Requisite Vices (19 page)

Chapter 21

The sun bursts throug
h
the window, assaulting my face. A tear-stained pillow is clutched to my chest, and the smell of bacon is in the air.

Mmm, bacon.

I crawl out of bed, wash up, and slip downstairs; the nightmare already filing itself away neatly in a box without much effort. I’ve done it so many times before, that it’s become habit; as natural as taking a breath of air.

Downstairs, Riley is a whirlwind in the kitchen, whipping up scrambled eggs with bacon and toast. She spots me as I step off the stairs, and runs to greet me with a big hug.

“Good morning! I’ve made breakfast, but then I have a few deliveries to make.”

Over the last few weeks, she found a way to make money off of her talents. About a week ago, she ventured into creating a webpage, and went crazy taking pictures of various desserts that she’s managed to whip up in our kitchen. To my surprise, her website really took off, and within that small window, she managed to pull in half a dozen orders. Not bad considering the small time frame, and frankly, it’s about time she started helping with the rent.

She ushers me to the table, sits me down then brings out our plates along with freshly squeezed orange juice.

“How are you feeling?” she asks cautiously, eying me from across the table.

Ah, so this is what it’s all about. This is a stop-feeling-like-shit breakfast. I should’ve known.

“Better.” I smile as I take a slice of fatty, greasy goodness and chomp down. Oh man, bacon. It’s better than sex, at least, for the moment.

We eat and clean up over the some light conversation. She talks a bit about Tom, and his newest building project. He’s an architectural consult for the city, and has been fairly busy over the last week with work. He always finds time for her though, and it makes me smile with a bit of hopeless longing. I’m happy for her. I love her, and if she’s happy than I’m happy.

They’ve somehow managed to keep their spark alive, and have kept the butterflies fluttering between them for almost two years now. They’ve had their fair share of fights, but I think they’ve both learned a little give and take. Especially Riley, who can be very demanding of attention at times, and not just from Tom, but from me as well.

This thing she’s began building up for herself is the start of her personal independence, and it’s nice to see her doing something that she’s so passionate about. She had been swimming in a sea of lost ideas. Things she wanted to do with her life but didn’t act on, which led to a general hopelessness at times, followed by a shopping spree with money she didn’t have.

We help each other out, and I hate the thought that maybe, one day, Tom will whisk her away and she’ll be too busy carrying around a baby on her hip and reading Good Housekeeping, to have time for me. She’ll be happy, and I’ll be ecstatic for her, but the thought of being alone, hurts.

My writing has always been an escape for me, but it only holds for so long, because once the pencil falls, the silence presses in around me, bringing with it whispered thoughts from the past. It’s suffocating; an agonizing pain with which I’ve struggled to deal with my entire life. My coping mechanisms aren’t always the best either, I’m afraid, but everyone has their vices. Everyone has their own little unique way to deal with the harshness of the world. Everyone finds a little addiction deep inside that drives away the pain of the day to day, even if it’s for a second. How else would you get through the day? I know I’m rationalizing. I know the unhealthy ways to cope, and I’ve touched on every single one of them at one point or another. I like to think we all do. It’s what helps me feel like I’m not such an abnormality.

After checking on me yet again to make sure I’m okay, Riley busies herself in the kitchen to double check her paperwork, then she begins to gather her deliveries. I joke that if she winds up being some famous chef, she’s buying my next house, and she laughs.

I head upstairs and sit at my desk, which overlooks the front yard, and scowl at the desk calendar which hadn’t had its’ pages torn off for several weeks now. I cheat a peek at my phone to verify the date. It’s Thursday. Fuck. I missed another class day. Of course I did. I’ve been so shot for the last several days that it’s a miracle I remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

I turn on my monitor and pull up my inbox, sending out one mass email to my students basically saying ‘Hey, things came up, do this for the next time we meet’ then run my fingers absently over my flash drive.

Slipping it into the USB slot, I pull up my brainstorming ideas, then remember that Delacroix had edited my article on him. I don’t really mind that he had some suggestions for my article, but having someone I barely know reading something I wrote, one on one, is almost like peeling back my skin and baring my soul to their scrutiny. It’s unnerving.

What if he read it and found it horrendous? The biggest fear being; what if he finds that I’m not as intelligent and well-spoken as he may have previously suspected? There are other fish in the sea though, right? I’m sure if I wait around long enough, I’ll eventually find some hunky, well-spoken man who’s just as eloquent, and he’ll sweep me off my feet and whisk me off into the sunset.

I stifle a giggle at the thought. Hah…yeah, a regular knight in shining armor. They don’t exist. It’s just not practical. There is no perfect man, and with that said, there’s also no perfect women. Besides, I’m not one much for the typical specimen of hyper-masculinity.

We’re all a little fucked up. There is no fairytale ending. I am by no means saying you should settle. I’ve tried that. I settled for this man who I thought was great, at first. He was a wonderful guy for the most part, but not entirely affectionate. We sat on separate couches when watching movies, and apart from the kiss we’d share when we first saw each other for the day, there were no other real intimate encounters.

He was completely and utterly devoid of desire. That’s all well and good if sex wasn’t all that important to me, but I guess I’m a bit of an asshole in that way. Sex is incredibly important, and not only is it important, but it has to mean something. I need to be able to feel my partner’s passion and emotions during it, or it does nothing for me. I need to know they want it, and want me. It was something that lacked from every brief sexual encounter we had together, and it got to a point where I threw my hands up in exasperation and tried to find other ways in which to cope.

