying their chats as much as he did.
What Pastor Stan did not fully appreciate, because he'd never experienced it before, was that he -- as much as is humanly possible -- altruistically loved Ruth. Loved her in some ways even more selflessly than her father loved her. For Pastor Stan had totally given up on trying to change her -- now simply accepted her -- while her father still harbored hopes that she would someday make a model Christian wife and helpmeet.
In truth, Pastor Stan would have greatly -- very greatly -- resisted loving Ruth if he had only known beforehand the price he would pay for it. If he'd known, he would have done almost anything to prevent it.
Altruistic love is so rare for humans, and so hopelessly romanticized, that very few realize it comes with a price, for it is deeply and abidingly subversive. Even ordinary love is often enough subversive.
Rich fall in love with poor; Christians fall in love with Muslims; Blacks fall in love with Whites; old people fall in love with young people; conservatives fall in love with liberals; the wise fall in love with fools. And outsiders too frequently fear and condemn anyone or all of those loves, for how can proper boundaries be maintained, how can communities be held together, how will any of us know our proper places, if one caste marries another?
Pastor Stan was slow to recognize the price of his love for Ruth. And when he at last did begin to recognize it, he didn't at first associate it with her. But a day came in the early Spring when Pastor Stan felt tired.
Just a couple hours before he felt tired, he'd been with Ruth, easily encouraging her ambitions to become a field biologist, helping her to make her plans for it. He no longer cared -- no longer even much noted -- that Ruth was on a road that would most likely take her anywhere but towards becoming a good Christian wife.
He'd felt unconflicted in her presence, deeply authentic, as if the most natural thing in the world was for him to be open and honest with someone, to be freely and unguardedly himself.
But now, only two hours later, he was tired. That was his word for it, "tired". But it was a very strange tiredness, if that was what it was.
He left his office early in the afternoon, planning to seek the refuge of his home. But on his way, he passed a park. It was a park that he drove past every day, but he had scarcely noticed it before. This time, however, he felt curious.
He circled back, and spent the rest of day sitting on a bench beside the park's rather large pond, watching the dance of sunlight on the water. The dancing light somehow soothed him.
When evening came, he was still sitting there. He didn't have a word for what he felt besides, "tired". And he did not know at all why he felt "tired".
____________________________________
Over the next few weeks, Pastor Stan returned to the pond whenever he could free himself from work. Each time he did little more than sit to watch the sun on water. He was so discontent now that he was growing taciturn.
His love -- the love that had begun with Ruth -- seemed to be spreading outward from her. For one thing, he was paying more attention to people. But at the same time, he said less, spoke less. That was because he'd begun questioning his habitually manipulative ways of dealing with others.
He would start out knowing what he was going to say, knowing the right words from habit. Words he knew would get him what he wanted. But false words. Words he himself did not really believe in.
Then he'd stop himself. He'd search in silence for something more honest to say. But often enough he could come up with nothing, nothing that wasn't, in the end, a front. Except with Ruth.
_____________________________
One day, at the beginning of Summer, Pastor Stan invited Ruth to go to the pond with him. The two of them spent the whole of the afternoon there. But they only began their afternoon with sitting on Pastor Stan's bench, for Ruth was soon up and urging Pastor Stan to explore the park with her. She wanted especially to see what lived in the pond.
Part of his bill for loving Ruth came due that day. In the end, it would be only a part of the full price. But it was presented to him just as he was watching her crouched down by the shore, overturning half-submerged rocks to see what lived beneath them. Suddenly, on the spot, he decided to retire.
He had known for a long time that he was financially well off enough to retire. But he had too much enjoyed the authority, the power, the prestige, and the games of his work. Those things had grown meaningless to him, actually repulsed him now. Looking down at Ruth examining her rocks, he recognized it.
Late that afternoon, as they were walking back to the car, Ruth spontaneously took Stan's hand. She'd long ago ceased to think of him as Pastor Stan.
The friendly gesture was entirely unexpected by either one of them. Had Ruth thought about it, she probably would not have done it, for the two of them had never once touched before. She didn't fully know what had prompted her, but once she had done it, it felt perfectly right to her, for Ruth had come to recognize in Stan a true friend.
