What if it comes out at my birthday party this weekend, while we sit, nude, post-coitus, in my sister's bed, the party raging just outside the barely-closed door?
Will you sit there, processing, wondering if I'm some(more) kind of whore, if I'd cheat on you if we were officially "together"?
Will you look around at the messy closet, the blue walls and movie posters, and wonder if you should leave?
Will you try to remember all the boys who have kissed me on the cheek, watched me dance with my girlfriends, and try to figure out who has been inside of me?
I want to tell you. I don't want to keep any secrets. And yes, my nickname is "Jezebel". This is the girl you've chosen to give birthday head to. The one you think of at work, distracted with a partial erection.
I want to tell you. And I want you to have a problem with it. But I don't want you to walk away.
I want you to tell me that you don't want to share me.
I want you to make it official.
I will be yours alone. I will be your Jezebel.(less)
I stare. I don't mean to make her uncomfortable, but I cannot help it. I have no words.
She smiles, an uneasy smile, like I might turn out to be a tiger in disguise. I am not a tiger, more of a pussycat, timid, dangerous only to mice and balls of foil. I(more) would purr in her lap if she would let me.
But everything I think to say sounds wrong in my head, so I say nothing. And the longer the silence, the more urgently I search for something to say, even clichés and pick-up lines.
In other settings I AM a tiger. Talking to clients, or a board member, I am ferocious. I listen for weakness, for a desire to follow me. Then I pounce, with words that inspire. I am beguiling, disarming, always convincing.
Not with her. I think about feigning a stutter, just to get out of this moment, but I refuse to be dishonest.
At last I speak, "I don't mean to stare," I start, not really sure where I am going with it. "It's just, um, I think I have the same hat." Well, at least it was something.
"Really?" she says. "Maybe we have similar taste."
"I'm Jenn," I say.(less)
They had went dancing with her friends that night and then proceeded to do the long walk home to one of her friend's houses. It was nice to cool down after dancing and he was too high on the evening to care about getting cold. They eventually go to(more) her friend's house.
Supposedly Jimi Hendrix had lived in this house before he became famous. He had stayed in the attic, and the only way to get up there was to crawl on top of the fridge. They didn't bother exploring that night since they were too tired.
There was a nook of a closet in the kitchen that was big enough for two people to lay down. He and she decided to sleep in that space that night, more for heat consolidation than for anything else. They were attracted to each other, but too nervous to do anything about it. They laid there with their backs to each other for the rest of the early morning in uncomfortable silence until they both fell asleep.(less)
Silence isn't uncomfortable. It's the awkward, stilted attempts at conversation which pepper it that make things uncomfortable. If we could all just learn to shut up and enjoy the silence, we'd be a lot better off.
Serenity. Calm. Peace. I miss these things in today's busy world. And(more) I'm as much to blame as the next guy--I can't leave my fancy new iPhone alone for more than a minute.
People these days see silence as a sign that something's not right: we're missing out on something, or we should be doing something else, making ourselves useful somewhere. It's like the silence is screaming at us. No wonder it's uncomfortable.(less)
I do enjoy,
when everyone else can't speak
because they know not
what they need to say.
I know exactly what to say, and
say it I do, with resounding batting
(more) of eyelashes, and pounding of hearts.(less)
He heard every breath she took, the rain that seemed to beat against the window pane like it was dying to get in, his own fingertips tapping gently, gently on the glass table top. He looked down; he heard his reflection screaming. And every rattling breath she took that chilled him(more) to the bone.
He saw words. They hid in his peripheral vision, but when he turned his head they would disappear. Words like sorry and blame and ugly. Words like sorry. They danced around the room, and his head followed each one, trying to find the right word to replace the sound of every breath she took. Every rattling breath that chilled him to the bone.
He shifted in his chair. He heard every worn thread rub against the stiff wood of his chair. He heard her heart stop. He heard her seeing him; he listened. No breath rattled, the rain beat against the window, dying to get in.
A single tear drop fell silently from her chin onto the countertop.(less)