Monday, September 12, 2018

“Roads Untraveled” by Linkin Park floored me.

I screenshotted the lyrics, thinking I might show them to you, even though I’d never say the words out loud. I wasn’t good at honest emotions. Still, I read the lyrics over and over, trying to build up the nerve to tell you how I really felt:

You don’t make me feel beautiful.

You don’t ask about me.

You don’t act like a boyfriend. I want a fucking boyfriend.     

I didn’t care that we couldn’t be forever. This time around, I’d made it clear that I needed an emotional connection—and you weren’t delivering.

And yet, I still wanted you. Instinctively. Stupidly. I wanted you to hold me, even when you made me feel invisible. I couldn’t explain how the obsession had started or why. But it was here now—consuming me. And I couldn’t make my feelings go away.

Then you called.

“Fucker,” I muttered. It was 8:20 p.m. You’d said 7:30–8ish, but I knew that meant 8:30. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks—not since that wild night at the sex club and Airbnb. You’d been in Chicago, totally off the grid.

“Hey,” you said when I picked up. “I’m running late.”

Your voice undid me. Just like that.

Shit. I love you.

You had a quick stop—for weed—then you’d come get me.

I was at Second Cup, tired and cold, editing a chapter from the dating book I was writing. Not coincidentally, it was about how to leave emotionally disruptive men.

At 8:40, you pulled up in your grey Toyota. I’d swapped my conservative work blouse for something tighter. More suggestive. Too much effort for someone who couldn’t show up on time.

I opened the door and met your gaze—molten brown, like burnt sugar, that narrow black goatee you wore like a signature, sharpening your features. Your hair was a dark mess of half-waves, wild in that curated way. You bent over the wheel, wiry and electric. I hated how much I needed you.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Yeah.” I dropped my bag at my feet. No smile. No warmth.

“Well, hi.” There was a flicker in your eyes. You leaned in. I gave a quick kiss, but frustration outweighed desire.

You surprised me by asking about me for once, instead of launching into a story starring you in Chicago.

“I’ve been writing,” I said, cautious.

Your voice softened, almost like you cared. “What were your characters doing today?”

“It’s nonfiction. I’m juggling two manuscripts.”

“Oh? What’s this one about?”

“The psychology of dating.”

“How so?”

“It’s not the cliché stuff—like what to wear on a first date. It’s more about the inner stuff. About you.”

“Me?” Your eyebrows lifted.

“Not you—you. The reader.”

“Oh.” You smirked. “Mind you, I would make a very good subject.”

You told me your day had been packed—working on your second Master’s, your job, meetings on the side.

“Which went over, as you can see,” you added. That was your version of an apology.

“What kind of meetings?”

“I’m trying to get into digital marketing. Only have one contract so far. I’m building.”

We passed a giant Asian market, and your eyes lit up.

“Ever been there? They have great veggies.”

I shook my head. “I’d avoid the meat.”

“Same. Maybe the fish. But I don’t eat much fish.”

“I can’t stand it,” I said. “Too fishy.”

You laughed. “Like beer tasting too much like beer?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t bring beer. I’ve got rum.”

“Got any juice?”

“No. Want some?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “To the Superstore!”

Inside, you held my hand while I grabbed tropical juice. You picked up vegetables, and we stood in the long checkout line with your arm around me.

“I’m only using you for heat,” you teased.

“I’m using you, too.”

And I didn’t mind. Not right then. Talking felt good. Watching you move through the world felt good. I wish you’d slip your arm around me like that more often, do little things to show me you cared, that you wanted me to be yours.

Even though I wasn’t.

Even though I could never be.

We arrived at Cherry Beach quickly. You stayed in the car a while, rolling your joint. We walked past a campfire where a small group played drums, laughter rising with the smoke.

Your eyes gleamed. “At any other time, I’d join them. At any other time.”

I rolled my eyes. Why did everything seem to fascinate you more than I did? Except for when we were naked and getting kinky. That fascinated you plenty.

“I can tell.” But this was our date. No drum circles for you tonight.

We laid down our blankets on the far side of the beach. I gave you gum to kill the weed taste. I never even knew you smoked weed before. Now you seemed to do it all the time. Maybe you finally felt comfortable enough to open up to me, at least in that small way.  

You produced two plastic champagne glasses and poured us Malibu cocktails.

Malibu brought back memories of other drunken summer nights with you, making out in your car, under the stars. Anticipation sizzled in my chest.

“Cheers.”

I clinked mine to yours as we snuggled up. Your arm circled my waist. The lake lapped softly. Stars winked above us. My head nestled into your shoulder.

You were here. With me. You were the person I wanted—the one who made me smile, who gave life texture and color. Even if you also made me feel invisible the moment we parted. But we were unofficially back “on” now. Maybe we’d have more meetups. Maybe you’d actually try, like you said you would.

We drank. We kissed. You lay me down, facing you, arms around each other. I straddled your leg and gazed into your eyes.

“We are not falling in love,” you said, wistfully.

“What? I didn’t say that.”

Translation: we’re already falling.

I should have asked you what you meant. Was I really that important to you? Was that why you were still so guarded, lest we lost ourselves completely in each other?

You pulled me close and kissed my hair, and I beamed, high on you.

Time always flew when we made out. I could have spent years wrapped up in your arms and not even realized it.

“Drink break,” you announced, pulling out more liquor—vodka, I guessed. I was already drunk enough, but Drunk Ellie always wanted more, and you were quick to refill.

“I brought a few of the instruments from last time,” you said carefully, watching my reaction. “The chain and plug.”

Dog collar and chain. Butt plug.

I smirked. “Hmm, we’ll see… What did you have in mind?”

“I’d put it on you and make you walk on your hands and knees.”