Pastor Stan keyed the intercom. "Have her wait ten minutes, then send her in, Pam."
He returned to the papers on his desk. Pastor Stan thought it was necessary to play power games with people. He would make this Ruth wait. Then, when she was at last admitted to office, he'd make her stand waiting even a little longer while he nominally ignored her, absorbed in his paperwork. In truth, he was a busy man, but not so busy he actually needed to slight people.
When Ruth eventually did enter, she entered with such silent grace that Pastor Stan, even though he was expecting her, failed to notice her at first. But Ruth didn't remain silent. Nor did she wait to be acknowledged. After only a moment's pause, she was talking.
Pastor Stan was almost startled. One moment, she hadn't been there; the next, she was. When he looked up, Ruth was already cheerfully rambling on about the presumptuousness of anyone thinking they knew God.
He was instantly struck by her broad, open grin, and by the friendly tone of her voice. Was that why he uncharacteristically -- very uncharacteristically -- took no offense at Ruth's lecturing him, nor even took offense at her scandalous notion that he knew nothing of God? Whatever the reason, the thought he should take offense failed -- improbably failed -- to cross his mind.
In fact, Pastor Stan wasn't really listening to Ruth, but he was otherwise paying acute attention to her, and to what little he could recall about her. To her innocent grin, to the warm tones of her voice, to her easy posture, and even to the distance between them -- for Ruth had advanced not further into his office than a few steps beyond the door.
She was, he remembered, the oldest daughter of one of his elders. Was she 16? Or 17? That much he couldn't recall. But he remembered she had been sent to him by one of her teachers at the mega-church's school, sent for disciplinary reasons. Ruth, he'd been told, was in pressing need of a good, solid dressing down for being "haughty" -- and because she was the daughter of an elder, the dressing down should come from him.
Pastor Stan felt a need to regain the upper hand, but he hesitated. He was being charmed by her, and -- though he wasn't prepared to admit it -- he was enjoying being charmed by her.
Momentarily, Pastor Stan compared himself -- his old self -- to Ruth. She was apparently earnest in her religious beliefs, and he had been earnest, too, at her age. He had tried, like she was apparently trying, to make sense of God. And he had come to much the same conclusion as she: That it was presumptuous to think you knew much of anything about deity.
That had all been before he'd faced the real world. The world he'd found himself in after graduation from college. Six years of fruitless struggle and biting poverty, alleviated only by the occasional hand out from his family, had been enough to convince Pastor Stan that his only real hope lay in building a business. A lucrative business like the one his father had once owned before the economy tanked. The religion business had seemed to Pastor Stan the easiest to enter.
Ruth had finally wound down. She was looking at him expectantly now. The strangest feeling overcame him. He wanted, more than anything else, to close the distance between them. He wanted to cross the room to stand in front her, to stand at conversational distance from her -- and to just chat with her.
But he didn't. Instead, he dutifully forced himself to speak of her haughtiness. But he only fumbled along, unable to adopt the proper tone of demanding authority with her. He knew, even before he finally dismissed her, that he'd made no deep impression on her.
Pastor Stan felt discontent for the rest of the day.
_________________________________________
Over the course of the school year, Ruth was sent back again and again, until her appearances in Pastor Stan's office became weekly events -- sometimes, even twice-weekly events. Each time, the charge against her was the same: She was haughty.
Pastor Stan was wholly unprepared for Ruth's effect on him. By early January, he'd given up all pretense of disciplining her. He even no longer made her wait.
They chatted now. Simply chatted. And, almost impossibly, they chatted as all but equals. The little remaining inequality between them came solely from Pastor Stan's greater experience of life, rather than from his position as her Pastor. And Ruth seemed to be enjoying their chats as much as he did.
What Pastor Stan did not fully appreciate, because he'd never experienced it before, was that he -- as much as is humanly possible -- altruistically loved Ruth. Loved her in some ways even more selflessly than her father loved her. For Pastor Stan had totally given up on trying to change her -- now simply accepted her -- while her father still harbored hopes that she would someday make a model Christian wife and helpmeet.
