Life of Pits

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tarkatony
tarkatony
253 Followers

"I'm loving this, John, I'm feeling the same way as you. I heard you get up, heard you go to the bathroom, heard you in the kitchen. I've been touching myself since I woke up. I'm wet, John. I'm going to get up, but I don't want you to see me all fresh and perky from a shower. I want you to see me right out of bed, with sleep wrinkles on my face and maybe a little smelly. I'm turned on, John, really turned on so I put on the minimum, a long tee shirt over my panties. I know my nipples are poking out but I don't care. No I do care, I want you to notice. I've never felt like this before. If you took me by the hand and pulled me into your bedroom I'd go and I'd beat you onto the bed. This is all new to me and I'm just thrilled I'm getting into it. Like thrilled doesn't quite tell the story."

"Well, I wish when you came into the kitchen you'd said something. You didn't, all you said was 'hi,' and I almost exploded at the word. I had to turn away or you'd notice the bulge in my pants."

"I didn't notice, John. Did you notice my nipples?"

"Before I turned away, yes, but I noticed the sparkle in your eyes, too and the crumpled, I-just-got-out-of-bed look and ..."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I pointed out the coffee and croissants then I went and had a shower, a cold one, a long cold shower. I didn't turn the water off until I'd lost my fucking hard-on."

"So that's it? I'm dressed in wet panties and a tee shirt and I'm drinking coffee, alone?"

"It's worse than that, Pits. I tell you to hurry up, we've got to be going — I yell it from my bedroom because I'm afraid to come out: I want you to have a shower and get some clothes on. I am fucked, Pits. You've turned me into a nervous fucking wreck. I haven't a clue how I'm going to get through the day. I'm thinking of taking you to the bus station."

"Ya, well, can you imagine how I feel? For the first time in my life I'm in some guys apartment, no bra, wet panties and a tee shirt — I'm out there, John, way out there and you don't seem to give a shit. Can you image how that makes me feel? I've read all your stories, fixed on this really romanticized vision of you, then I meet you, like your looks, like that you're a gentleman and then I'm standing in your kitchen with next to nothing on and you yell at me to get ready! You want to take me to the bus station? Fine, let's go."

"We're cowering in the corners of the elevator going down. You have on what you were wearing last night. So do I, more or less. Neither of us has said anything since I hollered from my bedroom. I'm counting the floors. I'm determined to say something by the 4th floor but it goes by and so does the 3rd and 2nd. And then the elevator stops and the doors open and you step forward to exit. That's when I put my hand around your waist. I get skin, I didn't mean to, I was about to apologize ..."

"I jumped into your arms didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Did I punch in the 14th floor?"

"No, I did."

"Liar, I did. We were trapped in there and the only place I wanted to go was up — to your apartment."

"Pits?"

"Ya?"

"You felt wonderful. You had your arms around my neck, your feet weren't on the floor, you were wiggling in my arms like an eel, my hands were on the hot, soft skin of your back. I could feel your breath on my cheek, I could smell you, Pits, your hair, your breath and I saw the reflection of your ass in the copper plating of the elevator."

"I've got a good ass, don't I."

"Spectacular."

"What floor are we on?"

"We just passed the 9th."

"What are we going to do, John? Do you know?"

"Are you kidding? Do you think I can actually think? I just don't want to let you go but the door is opening now and I have to. You drop to your feet and I follow you out of the elevator and down the hall. I'm fumbling for my keys."

"Can I take it from here, John?"

"I want to stop, Pits. I want some time on this. Can we break until tomorrow?"

"... Pits?"

"... Pits?"

"You don't need me any more, do you?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I've brought you to your bedroom door, now you don't need me. It's like all your stories: you can now go into your bedroom and do whatever you want to; you can get off any way you want to because you don't have to deal with a real person or the consequences; you can just manipulate the woman; twist her into the person you want her to be. How do you want me, John? Do you want me to keep my panties on? How wet do you want them? Do I go down on you? Take your big, long, veiny cock in my mouth and bring you to a place you've never been before? Well, here's what I want, John, I want to take my panties off, kneel on the bed, bend over and say, 'Kiss my ass.' Bye."