Finding other reasons to stick around proved to be a lot harder than I thought it’d be. What did we really have in common? The conversations began to dull until evenings out were nothing more than sharing a meal across from one another with no actual conversation, and my attempts to spark one, always fell flat. Without any real input from him, the conversation would die after one word answers, and yet I held on. He was cute, and he was incredibly sweet. A hold-the-door-open kind of man, a flowers-for-your-birthday kind of guy, but that intimacy was lacking and the longer I held out, the more it pushed me into a deep depression.

I’m sure it’s my own short comings that cause things like that to happen. It could’ve been low self-esteem, maybe a bit of anxiety or a touch of depression. He was so stable in his life and I wanted to be a part of that, but after that experience, I’m convinced that living that white, picket fence life, just isn’t in the cards for me. Maybe I don’t want it to be. 

Delacroix doesn’t seem much like a white, picket fence kind of guy, either.

So, what is there to work with when you don’t even know what you two are?  Are labels even necessary? Maybe a lack of them would make all of this a little easier to deal with; a little less stressful, but I need to be able to define what him and I are. I
need
to know how to label him.

I gaze over his corrections and find that they’re minor; a missed comma here and a needed semicolon there. Nothing overly serious, and there is no change in my wording. At the end of the document is a note from him.

I formally request your presence for a show at the Mahalia Jackson Theater for the Performing Arts. It’s still a week away, but I’d like to ask now, lest I forget. Please respond via text as soon as you’re able.

Sincerely yours,

A.R. Delacroix

Excitedly, I pull out my phone and reply; all previous musings over titles and relationship status’, and stress over him are wisps in the wind.

*I’d love to go with you. Thank you for the invitation. I wouldn’t miss it.*

*Wonderful. I’m assuming you’ll be driving here alone. We’ll make arrangements on where to meet up when the date draws closer. How are you feeling? Where you able to catch up on sleep? *

When the date draws closer? It is one week away. Does he plan to spring our meeting place on me, the day of? I shake my head dismissively. He’s not one for ironing out all the details well in advance, it seems.

*Yes, I did. I’m feeling much better, thanks. How’s your work coming along? *

*Busy, as always. What are you wearing?*

His text comes as a bit of a surprise, but it’s enough to start fanning those flames. I smirk, proud in the fact that I’ve left him wanting enough to ask a question such as that. And so what else is there to do, other than lie. I’m not exactly sitting in the most flattering attire, and it’s much better to let him fuel that fantasy in his head than kill it with a comment about my butterfly pajama bottoms and tank top.

His voice is in my ear again, and the glint in his eye, as we spoke over the rules and his expectations.

“I need to be able to trust you.”

I sigh. Butterfly pajamas, it is.

*Nothing all that flattering. I’m wearing a pair of pajama pants with blue butterflies on them, and a black tank top. .*

*What about your bra and panties?*

*What bra and panties ;) *

*Are you alone?*

*Yes…*

*Take off your shirt, fold it, and place it at the end of your bed, then take a picture to show me you’ve done as you’re told.*

I obey his instructions without another question, being sure to slip over to my door and lock it. Trying to explain what I’m doing undressing and taking pictures to Riley, is something I really don’t want to do.

I send the pictures as requested, and a few seconds later, I receive a reply. This is a record for him. Consecutive texts with no more than a minute or so between them? It’s unheard of!

*Slip out of your pants, lay face down on the bed and place a pillow just at the lower end of your abdomen, so your hips are tilted up*

*Yes, Sir.
*
I reply.

The act of calling him Sir still sends a little tingle down my spine.

*Slip a finger between your legs and rub your clit in slow circles. Do you like being fucked in this position?*

*Very much so.* I manage to type, with one finger tapping out the keys.

*How do you feel now?*

My body is tingling as I read over his words, the sound of his voice in my ear with each message.

*Hungry for more. I want more.*

*Good girl. Slide a single finger inside of you. Nice and slow. How wet are you?*

*I’m soaked, Alex, and aching. I wish you were here with me…*

*I want you to close your eyes while you slide your finger in. Slow at first then gradually pick up speed. Imagine me there with you, my hands running over your sexy ass and gripping your hips. Think of how it feels when I slide into you, when I kiss your back, and when I tug your hair. Open your eyes and text me when you get close. You must ask permission before you come.*

*Yes, Sir.
*
I reply.

I close my eyes as requested, and plunge my finger into me as deep as it’ll go. It feels amazing thinking of him sitting on his couch, picturing me here, on my bed, touching myself for him.

I slowly pick up speed, the muscles in my legs tensing as I feel myself draw closer and closer. My breathing grows labored, and I stifle my moans into my pillow as I draw closer. My body trembled, and I hold myself on that edge as I bring up his message.

*Please Sir, may I come?
*
I ask.

My body is begging, over and over, for blessed release. A minute passes then two, and I move my finger barely just to keep myself hanging on the edge.

*Please…please Sir. I need to come.*

This would be a terrible time for him to get caught up in work. Finally, a reply comes.

*No. You may not. You may, however, go over to that little bag of toys you have, and slip in those balls. I expect you to keep them in whenever possible. I’ll be in your area tomorrow. See you then.*

I gape at the response, my legs still trembling in the anticipation of release. One little touch… just a bit harder, and I’d scream; my body wrapped in an orgasm. He’d never know, and I could still put the balls in and walk around.

Oh, but that wouldn’t be nearly as exciting, would it?

I love the torture. I love the tease, and so I pull my finger reluctantly away, and slip the Ben Wa balls inside of me. For good measure, I snap a picture of them inside of me and send it to him. Let’s see how well he does with my little visual tease.