In truth, Pastor Stan would have greatly -- very greatly -- resisted loving Ruth if he had only known beforehand the price he would pay for it. If he'd known, he would have done almost anything to prevent it.
Altruistic love is so rare for humans, and so hopelessly romanticized, that very few realize it comes with a price, for it is deeply and abidingly subversive. Even ordinary love is often enough subversive.
Rich fall in love with poor; Christians fall in love with Muslims; Blacks fall in love with Whites; old people fall in love with young people; conservatives fall in love with liberals; the wise fall in love with fools. And outsiders too frequently fear and condemn anyone or all of those loves, for how can proper boundaries be maintained, how can communities be held together, how will any of us know our proper places, if one caste marries another?
Pastor Stan was slow to recognize the price of his love for Ruth. And when he at last did begin to recognize it, he didn't at first associate it with her. But a day came in the early Spring when Pastor Stan felt tired.
Just a couple hours before he felt tired, he'd been with Ruth, easily encouraging her ambitions to become a field biologist, helping her to make her plans for it. He no longer cared -- no longer even much noted -- that Ruth was on a road that would most likely take her anywhere but towards becoming a good Christian wife.
He'd felt unconflicted in her presence, deeply authentic, as if the most natural thing in the world was for him to be open and honest with someone, to be freely and unguardedly himself.
But now, only two hours later, he was tired. That was his word for it, "tired". But it was a very strange tiredness, if that was what it was.
He left his office early in the afternoon, planning to seek the refuge of his home. But on his way, he passed a park. It was a park that he drove past every day, but he had scarcely noticed it before. This time, however, he felt curious.
He circled back, and spent the rest of day sitting on a bench beside the park's rather large pond, watching the dance of sunlight on the water. The dancing light somehow soothed him.
When evening came, he was still sitting there. He didn't have a word for what he felt besides, "tired". And he did not know at all why he felt "tired".
____________________________________
Over the next few weeks, Pastor Stan returned to the pond whenever he could free himself from work. Each time he did little more than sit to watch the sun on water. He was so discontent now that he was growing taciturn.
His love -- the love that had begun with Ruth -- seemed to be spreading outward from her. For one thing, he was paying more attention to people. But at the same time, he said less, spoke less. That was because he'd begun questioning his habitually manipulative ways of dealing with others.
He would start out knowing what he was going to say, knowing the right words from habit. Words he knew would get him what he wanted. But false words. Words he himself did not really believe in.
Then he'd stop himself. He'd search in silence for something more honest to say. But often enough he could come up with nothing, nothing that wasn't, in the end, a front. Except with Ruth.
_____________________________
One day, at the beginning of Summer, Pastor Stan invited Ruth to go to the pond with him. The two of them spent the whole of the afternoon there. But they only began their afternoon with sitting on Pastor Stan's bench, for Ruth was soon up and urging Pastor Stan to explore the park with her. She wanted especially to see what lived in the pond.
Part of his bill for loving Ruth came due that day. In the end, it would be only a part of the full price. But it was presented to him just as he was watching her crouched down by the shore, overturning half-submerged rocks to see what lived beneath them. Suddenly, on the spot, he decided to retire.
He had known for a long time that he was financially well off enough to retire. But he had too much enjoyed the authority, the power, the prestige, and the games of his work. Those things had grown meaningless to him, actually repulsed him now. Looking down at Ruth examining her rocks, he recognized it.
Late that afternoon, as they were walking back to the car, Ruth spontaneously took Stan's hand. She'd long ago ceased to think of him as Pastor Stan.
The friendly gesture was entirely unexpected by either one of them. Had Ruth thought about it, she probably would not have done it, for the two of them had never once touched before. She didn't fully know what had prompted her, but once she had done it, it felt perfectly right to her, for Ruth had come to recognize in Stan a true friend.
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It was a very pleasant Saturday, much too pleasant to stay at home, and so Frank had left his house early for his lunch with Natalie. He was now in the coffee shop across the street from the quite unfortunately named Jamaican Jerk, which was the restaurant the two had agreed upon.
He and Natalie had not met in person before, but she had emailed him a photo of herself. Frank had studied it well enough to think he could pick her out in a crowd now. He would have sent her a photo of himself, but he had none. Frank didn't own a camera, not even a cellphone camera; and he didn't feel he needed one.
He'd met Natalie online. She had shown up one day on his favorite website, Alarming Faiths, posting under the username, "Shadow". Just a day or two after she registered, Shadow posted in a thread Frank was idly following.
About half the threads on Alarming Faiths dealt with topics other than faith. That particular thread had soberly asked, Should Prostitutes be Required by Law to Wear Revealing Clothing? The thread was on its twelfth page of needlessly impassioned debate by the time Shadow posted in it.
Besides the usual two or three sides, a sizable number of posters were condemning the OP as too vague, and then demanding clarification. "The question entirely depends on what you mean by 'prostitute'.", more than one poster had happily pointed out. But by the twelfth page, the thread's entertainment value had largely petered out, and Frank was on the verge of losing his interest in it.
Then, Shadow posted. She began by briefly stating how she had put herself through university by working as a high-end escort. She went on to point out that many of her customers would ask her to dress in certain styles. School-girl. Nun. Even dowdy housewife. And she summed up with her opinion that requiring prostitutes to dress revealingly would most likely be bad for their business.
Frank had not been too impressed. At least, not impressed beyond the novelty of encountering a former prostitute, for Shadow was the first person in his time on Alarming Faiths to profess to that profession. But he nevertheless noted that her response had been alarmingly sensible -- at least, alarmingly sensible for Alarming Faiths.
A couple weeks went by before Shadow PMed him. She had something nice that she wanted to say about his most recent post in the hotly contested, Four Reasons Why I Think Weasels are Rodents, thread.
Momentarily, Frank felt mild condescension. She seemed more impressed with his post than he himself was. But he quickly got over that feeling when he realized she must be reaching out to him. Besides, he hated being idly condescending. So he promptly PMed her back with his thanks. And, just to be friendly, he told her the city and state he lived in, then asked her where she was from.
She PMed him at once that she lived in the same city and state. And she revealed herself as "Natalie". But even more interestingly, she asked him to join her in an online chat.
The two spent the rest of the evening on Yahoo. And when they had both come to their usual bedtimes, and it should have ended, their chat did not end. For they went right on chatting past midnight.
Natalie was a couple years older than Frank, but they were both in their early 30s. After a few hours talking in more or less generalities, they began to open up a little to each other. By two in the morning, when their chat finally ended, they had shared an impressive number of mild secrets. But only mild secrets.
Despite the mild secrets, and despite even the length of the chat, the two did not become really intimate with each other that night. Beyond a few vague, general words, they didn't discuss their families, their friends, nor even much about their love lives. And there was no exchange of last names, phone numbers, places of work. Nothing that would have allowed them to contact each other offline.
But what they did manage, the two of them, was to seal themselves as online friends. And, within a few weeks of their first chat, they had decided to meet in person -- yet, only as friends. They had many chats between them now, but the world's most appalling trinity -- the trinity of love, romance, and sex -- had been discussed only in impersonal terms.
________________________________
At last, both Frank and Natalie had fallen comfortably silent at the same moment. Natalie simply grinned at Frank from across their table at The Jamaican Jerk. Frank, however, was momentarily distracted with counting the empty Red Stripe beer bottles, and consequently missed the sheer openness of her grin. Their conversation had been far-ranging and lively: It had gone on for three hours before their first moment of simultaneous silence.
Frank was counting the empty bottles a little too studiously. There were only six of them to be counted because their waitress had cleared away the earlier ones. Nevertheless, Frank was taking his time. What was really on his mind was what to do next?
The casualness of their online friendship had deceived Frank. He had shown up unprepared for how quickly and thoroughly he would become attracted to Natalie. He knew what he should do now. He should say, "This has been fun! We should do this again, and soon!", or something like that, and then, ease into the inevitable goodbyes. Their lunch had dragged on about as long as it comfortably could.
But he couldn't bring himself to make the break.
Unknown to Frank, Natalie was feeling much the same way. She'd been almost as unprepared as Frank had been for the way they'd meshed. And now, she wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with him. Maybe they could go to a park.