My first reaction was anger but I was too hurt for that. It wasn't true, I didn't need to think about my motives, I didn't need to search my soul, I didn't need to come to a deep truth about myself. It just wasn't true, there wasn't a scintilla of truth in her accusation. I wanted a break from our writing because I was in emotional overload. Just holding her, feeling her against me, feeling her wiggle in my arms — feel that she actually wanted to BE in my arms was a sensation I'd never felt before — I wanted it to last, I didn't want anything to intrude on a feeling that was so real to me I actually sniffed at my shoulder to see if her scent was there.

That's what I emailed her ... and while I waited in the chat room the next night I finally understood the word 'fate'. Something was in charge of my destiny and it wasn't me. It may not even be her. Maybe some people are just so socially fucked they can never connect, no matter how hard they try; it just isn't in the stars.

"You there, John?"

"Ya."

"Sorry."

"Did you really think that, Pits, that I wanted to dump you for my own imagination?"

"I've told you I have no self-esteem."

"It isn't me, Pits, I would never do that. How can you describe me as sensitive and caring one day and the next accuse me of being manipulative and diabolical?"

"Look, John, can we drop it? I was wrong. Sorry. Can we just get back in the elevator? Please? Look, I've got my arms around your neck, I can feel your hands on my back. OK? That's where I want to be. That's where I was all night, well, the part of the night when I wasn't crying."

"Shouldn't we be dealing with this, Pits? I mean we just got to a point in the story when something is going to happen and bam: I don't want to go into the bedroom until I've thought it through, and you think I don't want you, don't need you, that I'd rather dump you and go in there and fuck with my own imagination. I mean, we're writing this story to learn something about ourselves, aren't we? Doesn't this tell us something? Don't you want to discuss it, Pits, to learn from it? I do."

"The more you feel, the greater the fall."

"Is that it, Pits? You don't want to go into the bedroom because you're going to give yourself and if it doesn't work out you're going to crash and burn. Is that it?"

"Ya, flame out. I'm too fragile right now to flame out. I might never recover."

"In a way that's how I feel, too. I've had all my characters go into bedrooms like this and they always pull it off, they always get the girl. I guess I wanted to think it through so I could come up with a kind of fool-proof, fail-safe strategy so I'd be just like my characters, I'd go into that bedroom and find the one girl of my dreams and be blissfully happy for the rest of my life."

"So, last night in your bed when you were thinking of the story, did we ever make it in the bedroom?"

"No. Like I said, Pits, I wanted to hold you, I didn't want to let you go. But I also wanted some time to think about what we were going to do when we got on the bed. I didn't want to screw it up. And I can tell you, Pits, as nice as it is, I certainly didn't want to kiss your ass."

"That's the last word on the subject, OK?"

"Still. It did look ..."

"OK, John. Please? I'm sorry."

"OK. We leave the elevator, enter my apartment and head for my bedroom ... Jesus, Pits, I haven't thought it through. Let's leave it here. Let's log off until tomorrow? What do you say?"

"I say, take my hand, John, I don't want to think this through, I want to go in there with you and see what happens — and I want to come out a different girl."

"Are you sure, Pits? We've got a lot riding on this."

"Ya, I'm sure, I've never been so excited, the door is in front of us, I hesitate, I reach out for your hand ..."

"Are you really sure, Pits, Jesus, it's scary."

"I reach out my hand ..."

"I've got your hand, Pits, and we go into the room but I'm so nervous I won't let you on the bed, that's too final, too threatening. I turn you around and take you into my arms again, feeling the skin on your back, pressing my hard-on into you."

"I feel it, John, I get my arms around your neck again and hoist myself up, pressing my face into your neck ..."

"You're wiggling against me as you did before, squirming, my hand drops down and I feel the ass you asked me to kiss ..."

"Careful, John, we're in a really delicate situation here ... I kiss you, not very well, but I kiss you on the lips, I want you to know ... no, I want to encourage you, I'm afraid you're going to somehow back out — feel that you're taking advantage of me, somehow corrupting me. I want to show you I want this, I want this badly."

"Do you?"

"Jesus, John, how can you have any doubt? You should see me now: my nipple are almost poking the screen, my panties are soaked and otherwise I'm sitting in front of a computer nude. You put me here, John, you're the only reason I'm here, it's not my imagination, I don't have an imagination. You put me here."

"No I didn't, Pits, I didn't drag you into the room. We went in together, hand in hand. You wanted to go into that bedroom as badly as I did, and you're just as scared about failing."

