all fucked up.
Maybe I should leave, just go home, back to my old, uncomplicated life. But I donât really want to leave this place. I want to stay here and get over these feelings.
I just want to stay here.
Moving into the bathroom, I strip down and step under the spray of steaming water. It makes me feel a little better, initially. A hot shower always does. The heat and the water are soothing, safe, somehow. Iâve had a number of dreams over the years of being in a big shower, always beautifully tiled in brown and green, filled with steam and fragrant soap and the hot water coming down on my skin. I have no idea what it means, except that Iâm always calm, serene.
Itâs also one of my favorite places to masturbate. I could take the shower sprayer in my hand and aim it right at my clit. It works every time, makes me go off like a rocket, just as Iâve done in this very place with Audrey, over and over. But Iâm too tired, too something, and for once I donât even want to get myself off.
Masturbation is a great pastime for a lonely hermit like me. Like I have been, anyway. I came here so I would learn not to be such a hermit. I have no idea if itâs working, or if Iâll go back to being myself once Iâm home. Or maybe the group is simply small enough that I can be okay here.
Except that I am no longer okay.
I shut the water off and get out, simmering with resentment, suddenly. This trip had a purpose! And it was not to sleep with Audrey, to fall for her. To be undeniably, exquisitely, painfully attracted to her goddamn boyfriend.
I pull drawers open, find my skin creams, my dental floss,my lip balm, slam the drawers shut. I have no right to be so furious. I know that. But it doesnât matter.
Terry would say that even though my feelings are valid, my response is not necessarily appropriate to the situation. But Terry isnât here and I have to handle things on my own, like a big girl. And my stomach is rumbling now; there is no way I can avoid going up to the house.
Fuck.
I get dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, comb my hair out and go.
The house is bright with lights, and I can see through the windows everyone gathered in the kitchen. I feel a terrible sense of isolation for several moments, as though standing there looking in on the warm, friendly scene from the outside is symbolic in some way. But I have to get over this stuff.
Moving inside, I force myself to walk into the kitchen. Thereâs an old Janis Joplin song playing on the radio and Viviane is singing to it, really belting it out, her voice strong and raspy. Really awesome singing voice. I looked up some of her old songs online as soon as I found out who she was: Viviane Shaw of Crush. But hearing her sing in person is something else. Itâs too bad she gave it up, but I understand her reasons: the lifestyle, the drugs that eventually killed Malcolm, her husband and guitarist. But sheâs so into it, her body moving, her throat working, even as she stands at the center island chopping vegetables with Patrice, who has a small smile on her face, her birdlike eyes sparkling.
Leo is dancing a little to the song in uncoordinated, jerky motions, a huge smile on his face. Heâs wearing an apron and looking faintly ridiculous as he mixes something in a big bowl, and Kenneth is snoring in one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, Sid laid out at his feet, snoring in time withhim. Everyone nods at me as I enter the kitchen, as though itâs assumed I belong there. I suppose I do.
A nice thought, and it warms me a little.
âCan I help with dinner?â I ask.
Viviane nods her head in time to the music and hands me a knife and, with a small push, guides me to a wood chopping block on the island. A bunch of the gorgeous tomatoes she brought home from the farmerâs market is laid out there. Viviane is still singing, and I smile as I begin to cut up the
Maybe I should leave, just go home, back to my old, uncomplicated life. But I donât really want to leave this place. I want to stay here and get over these feelings.
I just want to stay here.
Moving into the bathroom, I strip down and step under the spray of steaming water. It makes me feel a little better, initially. A hot shower always does. The heat and the water are soothing, safe, somehow. Iâve had a number of dreams over the years of being in a big shower, always beautifully tiled in brown and green, filled with steam and fragrant soap and the hot water coming down on my skin. I have no idea what it means, except that Iâm always calm, serene.
Itâs also one of my favorite places to masturbate. I could take the shower sprayer in my hand and aim it right at my clit. It works every time, makes me go off like a rocket, just as Iâve done in this very place with Audrey, over and over. But Iâm too tired, too something, and for once I donât even want to get myself off.
Masturbation is a great pastime for a lonely hermit like me. Like I have been, anyway. I came here so I would learn not to be such a hermit. I have no idea if itâs working, or if Iâll go back to being myself once Iâm home. Or maybe the group is simply small enough that I can be okay here.
Except that I am no longer okay.
I shut the water off and get out, simmering with resentment, suddenly. This trip had a purpose! And it was not to sleep with Audrey, to fall for her. To be undeniably, exquisitely, painfully attracted to her goddamn boyfriend.
I pull drawers open, find my skin creams, my dental floss,my lip balm, slam the drawers shut. I have no right to be so furious. I know that. But it doesnât matter.
Terry would say that even though my feelings are valid, my response is not necessarily appropriate to the situation. But Terry isnât here and I have to handle things on my own, like a big girl. And my stomach is rumbling now; there is no way I can avoid going up to the house.
Fuck.
I get dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, comb my hair out and go.
The house is bright with lights, and I can see through the windows everyone gathered in the kitchen. I feel a terrible sense of isolation for several moments, as though standing there looking in on the warm, friendly scene from the outside is symbolic in some way. But I have to get over this stuff.
Moving inside, I force myself to walk into the kitchen. Thereâs an old Janis Joplin song playing on the radio and Viviane is singing to it, really belting it out, her voice strong and raspy. Really awesome singing voice. I looked up some of her old songs online as soon as I found out who she was: Viviane Shaw of Crush. But hearing her sing in person is something else. Itâs too bad she gave it up, but I understand her reasons: the lifestyle, the drugs that eventually killed Malcolm, her husband and guitarist. But sheâs so into it, her body moving, her throat working, even as she stands at the center island chopping vegetables with Patrice, who has a small smile on her face, her birdlike eyes sparkling.
Leo is dancing a little to the song in uncoordinated, jerky motions, a huge smile on his face. Heâs wearing an apron and looking faintly ridiculous as he mixes something in a big bowl, and Kenneth is snoring in one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, Sid laid out at his feet, snoring in time withhim. Everyone nods at me as I enter the kitchen, as though itâs assumed I belong there. I suppose I do.
A nice thought, and it warms me a little.
âCan I help with dinner?â I ask.
Viviane nods her head in time to the music and hands me a knife and, with a small push, guides me to a wood chopping block on the island. A bunch of the gorgeous tomatoes she brought home from the farmerâs market is laid out there. Viviane is still singing, and I smile as I begin to cut up the
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