Frank was thinking more recklessly than her. Much more recklessly. Helped along by the Red Stripes, he wanted to bring Natalie home with him. And he wanted to bop her socks. Bop her socks in every location in his house that he could imagine might be suitable to bopping. Over the past three hours, Frank had convinced himself that he'd never met anyone like her. Now he wanted, as soon as possible, to begin binding Natalie to him.
After a few more moments of silence, Frank looked up from their bottles and proposed it to her, "Would you like to see where I live?"
"Right now, I'd rather go to the duck pond", Natalie replied cheerfully, "Have you seen the willow tree? It's the biggest willow I've ever seen."
Ridiculously, Frank felt for a moment rejected. Natalie noticed the fleeting look of rejection cross his face, and she misinterpreted it as confusion. "Maybe he expects me to be easy", she thought. She'd encountered that before. Men just assumed that because she'd once been a prostitute, she was easy to bed.
She was too wise to be offended, though. "Come on! Let's do the duck pond!", she encouraged him with her biggest grin. Frank, seeing her grin, promptly recovered from his negative feelings. He nodded his consent with a huge grin of his own.
Natalie had a surprise in for Frank. The surprise was how greatly she would make him court her, how thoroughly she would test him, before she would at last have sex with him. For she had decided that Frank might -- just might -- become a genuine partner to her. And, despite all appearances to the contrary, Natalie was habitually very serious -- serious to the point of being demanding -- when choosing her real friends, and even more her real lovers. In matters of the heart, Natalie had always held out for the best.
He and Natalie had not met in person before, but she had emailed him a photo of herself. Frank had studied it well enough to think he could pick her out in a crowd now. He would have sent her a photo of himself, but he had none. Frank didn't own a camera, not even a cellphone camera; and he didn't feel he needed one.
He'd met Natalie online. She had shown up one day on his favorite website, Alarming Faiths, posting under the username, "Shadow". Just a day or two after she registered, Shadow posted in a thread Frank was idly following.
About half the threads on Alarming Faiths dealt with topics other than faith. That particular thread had soberly asked, Should Prostitutes be Required by Law to Wear Revealing Clothing? The thread was on its twelfth page of needlessly impassioned debate by the time Shadow posted in it.
Besides the usual two or three sides, a sizable number of posters were condemning the OP as too vague, and then demanding clarification. "The question entirely depends on what you mean by 'prostitute'.", more than one poster had happily pointed out. But by the twelfth page, the thread's entertainment value had largely petered out, and Frank was on the verge of losing his interest in it.
Then, Shadow posted. She began by briefly stating how she had put herself through university by working as a high-end escort. She went on to point out that many of her customers would ask her to dress in certain styles. School-girl. Nun. Even dowdy housewife. And she summed up with her opinion that requiring prostitutes to dress revealingly would most likely be bad for their business.
Frank had not been too impressed. At least, not impressed beyond the novelty of encountering a former prostitute, for Shadow was the first person in his time on Alarming Faiths to profess to that profession. But he nevertheless noted that her response had been alarmingly sensible -- at least, alarmingly sensible for Alarming Faiths.
A couple weeks went by before Shadow PMed him. She had something nice that she wanted to say about his most recent post in the hotly contested, Four Reasons Why I Think Weasels are Rodents, thread.
Momentarily, Frank felt mild condescension. She seemed more impressed with his post than he himself was. But he quickly got over that feeling when he realized she must be reaching out to him. Besides, he hated being idly condescending. So he promptly PMed her back with his thanks. And, just to be friendly, he told her the city and state he lived in, then asked her where she was from.
She PMed him at once that she lived in the same city and state. And she revealed herself as "Natalie". But even more interestingly, she asked him to join her in an online chat.
The two spent the rest of the evening on Yahoo. And when they had both come to their usual bedtimes, and it should have ended, their chat did not end. For they went right on chatting past midnight.
Natalie was a couple years older than Frank, but they were both in their early 30s. After a few hours talking in more or less generalities, they began to open up a little to each other. By two in the morning, when their chat finally ended, they had shared an impressive number of mild secrets. But only mild secrets.
Despite the mild secrets, and despite even the length of the chat, the two did not become really intimate with each other that night. Beyond a few vague, general words, they didn't discuss their families, their friends, nor even much about their love lives. And there was no exchange of last names, phone numbers, places of work. Nothing that would have allowed them to contact each other offline.