"I'm not going to fail, I'm going to give this everything I've got. I'm climbing down from you now, John, feeling your penis against my leg and I'm pulling you to the bed: come on, John, I want to lie down with you, beside you, I want to touch you, I want you to touch me, I want to feel your fingers on me, John, will you come with me?"

"You're beautiful Pits, you're so thin and lithe, you move like a panther, you're kneeling on the bed, waiting for me, your nipples are almost poking through your tank top, but the real desire is in your eyes ..."

"Don't, John, don't describe me, get on the bed, touch me, let me take your clothes off, I want to take your clothes off, to feel you, I want to feel my skin against yours, please, John, get on the bed and take my clothes off. Please ..."

"I'm on the bed beside you, Pits ..."

"Yes, put your hands on me. Take my top off, John."

"I put my hands on your tiny waist and feel the heat ..."

"...the top, John ..."

"When I take the hem of your top you lift your arms high and I peal it off you and my eyes are on you when I let the top drop to the bed. Your nipples are fantastic, Pits, really ..."

"Don't describe me, John, take me."

"I push you down, but I'm still looking at your nipples. I've never seen nipples before, never imagined them to be so erotic ..."

"They're too big, impossibly big."

"They're yours Pits, they're beautiful. I bend down and lick one, then suck on it like I would a popsicle, but it's burning hot and salty and stiff and hard."

"I'm pushing at my shorts now, I can't wait, I'm pushing at my shorts and underwear, I want them off."

"I help you, I pull them away and when I do, I sit up and look at you."

"Don't John, please, don't look at me, just get on me."

"I push you down. The readers have to see you Pits, they have to see you like I'm seeing you. You are the story. You're lying on the bed with one leg straight and the other bent, like you've been caught in mid-squirm. You're slight, with a very narrow rib cage and tiny waist and you're white, really white making the sparse brown broken triangle at your crotch and your deep brown aureoles appear fantastically three-dimensional. And you're looking at me, with eyes as brown and riveting as your nipples. Your mouth is set, determined, impatient ..."

"I guess I'm impatient, get on me, John."

"I bend down and put my lips on the tiny roundness of your belly and I kiss you, down to your pubic hair, then up to your nipples. You are squirming now ..."

"Squirming? I'll show you squirming ... I push you off me and get to my knees and pull at your clothes, I'm frantically pulling at your clothes and you help me and in a moment you're standing beside the bed, naked, with a terrific hard-on only inches from my face. But I don't want that, not now, I want you on me, I want to feel you against me, I want my arms around you so I pull you onto the bed and onto me ... John?"

"Ya?"

"I'm done. I can't take any more. I want to hold you, I want to hold this. I want to stop for tonight, OK?"

"Me, too."

"But John?"

"Ya?"

"I want to have sex with you tonight, in my bed, I want you to want to get in my bed with me and I want it all, John, I want all the things you've written about. I want your lips on me, in my pussy, in my ass, I want you inside me and I want all of you, I want to devour you. Will you let me? Will you come into my bed with me tonight?"

"Take me, Pits, it's your imagination, can I stop you?"

"Easily, yes, you can tell me you don't want to be with me. That would stop me, John, that would stop me in my tracks."

"I want it, too, Pits, everything."

"You do?"

"Everything. Every bit of you."

"Take every bit of me, John, make me do wonderful things for you, I'll do anything, everything."

"Pits?"

"Yes?"

"You're really something. Whatever happens, I want you to know that you're the most interesting, passionate, sexy woman I've ever imagined. Don't you dare shrink from any of this, Pits. If it fails, it will be me, not you who has failed. Remember that, OK?"

"We're not going to fail, John. Neither of us."

----------

"It's Pits."

"Hi."

"Do you know what I did last night, John? I wrote the story, the entire fucking story from the beginning to the end."

"You did?"

"I did and I did it the way you suggested. I pieced all our emails together and all our chats. It's a good story, John, well, I think it's good and so does Alice."

"Alice?"

"She's a friend, a good friend. She loved it. She's the one who told me our story is over."

"It's over?"

"The story was always about my sexual awakening, right? Well, last night I awoke – big time. I found more passion in me than ... well, than I could ever have imagined, ever have hoped for. It worked, John, your idea really worked. I really am sexually alive. It's amazing. Thanks."

"I'm glad."

