I do not usually write in the first and second persons, but in this case, it fits. And while there is no eroticism, there are some allusions to it. If this is not your style, you may wish to move onto the next story.
Although the other character in this complete fiction is obviously a lover, the intimate friend is in fact a composite of many wonderful individuals who were, and still are, there for me throughout the years, platonic and otherwise. They have helped me through some very difficult times, whether knowingly or unwittingly. They are people who have marked my soul, many of them not knowing how much they have helped and touched me.
This is my way to thank them and I'd like to name them in no particular order: the scariest sub ever, the patron saint of desks, the dirty Underworld, my workout buddy, the blue dragon, my fellow Banger, naughty hands, my stalker/stalkee, the sailor, Candy dream-weaver, jouet/Goddess, the storm, wood nymph, the Pirate, the curved one, my eyeroller fan, moon man, the daisy sensuality and the wayward-led. And Lui. Toujours Lui.
"You too. Mmhmm, me too. Take care. Of course it is... talk with you soon." I ended the call with a puzzled frown, my brows furrowed. I didn't know what to make of that short chat. As always, our talk was stimulating, it was entertaining, but it was bizarre. You have asked me to do something that I would normally refuse to even consider, let alone do.
I was bored, mindlessly surfing the ever-expanding Internet, playing a stupid game. I was desperately trying to forget the article that still have yet to be written -- despite an alarmingly rapidly-approaching deadline -- the pile of research that I have to go through that I have barely touched and work that I really should get to. I look forward to our near-daily chats as a brief reprieve from the daily dull grind of monotony, ennui and procrastination and you knew it. At 5 sharp, as usual, the phone rang. I answered, my eyes glued to the screen of my laptop as I concentrated on the riveting action of yet another extraterrestrial being obliterated into a bloody pulp by my cleverness. "Hello?"
"Hey, sweetie. How are you?"
"Not bad, and yourself?" I said automatically.
"Good, thanks. It was a busy day, but really good, you know?" I must have made some sort of sound of acknowledgement because you continued. "I mean, I managed to do everything that I hoped to. I started the day with a run with the dogs... baby, the morning was perfect. Oh wait, you don't like mornings - I always forget. Anyway, it was a great morning, I was so refreshed, got through the day and finished early. Me and the guys even got to shoot a little pool before heading home. Anyway! What about you? Made any progress?"
"Die, you bastard! Just fuckin' die! C'mon, why won't you die? You should be in pieces by now. God knows that I'm killing you enough!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologised. "I was trying to blow up some aliens..." My voice trailed off as I realised that the excuse was beyond pathetic. You call me almost every single day, remembering the little details I tell you, and perhaps more importantly, you truly listen to me, even when you've heard my complaints for the umpteenth time. I felt ashamed at my insensitivity. "Babe," I began. "I'm so sorry... I really am. I feel terrible."
"Should I call back?" The question was asked simply, with no hint of impatience or sarcasm. My shame deepened.
"No. Really. I'm truly sorry. And I am happy that you've had such a good and fulfilling day."
"Ah! So you have been listening," you teased.
"Yeah," I told you sheepishly. "In between blowing up E.T."
"Nothing, really. Tell me more about this morning of yours. What made it so spectacular?" I asked while closing the cover of my laptop.
"Avoiding the question?" I could almost feel your rolling eyes on the other end of the line. I began to chuckle.
"Not really, baby. Just the same, that's all. I'm not going to chew your ear off."
"Ah, but you do chew so wonderfully." I couldn't help but blush, and I knew that you could hear it in my laugh. I made a mental note to do something about it. You chuckled as you continued, amused by my blush. "It was just one of those mornings, you know? But seriously... what's wrong?"
"I just..." I sighed. "I can't focus. At all. Nothing is getting done, and it's frustrating. And the more I get frustrated..."
"The more you can't get things done," you finished.
"Yeah." The silence stretched, and I could almost hear you thinking, sorting your thoughts.
"Have you been able to write anything at all?" I was a little surprised, but learned early on that your thoughts tended to jump from one to the other, seemingly disjointed, but always having some sort of logical conclusion.
"Sort of, I guess," I answered.
"I was able to start some poems, some stories, even some essays, but..." I trailed off, almost embarrassed to finish this thought. I prided on my disciplined mind, and felt discomfited by the fact that this control, this almost mythical state of being, has become so elusive that it has slipped from my grasp
"I, uh, well," I sighed. "Ah, fuck it! I can't finish anything I start to write."
"Nothing. I have some snippets, stanzas, and paragraphs, some of them quite brilliant, if I say so myself. But nothing coherent, and nothing complete." I actually hung my head when I told you this.