But what they did manage, the two of them, was to seal themselves as online friends. And, within a few weeks of their first chat, they had decided to meet in person -- yet, only as friends. They had many chats between them now, but the world's most appalling trinity -- the trinity of love, romance, and sex -- had been discussed only in impersonal terms.
________________________________
At last, both Frank and Natalie had fallen comfortably silent at the same moment. Natalie simply grinned at Frank from across their table at The Jamaican Jerk. Frank, however, was momentarily distracted with counting the empty Red Stripe beer bottles, and consequently missed the sheer openness of her grin. Their conversation had been far-ranging and lively: It had gone on for three hours before their first moment of simultaneous silence.
Frank was counting the empty bottles a little too studiously. There were only six of them to be counted because their waitress had cleared away the earlier ones. Nevertheless, Frank was taking his time. What was really on his mind was what to do next?
The casualness of their online friendship had deceived Frank. He had shown up unprepared for how quickly and thoroughly he would become attracted to Natalie. He knew what he should do now. He should say, "This has been fun! We should do this again, and soon!", or something like that, and then, ease into the inevitable goodbyes. Their lunch had dragged on about as long as it comfortably could.
But he couldn't bring himself to make the break.
Unknown to Frank, Natalie was feeling much the same way. She'd been almost as unprepared as Frank had been for the way they'd meshed. And now, she wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with him. Maybe they could go to a park.
Frank was thinking more recklessly than her. Much more recklessly. Helped along by the Red Stripes, he wanted to bring Natalie home with him. And he wanted to bop her socks. Bop her socks in every location in his house that he could imagine might be suitable to bopping. Over the past three hours, Frank had convinced himself that he'd never met anyone like her. Now he wanted, as soon as possible, to begin binding Natalie to him.
After a few more moments of silence, Frank looked up from their bottles and proposed it to her, "Would you like to see where I live?"
"Right now, I'd rather go to the duck pond", Natalie replied cheerfully, "Have you seen the willow tree? It's the biggest willow I've ever seen."
Ridiculously, Frank felt for a moment rejected. Natalie noticed the fleeting look of rejection cross his face, and she misinterpreted it as confusion. "Maybe he expects me to be easy", she thought. She'd encountered that before. Men just assumed that because she'd once been a prostitute, she was easy to bed.
She was too wise to be offended, though. "Come on! Let's do the duck pond!", she encouraged him with her biggest grin. Frank, seeing her grin, promptly recovered from his negative feelings. He nodded his consent with a huge grin of his own.
Natalie had a surprise in for Frank. The surprise was how greatly she would make him court her, how thoroughly she would test him, before she would at last have sex with him. For she had decided that Frank might -- just might -- become a genuine partner to her. And, despite all appearances to the contrary, Natalie was habitually very serious -- serious to the point of being demanding -- when choosing her real friends, and even more her real lovers. In matters of the heart, Natalie had always held out for the best.
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Ryan loves cuddling. Really loves cuddling. He loves it so much he always knew it would be his most serious problem in any relationship. Sure, a lot of people loved cuddling, but his love was unreasonable. Far too unreasonable. He'd usually want to spend hours on end doing nothing but cuddle, most intensely. Although, surprisingly, his love for cuddling hadn't actually properly manifested itself yet, not until he finally became in a relationship with Eva.
With Eva, he wanted to do nothing but cuddle, with an allowance for love making to be the only other thing they'd also do. In his mind, he needed at least 8 to 10 years of pure uninterrupted cuddling with her, before he could finally stabilize himself enough in order to function in other activities as well. Of course, his vision couldn't be realized, and as such, he suffered most dearly. Not because they didn't cuddle, they in fact cuddled more than he had in any of his past relationships, but it was not enough.