"But there's something else. Alice pointed it out. We were never telling a story, John, we were building a relationship — sure it might have been a virtual relationship, but it was a relationship. You started off calling me, Amy, remember? But you dropped the Amy, my fictitious name, almost from the beginning. Your story was always about Pits, John, always about Peachpit356, wasn't it? It was always about me, the person that wrote all those pathetic emails to you."

"The skinny girl with no tits and no self-esteem. Ya, for me it was about her right from the start."

"So, do you want to know how it ended? Do you want to know how our story ended?"

"Ya, of course I do."

"When I lay down on that bed with my legs open and my arms out to you, I became Jennifer Barker from Portland and you, when you lay down beside me, stabbing my leg with your hard-on, pressing your hot skin into mine, you are ..."

"... Pete Kimmel ..."

"You're Pete Kimmel of Seattle. We're really us, not the people we made up, not Pits and John."

"The story is that we make the fiction fact?"

"Exactly. What do you think? I can take a bus."

"I'd fuck it up, Pits, I know I'd fuck it up. I'd be scared shitless."

"Me, too, if I got out of that bus tomorrow I'd be a quivering twig, I know that, but I've got a solution Pete, and it'll work."

"What?"

"I get out of the bus with my backpack in my hand and you're standing there with the flowers in your hand but we both have something else in our hands, too. Do you know what, Pete?"

"No."

"This script. We play the parts we've already imagined, already played. That's our commitment. We are the characters in our own play so at the very least we end up in your bedroom, on your bed, nude. Who knows from there. Maybe we put our clothes back on and shake hands. But I don't think so, Pete. But first things first. Do you want me to get a bus ticket?"

"Pits?"

"Ya?"

"I have the script memorized. I've read it 30 times."

"Me too. So?"

"Hydrangeas or delphiniums?"

"This is going to be great, Pete."

"Pits?"

"Ya?"

"Can you take a plane?"

"It's gotta be a bus, Pete. Neither of us is strong enough. We've got to follow the script. We've got to hit our marks."

"The bus station it is. See you tomorrow ... Jennifer."

"It's Pits, Pete, I always want to be Pits to you. I found out last night that Pits is one sexy, sexy babe. I love her and I hope you will, too."

Chapter 2

A 35 year old standing at a bus station should never feel as nervous as I do. I'm a wreck, the flowers in my one hand and the script in the other look like they're rustling in a breeze. It's my nerves, I'm shaking like a leaf. I'm here to meet Pits, who described herself this way:

"I am skinny, no tits, none, shy, no self-confidence/esteem, never really had a date, work in a meaningless job in large corp, unhappy, no prospects, no hobbies, sexually ignorant, maybe even sexless."

I don't know if that's accurate but I do know she'll be wearing a tank top and shorts when she gets off the bus, and she'll be carrying a backpack and a script, just like the one I'm holding.

I'm a wreck because of the pressure I've put on myself. I've never had a relationship with a woman, except for Pits, and our relationship has only been through emails and chats. Sight unseen, I like her, I like her a lot. Every since we began our correspondence almost two weeks ago, I've been thinking about her, constantly, and I thought about her last night, every second of it, almost always with an erection. I've convinced myself that she's the woman I've always dreamed of; she's the one woman who will prove that I'm not the socially fucked asshole I've always thought myself to be, that I'm capable of a real relationship.

Shaking like a leaf, I can feel it: Pits is going to get off the bus in a minute and I won't want her to leave; I'll want her to stay in my life forever.

I see the backpack first, then the script, but they don't register, not for a moment — because they're in the hands ... of a child, a child who's eyes quickly survey the station and now rest on me. There is a beaming smile on the child's face, like she's been given a magnificent gift, and she's running towards me.

"You're just a kid!" I couldn't have been more shocked.

She stops in front of me, her smile vanishes, "What are you talking about? I'm not a kid! I'm almost 22."

"But I'm 35."

"So?"

"I thought you'd be much older. My age."

"You don't look 35. But so what?"

"So what? So you're young enough to be my daughter!"

"Bullshit!" She waves the script at me, ignoring the people beside me. "Look, dump me if you want, but you can't do it until we end up nude together on your fucking bed, that was our deal." She turns away. "Where's your car?"

As we walk to the car I try to take her backpack and give her the flowers but she fends me off. And she ignores me in the car, too until we've gone a few miles, "Why did you ask me to come all the way to Seattle if you're just going to find the first fucking excuse to send me away?"

tarkatony
tarkatony
253 Followers