"Nothing," you repeated slowly. I waited. I knew you were digesting everything I told you and, whether I liked it or not, you were going to offer me your opinion, a solution that could help or could come crashing down like a stack of cards. It was perhaps the one thing that frustrates me so about you, but is also somehow oddly endearing.
"You know what I think?" Ah, there it is. "I think that you need to write something personal."
"Yeah. Everything you write has you distanced. Most of your short stories are in the third person, your essays are logically construed thoughts, there are hardly any emotions, your thesis - well, have to be as objective as possible, that's for sure, and then -- "
"Hey!" I interrupted. For some reason, I get a little defensive about the passion level of my work. Although I pride myself on being distant, on being logical and examining issues from many angles, I also know that my essays and articles are filled with the passion that I feel towards a particular subject. It's the one praise that is often used to describe my work, whether positively or not. "My essays can be pretty passionate!"
"Yes," you explained, patiently. I marveled at his ability at keeping an even tone in face at this outburst. "But it's not emotional. You don't inject you in it. You bring an issue, you explain so bloody logically why or why not, you show your passion, but it's not... you," you finished baldly.
"And what about my poems?" I asked quietly. My heated emotion that momentarily flared up ebbed.
"Sweetheart, the ones you do finish, lately... something has been lacking. And you know it. You've told me yourself. And besides, your poems may have your passion, but there is an element missing."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"My sensuality," I repeat, dumbly.
"Yeah, your sensuality. And I don't necessarily mean sex. I mean your raw sensuality. That part of you that you tend to keep hidden for God knows whatever reason. That spark in your eyes when you're talking about something close to you. Think about the time we've had that bottle of wine, when you were last over."
My mind flashed back to the moment you were talking about, to that decadent bottle of wine, so rich and full, and how it took us two hours to drink it, moving from the veranda to the bed, the slow tango of talk, caresses and pure bliss. It ended with raw carnality. My skin was marked for days from your touch, my lips stained by your taste, my blood singing, craving more. I unconsciously let out a sigh.
"Think how you reacted to it," you continued. "The way you licked your lips, leaving them moist. The way your body responded. The shivers, the goosebumps, the way we felt just lying next to each other, skin touching, drinking, talking. The way your pussy got so wet when you got excited about that book you've just read. The intensity of our lovemaking afterwards. That's what I mean. Put that into your writing. Write something personal. Something about you -- the whole you. Not just the thoughts and the logic and the objectives. Not the passion of an issue, or sexuality -- although you know, I really wouldn't mind -- " I smiled at the implied hint. "But write something personal with all that, and with your sensuality." You paused for a breath. "Put you in it."
"Put me?" I was momentarily stunned. Writing for me was to explore, was to figure out, and to unwind. But I've always kept myself out. "Let me get this straight... you want me to put me in something I write?"
"Yeah. It'll help. You open yourself up, you'll be able to finish."
"Huh," I muttered.
"Look, it can't hurt to try, right?"
"I suppose not."
"Baby, please... try it. For me. Write something and put you in it."
"I'll give it a go," I couldn't believe that I gave in so quickly. From the startled silence, I think neither could you.
"Really?" you've asked. I think that you were in shock that I didn't offer an argument.
"Wow. Aw, shit. Damn, I have to go. I'm meeting some guys for dinner."
"Okay, have fun. Tell them I say hi and that I give them each a kiss."
"You'll have made their day," you laugh. "Take care."
"I miss you... you know that, right?"
"Mmhmm, me too."
"I really should go."
"Oh, and I'll try calling you again tonight, if that's alright?"
"Of course it is... I'll talk with you soon."
I ended the call, deep in thought, staring into empty space. Before long, my muscles began to cramp and stretching, I opened my laptop. My life, I often joked. The almost annihilated alien was frozen on my screen, staring out; its bloodied face a parody of my own puzzled one. I ended the game and opened up a blank document. I stared at the blinking cursor, mesmerized, my thoughts running over our conversation. As usual, my body was at its edge, my blood boiling from having talked with you. I gently brushed my breast, tweaking my nipple, a moan escaping my lips. I knew fully well that I was aroused. My mind racing, debating whether I should just give up this futile attempt and head off to my bedroom, and play with myself until I groan your name, my walls convulsing around my fingers. Although I was turned on, I wanted this. I wanted this challenge, I wanted to meet it, and I knew that by finishing it, I would be that much more aroused. I just didn't know what to write. I wasn't in the mood to write something detailing my fantasies. What I wanted to write, what I promised to write, what I was told to write, was me. But where and how to begin?
Settling on my chair more comfortably, my leg hooked under me, I lean on my elbows and slowly begin to type, "You too. Mmhmm, me too. Take care. Of course it is... talk with you soon."