"Eva is just too damn cute.", he always said. Eva was flattered by his deep, unhealthy and near insane appreciation for her, but it sometimes got annoying. For instance, naturally, Eva liked to surf the internet during the evening, for at least an hour or two. But Ryan felt he had already suffered enough in the morning, when they were both at work and couldn't cuddle. Any wasted time in the evening was quite a trial to him. So, he managed to convince her to let him cuddle with her while she surfs the internet. They'd set up ways for that to work. Like, they'd get an armed chair aligned to the sofa, he'd sleep on the sofa, still sitting up a bit, she'd sleep on top of him, or crouch a bit, facing him, and put her laptop on the arms of the sofa and the chair behind his head, where she'd have to hug him in order to reach it.
It was not easy, but they found ways to make it comfortable, and he loved this. She'd be busy with the internet, while he kisses her softly on her neck, cheeks, smell her hair, hug her tightly and so on, and she would just enjoy it. Sometimes she'd even react to it, and interrupt her activity to kiss him back or something, at which his eyes would start getting teary. Each time though, naturally, she'd get uncomfortable after a while and want to sit straight. One day, as usual, after a while, she got tired and wanted to sit straight for a bit, so he said okay, and kissed her before getting up, like he always does. Only this time, he did a bit more than usual. He first kissed her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her neck, where he took more time to kiss it a few times, then her cheeks, a few times and more softly, and then, finally, her lips.
He then got up, and decided to get a drink. Eva suddenly said "Where do you think you're going?!". He looked back a bit startled, and was about to explain his intentions to get a drink, but she interrupted him. She looked down on the floor while signaling for him to come back with her hand, and said "Come back here". He got back and stood infront of her, she looked up and signaled for him to get lower. As he did, she grabbed him from his shirt gently and kissed him. She then reflected on him for a bit, watching him, then looked at her laptop and closed it, still grabbing his shirt. She pulled him in for another kiss, and did so most passionately. He started to lift her up as they kissed, and she wrapped her legs around him, and without hesitation, he headed for the bedroom.
With Eva, he wanted to do nothing but cuddle, with an allowance for love making to be the only other thing they'd also do. In his mind, he needed at least 8 to 10 years of pure uninterrupted cuddling with her, before he could finally stabilize himself enough in order to function in other activities as well. Of course, his vision couldn't be realized, and as such, he suffered most dearly. Not because they didn't cuddle, they in fact cuddled more than he had in any of his past relationships, but it was not enough.
"Eva is just too damn cute.", he always said. Eva was flattered by his deep, unhealthy and near insane appreciation for her, but it sometimes got annoying. For instance, naturally, Eva liked to surf the internet during the evening, for at least an hour or two. But Ryan felt he had already suffered enough in the morning, when they were both at work and couldn't cuddle. Any wasted time in the evening was quite a trial to him. So, he managed to convince her to let him cuddle with her while she surfs the internet. They'd set up ways for that to work. Like, they'd get an armed chair aligned to the sofa, he'd sleep on the sofa, still sitting up a bit, she'd sleep on top of him, or crouch a bit, facing him, and put her laptop on the arms of the sofa and the chair behind his head, where she'd have to hug him in order to reach it.
It was not easy, but they found ways to make it comfortable, and he loved this. She'd be busy with the internet, while he kisses her softly on her neck, cheeks, smell her hair, hug her tightly and so on, and she would just enjoy it. Sometimes she'd even react to it, and interrupt her activity to kiss him back or something, at which his eyes would start getting teary. Each time though, naturally, she'd get uncomfortable after a while and want to sit straight. One day, as usual, after a while, she got tired and wanted to sit straight for a bit, so he said okay, and kissed her before getting up, like he always does. Only this time, he did a bit more than usual. He first kissed her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her neck, where he took more time to kiss it a few times, then her cheeks, a few times and more softly, and then, finally, her lips.
He then got up, and decided to get a drink. Eva suddenly said "Where do you think you're going?!". He looked back a bit startled, and was about to explain his intentions to get a drink, but she interrupted him. She looked down on the floor while signaling for him to come back with her hand, and said "Come back here". He got back and stood infront of her, she looked up and signaled for him to get lower. As he did, she grabbed him from his shirt gently and kissed him. She then reflected on him for a bit, watching him, then looked at her laptop and closed it, still grabbing his shirt. She pulled him in for another kiss, and did so most passionately. He started to lift her up as they kissed, and she wrapped her legs around him, and without hesitation, he headed for the bedroom.