The Night That Haunts Me

This letter was one I planned to send to someone who used to be a friend, and never did. While there is a mildly sensual part near the middle, it's not extremely steamy like my last work. Please leave comments, I have more works on the way and want to know what's enjoyed.

Dear [REDACTED],

I don't know what I did wrong, but I could guess. However, I will never know because you refused to discuss it.

The drive up north to camp had been a long one, nearly six hours. You played the most beautiful music while I drove, handed me water as requested, and read the directions as needed. The drive would have been easier if I had my lovely new car back then, but alas, I was driving my old stick shift Toyota Yaris, which had no cruise control. I loved shifting into fifth gear because it meant that my hand would brush your leg.

Upon arriving, I set up camp. I loved taking care of you, providing you with heat, electricity, and water. But when I walked in and heard the vacuum running, smelled the aroma of savory spices on the stove, saw a freshly rolled joint waiting on the table, that was when I first realized that I wanted something more. But boy, I was not ready for that to come true as it did.

Sitting on the stairs, smoking that joint, listening to the world outside, I found myself staring at you. You were sitting a step below me, and it gave me an opportunity to really appreciate your neatly combed black hair, and the musky smell of your cologne. Your handsome plaid shirt looked so distinguished in the moonlight.

Everything after that point was hazy. I remember sitting on the bed, and how you joined me, instead of sleeping on the couch. You were scribbling away in your notebook. Oh, how I loved to watch you write. Left-handed, with round letters that looked like soft bubbles. Then you walked away, telling me not to read it, and leaving the book in my line of sight, and I really do believe that you wanted me to read it. But I think you would kill me, if you knew I snapped photos. Yes, each page. They're somewhere in one of my flash drives.

You talked about being high, about being an artist, questioning other authors. You talked about me, or how you imagined me anyway. You discussed my friends at University that you've never met, about potential crushes you thought I had. Oh yes, and about my breasts. They're huge, aren't they? About how you wanted me on top of you. You said wanted me, and damn it was flattering. I put the book back and was laying down when you came returned. You confessed your feelings for me, and I said I shared them.

I hate you now, I do, but I still get that flutter in my stomach when I remember how you asked me. I wasn't facing you, you were behind me, laying so close. You were so warm and cozy. You asked me, in a husky whisper, "Do you want to have sex?" And I whispered back "Yes."

I don't know what I did wrong, but I could guess. I had plenty of time to think about it, since we didn't say anything for almost the entire ride home.

I remember turning around, the closeness, the way my brain was foggy when I asked it what we were doing. Your body felt so fucking good. You were so good. I don't even remember how I lost my pants so quick. I remember the feeling of your leg pressed up against my intimate area, your fingers running along my spine making me shiver. I wanted to touch your breasts. Maybe that's what bothered you. I wanted to taste you, kiss you... I was so nervous though, so confused, and so tired.

You pulled away and I didn't push you. I stared off into space, watching the walls pulse with the high. Then you came back again, running your hand along my thigh. I responded in turn, reaching my hand back and softly laying my hand on your side, but then you sat up. I don't remember now what you said, but I remember it hurt. It was something about living up to expectations, and I didn't know what to say. I think you said "I'm not what you thought." What is that supposed to mean?

Perhaps you were disappointed with me. I've always been a bottom, and a morning person.

Do you know that when we laid back down, and I was again facing the wall, that I cried? I felt embarrassed and stupid. I wanted you to leave, but you didn't. You slept in my bed all night. In contrast, I didn't sleep. I wanted to get up and clean myself off, covered in a cold sweat and feeling the dampness between my legs, but there was no way for me to get up without climbing over you.

The drive down south back home was a long one, nearly six hours. The ride was silent, and you wouldn't speak to me. We stayed in fourth gear the entire way home.

I don't know what I did wrong, but I could guess. Did your boyfriend ever know?

Sincerely, [REDACTED]