A thrill fluttered through me.

“And then you’d suck my dick.”

I laughed. You still underestimated me.

We talked constellations. Then you brought up philosophy.

“But we can’t talk about religion,” you added. “That’s the one thing we can’t talk about.”

“My friend Nina and I are like that with The Hunger Games,” I said. “We can’t agree.”

“The Hunger Games? What don’t you agree on?”

“Gale vs. Peeta. And the ending. There was no hope. Harry Potter was sad too, but good still won out over evil.”

“You mean love triumphed over hate,” you said.

“Same deal.”

“They’re actually very different.”

“Not to me.”

“So, you don’t like dark reality.”

“No, I do. It just has to be well-written. There was this WWII book I read that was really dark but—”

Your eyes dropped to my chest. “I just noticed your top.”

“Just now, eh?”         

I knew you would never remember what I’d started to say before. You were too distracted by me. Or maybe you were too distracted in general to pay attention for real.

You leaned in, slow and warm. We kissed—tongues dancing, heat rising. My hands twined around your neck, fingers threading through your dark hair. Your hands slipped under my shirt, up my skirt, and I melted against you.

I put the drink down, undid your belt, and slid my hand inside. Your fingers worked magic between my legs. I moaned, grinding against you.

You pulled me into your lap. One hand cupped my breast, the other moved lower. Your mouth found my neck. I twitched and pulsed, breathless.

Just when it was almost too much, you’d stop—smirking.

You did that five, maybe six times. I was soaked and aching.

“I like playing with your clit,” you said.

“Mmm,” I whispered. So did I.

“I’d like it even more with my dick inside.”

Nope. My rule. We weren’t exclusive. I couldn’t give you my first time—not when you’d leave my texts hanging for hours. Sometimes even days.

Now I faced you, on my knees. I reached into your pants as we kissed, trailing my lips down your neck.

“If we could have sex,” you murmured, “we’d go all night.”

Oh, yes.

You lay me back against your knee, fingers circling again. I watched your face watching me, saw the satisfaction you took in my pleasure. That turned me on even more.

If only you cared this much when I wasn’t half-naked.

We rested, tangled together.

“What’re you thinking?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just looking.” You tilted your head to the stars. “You?”

“The collar.”

You perked up. “Mmm. What about it?”

“You could put it on me. Use commands—sit, lie down, roll over. Then do whatever you want.”

Your smile was wicked.

“Within bounds,” I added. “And then at some point, I could suck your dick.”

You pulled me close. I leaned into your chest while your hands cupped my breasts—slow and sure. I watched them move. Completely transfixed.

“I like when you touch me,” I said.

“I like that you like watching me touch you.”

At Paradise, the sex club, you’d watched the other couples while we made out. I hadn’t noticed anyone else. Only you.

Now, you circled my breasts in your palms, pushed them together. My stomach dipped.

We lay back in each other’s arms. I never wanted you to stop. You kissed along my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

But it was late. Cold. The mosquitos were out. You were congested—not dying, you said—just triggered by Chicago. Asthma. And maybe all the drinking and lack of sleep.

We packed up, hand in hand. Swans floated across the dark lake. The drum circle had quieted. In the parking lot, a fancy car blasted music.

“Always a party here,” I said.

Then we drove toward my place.

“So, tell me about Chicago,” I offered, knowing you were waiting for the chance.

You launched in—cockroaches, canceled reservations, wandering the streets all night. The weed run at 3 a.m., fourteen floors up in a creepy apartment full of empty beer bottles. You’d thought you were going to die. You sprinted out with Andre like it was a horror movie.

I laughed.

Stupid boys.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

We arrived at my block, circled for a dark spot.

“Back?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

We climbed into the back seat. You pulled off my panties and top.

“Wait, I have music.” I leaned into the front for my bag. You bit my ass playfully. I squealed and cued up a playlist.

We kissed. You tasted like me. We were sweaty, not fresh. I didn’t care.

You lay me down. Started to 69 me. I moaned while reaching for the condom behind you.

I rolled it on, then took you in my mouth. You licked me again—slow, insistent.

When I got up to change my playlist (Drop Hot Sex Songs), you shifted to sit up, eyes jumping from my face to your cock.

“Mouth,” you said, gaze dark.

I smirked, dropping to my knees. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

I kissed down your chest, teasing.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You were breathless.

I began to suck. You held my hair and guided my rhythm—faster, then slower.

Like my heart.

Like this fucked up, irresistible situationship.

disclaimer

this isn’t a construed

fictional story

with a beginning,

middle and

ending

it’s the unabridged

version of my

love life

no creative

interpretations,

no editing

because

i just want to

share my experiences,

what i went through

because not all

bad boys

become

good guys

not everyone that you

love

will love

you

head games

as i learned

the hard way,

your mind often doesn’t

tell you the truth,

confusing

obsession for

he must be the one

thinking you

can’t live

without

him

so you accept

his questionable

behaviour as

“good enough”

it’s not love, love

spoiler:

it isn’t good enough,

but you’re enough

i want you to know that,

that you don’t

need his

non-love

and i’ve penned my story

so that maybe

you’ll feel less

alone

if you’re stuck

if you’re going

through something

similar,

if you’ve made

unstable people

your home

if your heart

and mind

are at war,

if your existence

consists of

treacherous highs

and lows

if you don’t know

where the hell

to go,

if you can’t stop,

but you know

that you can’t

keep going,

it’s not over

if you think that

you love

him

but you’ve

never felt so

miserable,

if it’s poisoning

your soul

but you still can’t

let go

i get you

i’m here for you

and i promise you

there’s hope

Part I: Simmer

3 years earlier…

Free on Kindle Unlimited. Read it HERE.

Prologue: