Dear Readers,
This is a story of a relationship that builds slowly, over a long period of time, with lots of complicated feelings from D.J.'s side.
Part of what makes D.J. like Chris so much is her ability to just be herself with him, and let out a part of her nature she can't anywhere else. Part of what makes D.J. so attractive to Chris is her incredible ability to weave a realistic, interesting story that makes him feel like he's watching it take place, like he's right there.
This chapter is about the start of their time together, and the interesting stories that D.J. weaves that capture his interest, and maybe one day, his heart.
To N.C., and William H.
This one's for you.
DJ
I love hearing from fans, but there was one whose accolades were more specific, encouragement more inspiring. After a while I wanted to reach out and say something to him or her specifically. I decided to put up a post.
It's easy for me to think of characters for my fiction. It's much harder to do anything real, especially nowadays. I bit my bottom lip as I tried to think of what to write, and I came up with a draft.
I feel a fist squeezing my heart when I thought about how wrong that letter seemed. I looked up so the speck of dust and moisture in my eyes would not roll over into something more. I hadn't even done anything yet and already, if I were to be honest with myself, I was worried I would come up short.
I blinked a lot, took a deep breath, and took a hold of myself, mentally. I trashed that letter and wrote a new one, and this time I posted it.
-- Posted by DJ Naberts --
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
I was glad to get the response. There was an underlying sexiness to it, an ability with words that pleased me. Also, it was a blatant complement but the 'surely you know that' part made it all the more wonderful. The underlying message of 'of course you're a diamond, everybody knows it but you' was somehow both a tease and a confidence booster.
Yet it didn't give me any idea of which story to tell first.
*From DJtruewriter*
DJ
I wasn't sure if the tone of the message was quite right. It was like knocking flint pieces together. Depending on whether you're doing it over a campfire or in a powder keg could determine whether the action was smart or not smart.
*From Chris1970*
DJ
Well fuck. Play with fire and all that. Well, hmn. I wracked my brain for something that will be the right amount of devil and angel.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
Until I got that message I wasn't really sure if Chris was a male or a female. But at that message I was pretty sure it was a man. You don't see a lot of chicks saying 'My fair lady' to their girlfriends.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
I'm betting that driver is going to get a good tip.
I smile back at my date and bite my lip.
Again I have to really search my brain for words in Farsi. "You know, I am...loud."
Huge grin from my date.
He says something back to me in Farsi, rapid fire. I have no idea what he said but my guess is it's something like, 'hell yeah, if I do my job right.'
And then, it's magic. My hand is on his cock and his mouth is suckling my nipple. I remember reading that Middle Eastern men are the best lovers and that Mediterraneans do it more frequently than any population on earth.
And now I now why.
As in holy cow, don't stop.
I start moaning and grinding against him. His fingers find my core, and, what do you know, his fingers are magic too. I start shaking immediately. I stop moaning as my mouth forms one big 'O' and I'm already onto silent shakes.
After I come he slides into me, pumping in a perfect fury. Just when I'm sure he's going to come he stops. Turns me around, rolls down the window just enough that I see outside. We drive through a rotunda and he takes me hard from behind. His grunts mix with mine and we come together, watching the city.
I collapse, he collapses on top of me. I start to laugh.
I should pay him. He's fucking fantastic.
He knocks on the partition.
Pulls out of me.
Hands me a bottle of water.
Fixes my petticoats, dress, my hair. Kisses me softly.
The car stops. We're back at the party.
"I don't speak Farsi," I say in Farsi. It's the only thing I can think of to say because my mind is so boggled I don't have any words left.
We crack up.
He says something in Farsi. I have no idea what. I assume it's, 'Then my job is done here.'
He slips a card into my little dress purse.
The driver helps me out of the car. He manages to keep a straight face. A true professional.
My date says something to me in French. Thank God it's not Farsi, I've exhausted my vocabulary. It takes me a minute to translate it because my mind is still not working properly.
Ah, 'The white limo is not back yet. Do you want to wait? Do you want me to get you that taxi?'
I feel like I should get while the getting is good.
"Taxi."
He walks me over, kissed the back of my hand.
Says something to me in English. Fuck if I know what.
Pays the taxi driver, puts me in the cab.
"I'll make sure your friend knows you are safely on your way home."
I nod.
"To the finest start of the New Year a man could possibly ask for, mademoiselle."
"Right back at ya."
I fall asleep in the cab and wake up at my place.
I let myself in and plop onto the bed, still in costume.
I realize I never got paid.
Whatever.
Giselle will probably catch me up.
It's an adventure for my diary for sure.
Of course, I can never tell anyone.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
I didn't write Chris, or write anything for that matter, for a few days. My boyfriend took a turn for the worse. He had blinding headaches. He wanted me to spoon feed him his meals, put compresses on his head, rub his neck. Nothing helped. He whined, a constant low-pitched keening. He threw up. A lot. His skin looked grey. I had a feeling the medicines were doing most of the damage.
The doctors said this was a normal reaction and sometimes "just happened". The advice was 'to ride it out.'
His skin was hot to the touch, and for nights on end, I held him while he had the shivers. His hair looked brittle and he looked small and frail curled up under our patchwork quilt. His eyes were flat, a look that said more than anything, that he'd give up.
Then one day he woke up and he was better. A lot better. He had a huge breakfast, went to work, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We had gone through five steady years of watching his blood results get worse, and the hope get less, and the medicines need change, and scares and crises. But somehow this week seemed like the worst. Not someone managing a disease but someone defeated by it.
I wanted a week in Aruba, I really did.
I stared out the big glass windows onto my back patio and lawn. My herb and vegetable garden had shriveled up and died. We had had a heat wave one day and I was too preoccupied to notice.
I was hydrating my boyfriend and I forgot the tomatoes.
I decided I needed, NEEDED, to get back to writing Chris.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
DJ
My boyfriend actually picked me up and carried me to bed when he got home. We hadn't had sex in... I don't know, what month is it? And we didn't then, but that he had the feistiness to pick me up and throw me down had us both smiling and giggling like we hadn't in a long, long time. We rented a small cottage right on the beach, a ridiculous expense considering we could drive back and forth in no time, but waking up to an ocean view fed our souls.
Maybe the tomatoes weren't the only thing I forgot to water.
I went back to writing Chris, but didn't include any of the 'did this really happen to me' stories, or any fiction or quasi fiction at all. I just emailed him a few times a day about my normal life things: Having trouble changing a flat tire, finding a dress on sale for $7.99 that I really wanted, and had passed up buying the year before, running into an old nemesis at the local coffee shop and trying to sound classy when she showed me a engagement ring the size of a hubcap.
Then I took a break from the computer for a while, it was if my eyes had stared so long at the shades of white on grey on the computer screen that my brain was only thinking in zeros and ones.
And I realized that I missed Chris in a weird way.
This was not good.
But on the other hand, it was so human.
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
I get the reference immediately. It's from my story, Darkly Stranger, where Donna realizes the creature is male when he raises her tail and waves it at her, in answer to the same question.
Meeting any fan, under any circumstances, isn't too smart. Meeting Chris, who I almost felt I was emotionally cheating with, was out of the question. Maybe part of the reason I could send the stories I didn't know anything about Chris. Chris could have been a 65 year-old woman from Alaska for all I knew.
But now that I knew he was a him, it was obviously impossible.
*From DJtruewriter*
DJ
I didn't hear from Chris for a day and half. Which might not seem like long, except I was at my computer, writing very boring posts about lauding the benefits of leasing European cars rather than buying, and checking my email every half hour. Chris usual responded within a few minutes, so the "radio silence" seemed long. I wondered if it was in response to my last email, or if he was just busy.
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
The last note pissed me off. Not just because it was presumptuous, but because it was true. I was frazzled, beat down, at the end of my rope. The emails from Chris were what were keeping me going. The idea of meeting him was exciting and filled me with hope.
But what I didn't want was to cheat. I wasn't the kind of person who would have an affair. Not that I had judgment against those that did, I got it. But I didn't want to slowly fall into a pattern that became an irresistible trap and then feel like I was a shit.
It had been over a year since I'd had sex. I was, in a way, a walking ball of need. And as much as I didn't like to admit it, I'd already developed somewhat of an emotional attachment to Chris.
Yet, I needed more from Chris. More support, more connection, more everything.
But I was afraid. Deeply troubled about being further naked in front of someone with whom I'd already taken so many protective layers off.
I wanted to meet him; I was worried I'd touch him.
I needed a fail-safe.
Chris was right. I'd think of something.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
It was later that day that I did think of something. It was a perfect idea. And like a separate part of me had taken over, a lemming drawn to the water, or an addict sleepwalking toward a pill, I went to put the pieces in motion.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
DJ
A shiver of pleasure went through me at that one. You're a bad girl, DJ. I left that email alone; it obviously didn't warrant a response.
I had made all the arrangements. I dressed with care, a brown and green A-line dress and brown knee-high boots, right out of the 70s, even though he would never see me. Then it was time.
I walked into the cathedral and was immediately struck by the sense of the sacred. Shafts of blue and red light filtered down through the stained glass, mounted high up between the buttresses. I smelled a lemony smell of wood polish and a smoky smell that was probably snuffed candles.
My heels made a loud clicking sound on the tile. I walked to the confession booths and stared. Which one would he be in, the confessor's or the priest's? I decided he'd be in the latter. I opened the one on the right a crack. Empty.
I stepped in and sat down. The brown lattice between the booths was intricate. A shadow, clearly indicating a large man, was seated on the other side.
For a moment neither of us spoke. I had a second of wanting my voice to be as enticing as my emails. But I didn't want it to come out as affected, or fake sultry. So the silence dragged on.
"DJ? Will you tell me a story? I don't mind driving two hours just to listen to you breathe, but if you'd tell me a story, you'd make my day."
I smiled. His voice was low and deep. Pleasant. Normal. No accent.
"And by the way, you smell divine."
"Just soap," I said. My very first words to him and that's what they were.
We talked for a long time about nothing and everything. Mostly I talked about my boyfriend. How we met, what it had been like since he got sick.
He told me a story, about how he had to enter a stand-up comedy contest wearing a dress in order to get into his fraternity, that had me laughing so hard I was in tears.
I decided, much like I often had, that I should get while the getting was good. I stood up and let myself out of the small box without even a good-bye.
"DJ?" I heard Chris call after me. "Will I see you again?"
I closed my eyes. Oh, I don't know if I had it within me to stay away. But I said what came to my mind, in an old timey voice. "One never knows, do one."
--
DJ
In all this time I was writing to Chris, and doing my day job, I wasn't writing any new fiction. After the church I went home, with the muse on fire. I sat down at the computer until four in the morning, the characters in my head dancing across the page, lighting up the night. Their prose was perfect, their dialog witty. I sat on the edge of my seat as I followed them through dark alleys and into lush metaphors.
Chris had opened some pipe way that had been squeezed; I felt like I was breathing clean air filled with inspiration.
It was the beginning of a pattern for us. Every Wednesday I went to the confession booth and spun a story more horrific and fantastical than the next. Every Wednesday evening I went home and wrote the story down, my fingers flying across the keys with blurring speed. I sent the stories out, and people bought them. Early spring became abundant blooms, then the grasses dried brown as spring turned summer, and fan groups of my little off-world crossed lover assassins sprung up on the internet, causing me to strut around my backyard like a peacock when nobody was looking.
And then one day I had a thought.
*From DJtruewriter*
*From Chris1970*
Wednesday came. As always he arrived in the both before me.
"Chris," I whispered. "Close your eyes and promise me you'll keep them closed."
"Okay."
Vroom, vroom.
I revved the cordless power drill.
I pictured his eyes snapping open. But as he promised they wouldn't maybe they didn't. Or if they did, maybe he closed them right away.
"What's that?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
I just started working on the screws; unscrewing the four screws that held up the latticed panel between us. When I got them all loose, I took the panel and placed it behind me.
I got my first look at Chris. I guess he was in his late 30s, early 40s maybe. He was wearing a loose, worn, light tan jacket, probably to ward off the chill of the air conditioner in the church. In the dark confines, with the loose jacket, and the way he was sitting, I couldn't see all the muscle groups to tell the exact shape of him, but he was a big guy, gone a little to bulk. Salt and pepper hair, heavy on the salt. Square jaw, kind face. Full lips. I wondered what color his eyes were.
"Once upon a time," I said. I got comfortable and let my voice take on lush, sing-song tones. "There was a very elegant woman. She was tall and willowy. She had more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. She was aloof and often alone. She was rarely lonely, but sometimes she was.
"She was driving to a charity ball. The crème de la crème of society. She had made a big donation; people were expecting her to show up. It was a long way from where she lived. She wanted the scenic route, so she took the winding, twisty roads, with their huge shroud-like trees that hung over the pavement like a canopy. Sun set and a light mist started.
"A deer jumped in front of her car and she narrowly missed it, but a second deer followed the first and as she swerved to avoid it she hit a deep gully on the side of the road.
"She got out to inspect the damage, climbing into the small gulf to see it was minimal. But the tire was stuck in the mud and there was no way she was getting out. The mist increased slightly, damping her simple white sheath, with its now mud-stained hem.
"She got behind the wheel of her car anyway, thinking one try wouldn't hurt, even if the tires just spun. But there was nothing but a coughing-hick when she tried to turn the car back on, as if the engine too decided it had had enough.
"She opened the hood, propped it up. Looked down at the hot engine steaming in the mist like she knew all the answers when she knew none.
"She got her phone out of her small silver clutch purse but of course there was no signal. She was far away from everything. Her only hope was that a car would come by. Surely one would.
"The wait seemed long with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her. She had gotten so used to everything being instantly served, less than a second wait for internet, servants, waiters.
"But it was probably only 15 minutes before a car came by. Just as it slowed, the mist turned to a warm drizzling rain.
"The car stopped for her immediately. It was a silver Benz, the exact same model as hers, and somehow that gave her peace.
"The man got out. She had the strange feeling she'd seen him before, in some other city maybe. He glanced over at the car. 'Let me get down in there and get a good look, maybe I can push it out.' He gestured to his own car. 'You can sit in my car if you'd like, get out of the wet.'
"She knew it was a foolish thing to do, get in the car of a stranger, even a stopped car, even for a second. But she'd been standing for 15 minutes in high heels not meant for harsh paved roads, and the rain would turn her dress see-through in a few minutes if she didn't do something.
"The car was warm, and cozy, and smelled nice, like donuts, as if he had stopped somewhere recently and bought sweets that were actually fresh baked.
"She closed her eyes. Perhaps his cell phone would work. Maybe he had a different carrier.
"The driver's side door opened and closed, and then she was looking at him, so much larger than she realized, crowding up the space.
" 'Can't get it out.' He looked at her then, and there was a hunger in his eyes. She wondered if her dress had gone partially transparent after all."
Chris' breathing changed a little at that, and I leaned in slightly closer to him. I let my voice get even quieter, huskier.
" 'I'm guessing your heading somewhere specific, with how beautiful you look,' the man said. 'I could take you there; I'd hate to keep you.' But somehow his tone said the opposite.
"For a second she stopped breathing, the in and out literally suspended, as her whole body gasped in and then held. Something in his voice, a need she hadn't heard in a long time made her want to answer. She had to try twice, and lick her dry lips and let her mouth hang open, relearning how to breathe for a second before she managed to say, 'I could be fashionably late.'
"He drove a bit, and her hand crept toward him. She noticed jumper cables between them, their edges looking sharp, the cord looking strong. He glanced over and caught where he was looking. He pulled off between some trees and his expression was wicked and dangerous."
I leaned forward so my lips where just a hair's breath from Chris' cheek. Then I was speaking in a raspy whisper, right into Chris' ear.
"And she didn't know whether to be excited or scared as her heart beat faster, but she realized that perhaps she'd be much, much later than just fashionably later, after all."
I backed up abruptly and screwed the panel on as quickly as I could.
"DJ? DJ!"
I had the dividing panel on in record time and was out of the booth.
"DJ!" I heard him yell. "What happened? What happened to her? What happened to the lady in white?"
The click on my heels sounded loud as I started to walk away and then stopped. "You know what happened."
"Did he kill her? Did they make love? Did he use the cables on her?"
"Whatever you think happened, happened Chris."
I walked away, the echoing of my heels sounding even louder.
"DJ! I want to see you again. I want a part two to the story!"
"There's no part two," I called out as I was almost to the door. "The moral of the story is you make your own endings. In the end you are always the one who creates your own thoughts to please yourself."
"DJ!" He yelled.
But I was out the door. I ran down the sidewalk wondering if I had intended to have a steamy car scene, and if I had, if that would have been crossing a line, building a relationship, almost cheating on my boyfriend by taking the friendship too far.
Or maybe I already had.
But I knew I'd come back.
Even if I never told another story.
Because I was hooked.
# # #
This chapter is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Copyright belongs to MJ Roberts 2014. Please do not reproduce without permission from the author.
Dear Reader,
If this story tickled you, then please be so kind as to honor me with a high five. Every vote means a tremendous amount to me. It's only a mouse click away.
I love to hear from readers. (PG comments only please.) I read every note and welcome corrections, suggestions, and positive feedback.
You can leave a public comment or use the contact tab on my author page to get in touch with me. I really want to know what you think. It just takes a minute.
I tend to put up chapters in groups, but sometimes they just come up as I write them.
If you want to read more about any specific characters, please let me know.
Enjoy!
I look forward to hearing from you.
Thanks, sincerely;
MJ
This is a story of a relationship that builds slowly, over a long period of time, with lots of complicated feelings from D.J.'s side.
Part of what makes D.J. like Chris so much is her ability to just be herself with him, and let out a part of her nature she can't anywhere else. Part of what makes D.J. so attractive to Chris is her incredible ability to weave a realistic, interesting story that makes him feel like he's watching it take place, like he's right there.
This chapter is about the start of their time together, and the interesting stories that D.J. weaves that capture his interest, and maybe one day, his heart.
To N.C., and William H.
This one's for you.
DJ
I love hearing from fans, but there was one whose accolades were more specific, encouragement more inspiring. After a while I wanted to reach out and say something to him or her specifically. I decided to put up a post.
It's easy for me to think of characters for my fiction. It's much harder to do anything real, especially nowadays. I bit my bottom lip as I tried to think of what to write, and I came up with a draft.
Dear Chris,
I'm a person divided. It's been a balm to my soul to know that you're out there, somewhere, reading my fiction. More than balm to my soul, a survival line.
I want to give something back to you, something precious. I wrote the story Darkly Stranger for you. I was hoping to give you something new, something fresh, draw you in further and keep you entertained. Each word I wrote was crafted with you in mind, guessing your tastes, hoping that I was creating something that would somehow be more original, make you like me more.
It's hard to keep up under that kind of pressure. But it worked at least for the first few pages of that story I think, the anticipation of the unknown... it is sort of like you and I, I think. The character's building angst, anticipation, and tension. But I wanted to give you even more than that. I just wasn't sure how.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps you'd enjoy a little truth mixed in with your fiction. That maybe if I laid myself bare, told you things I never told anyone, swore I'd never tell anyone, you'd want more.
But of course that would mean revealing the mundane. And worse, revealing secrets.
I could dole it out. Little by little, piece by piece. Truth in the guise of fiction. And, I could... put it in a cocktail of delectable adjectives meant to entice, with the occasional outrageous multiple choice improbability. Would you like that?
I think you would.
Deep breath.
Here we go.
My real name is, don't gag, Debbie-Jean. Somewhere in middle school I decided that that name was the epitome of uncool and asked people to start calling me D.J. You can call me that. (I'm NOT going to tell you my last name. I need my anonymity intact if we are ever going to this.)
Anonymity. I like that. Deep breath. Anonymity. It's kind of like a black silky blindfold. I like that too. It makes me feel secure. And you see, Chris, I need that because as I said in the beginning, I, like you I think, am in some ways really two separate people.
The one I am on the outside and the one I am on the inside.
Which would you like to start with first?
None of us are simple. We're a conglomerate, multiple conglomerates, layers upon layers. It's just that my conglomerates are starved. Starved in every way. They always have been.
I think you can imagine what I'm starved for, can't you? I mean, I'm writing here. I don't want to turn this into just a journal, or a letter. I want to entertain you.
I feel a fist squeezing my heart when I thought about how wrong that letter seemed. I looked up so the speck of dust and moisture in my eyes would not roll over into something more. I hadn't even done anything yet and already, if I were to be honest with myself, I was worried I would come up short.
I blinked a lot, took a deep breath, and took a hold of myself, mentally. I trashed that letter and wrote a new one, and this time I posted it.
-- Posted by DJ Naberts --
Dear Chris,
Thank you so much for your positive comments. While every positive note makes me smile, there was something about your comments that has kept me going, that has been a lighthouse in the storm, an oasis in the desert, a shiny apple amidst a sea of rotting junk food.
I want to reciprocate. I wrote the story Darkly Stranger for you. I thought maybe you'd like something different, with an anticipatory edge? I worked hard to try and make it... enticing, agonizing over every adjective, comma, and sigh.
Hope I'm doing as good a job as I can for you.
I thought for a change, maybe you'd like some truth with your fiction? A blend where it was "all truth" or was it?
You would write back and tell me if I were on the wrong track, wouldn't you? Perhaps I should stop here, before I go further, before I tell you anything else, anything real. Maybe you're only interested in fiction and you don't want any true stories about me at all.
I'll give it a day.
- DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I see you've been downloaded more than 100,000 times. I know Chris is a common name, one of the most common; I would be a fool to think that this new post is addressed to me. Yet, I did favorite you as one of my favorite authors, and I would kick myself if I were the one Chris you were waiting for and didn't get a response from. So I'll just say, if the question is: Do I want to read more from you along these lines? Would I love a story where I might actually get glimpses, slices, hints of the real woman behind the magic?
Absolutely, unequivocally, yes.
More please.
-Chris.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I'm one of those women who on the surface had everything, but on some deep levels had nothing. Many, many years ago, I lived the life of the very wealthy. Everything was only an arm's length away, but still out of my grasp.
Now, I live in an amazingly beautiful, lazy, Southern town, with incredible trees that bend and twist over the streets to create tunnels and balconies, and Spanish moss that drips to create curtains and hideaways and places for trysts in broad daylight. It was a balmy 75 degrees today as it is many days of the year. I don't live too far from the beach.
I'm from up North. I sound like a southern bell now. I drawl. I say y'all. I look a little bit like a cross between a young Brooke Burke and young Isabella Rosellini when I'm at my thinner weight and not quite so much when I'm at slightly heavier weight. I wear funky glasses. The heavier I get the shorter I cut my hair. It's chin length now.
But those facts are hardly entertaining stories. They are skirting around the stories, like an inexperienced lion tamer circling the cage but never willing to get in.
I guess I'm going to need a little encouragement. There are millions upon millions of stories in the fabric of our lives. I need a little direction if I'm going to focus on, and pull out, one thread.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Any thread will clothe me and any morsel will feed me. Surely you know that?
- C.
DJ
I was glad to get the response. There was an underlying sexiness to it, an ability with words that pleased me. Also, it was a blatant complement but the 'surely you know that' part made it all the more wonderful. The underlying message of 'of course you're a diamond, everybody knows it but you' was somehow both a tease and a confidence booster.
Yet it didn't give me any idea of which story to tell first.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Kind words build lattices in my garden and flowing pathways in my heart. But they don't give me direction. If that's how well you usually give direction, then I feel it's my obligation to tell you: You suck.
-DJ
DJ
I wasn't sure if the tone of the message was quite right. It was like knocking flint pieces together. Depending on whether you're doing it over a campfire or in a powder keg could determine whether the action was smart or not smart.
*From Chris1970*
Tell me a story about you that nobody else knows. Be bold in the face of facelessness. Tell me about the first time you were really wicked, or really shy, or did something taboo.
And if that is not direct enough directions for you, I'll have you know, I can always make parameters tighter.
- C.
DJ
Well fuck. Play with fire and all that. Well, hmn. I wracked my brain for something that will be the right amount of devil and angel.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Fact or fiction:
Once upon a time, I lived in one of the most prestigious, expensive high-rises in Manhattan. There were doorman at both entrances who would hail you a cab, a distinguished concierge at the front desk who would announce your visitors, and uniformed elevator operators, a throwback to the times when you had to drag a gate closed across the elevator door. Now their job was just to look pretty and press a button.
One of them looked really pretty.
Or should I saw handsome.
I was young, but he was younger.
Smoldering was the word that came to mind.
It was many, many years ago. I'm almost ashamed to say that I don't remember his name now, or the country he came from. But I remember his black-as-night hair, and lanky strong body, and the way I couldn't help smirking and then looking down every time it was his shift in the elevator.
This went on for a year.
Dimitri. That was his name.
And fraternizing was obviously forbidden. But when you're 21 and 22, when tension sizzles, things forbidden are that much sweeter. You don't really care.
Perhaps that's enough for today. Let me know if you want to read more.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
So far, I believe that story's a truth. Although whether you'll bend the road to fiction or stay the course has me intrigued.
My fair lady, my kingdom for nuggets of truth from your pen.
More please.
-C.
DJ
Until I got that message I wasn't really sure if Chris was a male or a female. But at that message I was pretty sure it was a man. You don't see a lot of chicks saying 'My fair lady' to their girlfriends.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Continuing on:
It was the hottest day of the year. A record breaker, topping out at over 100 degrees, so warm it felt like the blacktop would melt. Everyone who could stayed inside in the air conditioning.
It was hot outside; I was hot inside.
Dimitri was working the west wing elevator, my side, overnight shift.
I couldn't sleep. Restless.
I put on a red evening gown, a simple one. Halter neck, high leg slit, no jewelry. Red heels. Pushed the button.
Elevator arrived.
"Hello, DJ. Going down?"
I had to roll my lips in to avoid the smirk. Nod from me. I got in. Down to the first floor. He held the door for me. I didn't get out. I pointed up. He closed the door. We rode up. Thirty-two floors. In silence. We did this four times. I held up three fingers. Third floor. My floor. He pressed three. Holds the door for me. I get out. I don't invite him to follow me. I don't look back.
Let me know if you would like more of the story.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
If I were with you in person, I might have to punish you for pausing the story and making me wait. On the other hand, if I were with you in person, perhaps you could see on my face how much I wanted you to finish. So to speak.
So far, I still vote fact, not fiction.
Here's some concrete direction. Finish the story. I want to know. If you need compliments, I'll give them to you. I check every few minutes to see if your story has popped into my inbox. It's distracting. These cliffhangers make it hard to concentrate on work. Finish. The. Story.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Where was I?
I strode out. I didn't look back. Went back to my apartment. Waited.
I changed into the shortest jean skirt you can imagine. One with frayed edges because it has been cut to reach just the top of my thighs. A skirt so short it looks more like Daisy Duke shorts really. And a white wife-beater muscle shirt, no bra. No shoes. I sauntered back down the hall.
Pushed the elevator button.
Dimitri arrived. Boy in a box. You gotta love that.
His eyes popped out of his head.
He didn't say anything.
I didn't say anything.
He took my hand and walked me down the hall.
.....
To the service elevator.
He pushed the button. I mean, that's his job, after all, and he was on duty.
It's 3:30 in the morning.
The inside of the elevator is all dull grey with peeling paint, a sharp contrast to the shiny people mover.
The large hot box seems a metaphor for something, I'm not sure what. The inside of the elevator a railing that goes around it, safety bar maybe. Dimitri lifted me up. Set my ass on the edge of it, used his hips to keep me in place. I put the bottom of my feet on his legs. My arches fit perfectly on his calves.
The Aerosmith song was out that year, you know the one.
He pushed my tank top up, very slowly using his hands to glide up my ribs. We still hadn't said anything, and on his face was just one question 'when is she going to stop me?'
I tilted my head tilted back as he coasted over my nipples, baring my throat to him an automatically arching my lower back. He made a sound then, an 'mmmnah' sound, like a child who had just received a beautiful gift and a the same time was in pain.
I must have gasped and the speed changed from slow to fast in less time than it takes to crack a whip. Then his mouth on my breast, his cock thrust inside me, and his gentle lifting and lowering, forced me to ride him perfectly. It was the best sex I'd had to date.
......
With a single person that is.
And I'd never told anybody.
Until now.
Fact, fiction, or some of each?
-DJ.
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I'm not sure I care. I just want to meet you.
--C.
P.S.: I need another story, like NOW.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Laughter from me.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I'm serious about another story.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Fact or fiction:
Washington D.C. this time. It's a few years later. I'm 29 now, instead of 22. I've matured considerably. I'm working for The Washington Post. I'm supposedly editing, but I feel like my entire job consists of getting coffee. I live in an extremely swanky condo building because college roommate is dating a diplomat and he got us in. The woman in the unit next to ours is a model.
It's Christmas time, and for some reason the radio station is playing that Right Said Fred song over and over. The model's name is Giselle. We've never said more than hello, how are you.
I'm envious of her. She's tall and lanky. I'm average height and voluptuous.
Day after Christmas she knocks on my door. When I answer she has a look on my face that makes me think she's looking for my roommate but doesn't want to say so. I ask her in. She looks around. I'm glad I've straightened up.
Obviously my roommate isn't around. In fact, she's gone home to New York for the holidays. I make Giselle some hot chocolate. She's hedging. I wonder when she'll get around to what she wants to say.
Blah, blah, blah. I tune in. Costume ball. New Year's Eve. Very important. Friend backed out. Mucky mucks. Needs someone.
Sure, I say.
Great, she says and flashes me the stellar smile that I'm sure photographs like a dream.
Pays a thousand bucks.
What?
But she's already at the door.
Holy shit.
My mind is reeling.
Wait a second.
Did I just agree to what I think I agreed to?
Then I smile and bite my lip.
This shit just got interesting.
Hellllo, New Year's Eve.
And fuck. I'm going to need a costume.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dearest DJ,
You have a reader for life. I'm betting this one is fiction, however I'm dying to know what costume you picked. French maid or harem girl seem so blasé.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
New Year's Eve was chilly with a dusting of snow. A white stretch limo picked us up. I went as Marie Antoinette, in a pale blue evening dress that had an extremely tight bodice and pushed my voluptuousness into creamy mounds bordering on perfect or obscene. I was very grateful for the mask. I was also grateful that the limo had alcohol.
Giselle explained very carefully that I was being paid for my time, not any particular service. I looked at the partition. Down.
Well the driver would have a story to tell.
I was kind of hoping to have sex. Lots and lots of sex. It had been a while. The limo stopped and started a lot in the traffic. Finally we arrived at a huge house. I think this is the party. It's not. The driver gets out, opens the door, a man gets in. He's totally hot. About my age. Yes! No. Not my date.
We drive on.
We stop at another house. Same routine. Man gets in. Much older. My date? I think so. One more stop. One more guy. Curiouser and curiouser.
I don't say much. I go on the philosophy if they wanted a woman who talked they would have gone to a lecture.
The party's at an embassy. That's a surprise.
Luckily I know which fork to use.
It's the Iranian embassy. I know a little bit of Farsi. I listen to conversations and catch pieces. When the moment presents itself, I say, 'You look lovely, how are you this evening?' one of the few phrases I know in Farsi.
'You speak Farsi?'
'I know this', I say, and recite the most famous nursery rhyme, to the tune of I'm a Little Tea Pot. This gets a huge laugh, breaks the ice, and establishes my date as 'man of taste'.
That's worth a thousand bucks, I think.
Over the course of the night I also get to use my rudimentary French, and Hebrew. My date is impressed. Fortunately or unfortunately I have no call for my Spanish or Japanese, the only two foreign languages in which I'm actually fluent.
I drink much and eat little.
I compliment a wife on a piece of jewelry, which it turns out she designed and her husband made. My date wants to negotiate with the husband. Suddenly this seems easier. I smile at him.
Yeah, all this and a blow job. Next time I should ask for more.
Then it's time for the countdown to midnight.
My date gives me a chaste kiss on the lips.
I wrack my brain for the words in Farsi. "You. Can. Do. Better."
He bends me backwards over his arm and gives me a mind-searing kiss.
Whoa momma.
Once more with feeling.
I smile at him.
He pulls me to the door. Wait, wait, it's only midnight.
Hey, hey, where's Giselle?
I let him hustle me out the door and we get in a small black limo. He makes a circle motion to the driver.
He goes to take off my mask but I shake my head.
He smiles.
He brushes his fingers over the tops of my breasts and I moan; that's one of my favorite places to be touched.
I'm leaning back, he's pushing me back into the seat. He's tugging up all the voluminous folds of my skirt, it's like we're drowning in petticoats. It seems he has some experience with corsets and layers and under-drawers because pretty soon I'm half undone and so is he. We're fogging up the windows.
Oh, you naughty exhibitionist you.
I look at the partition. Three quarters of the way up. I reach over to push the button to put it all the way up. He grabs my hand. Shakes his head.
I'm betting that driver is going to get a good tip.
I smile back at my date and bite my lip.
Again I have to really search my brain for words in Farsi. "You know, I am...loud."
Huge grin from my date.
He says something back to me in Farsi, rapid fire. I have no idea what he said but my guess is it's something like, 'hell yeah, if I do my job right.'
And then, it's magic. My hand is on his cock and his mouth is suckling my nipple. I remember reading that Middle Eastern men are the best lovers and that Mediterraneans do it more frequently than any population on earth.
And now I now why.
As in holy cow, don't stop.
I start moaning and grinding against him. His fingers find my core, and, what do you know, his fingers are magic too. I start shaking immediately. I stop moaning as my mouth forms one big 'O' and I'm already onto silent shakes.
After I come he slides into me, pumping in a perfect fury. Just when I'm sure he's going to come he stops. Turns me around, rolls down the window just enough that I see outside. We drive through a rotunda and he takes me hard from behind. His grunts mix with mine and we come together, watching the city.
I collapse, he collapses on top of me. I start to laugh.
I should pay him. He's fucking fantastic.
He knocks on the partition.
Pulls out of me.
Hands me a bottle of water.
Fixes my petticoats, dress, my hair. Kisses me softly.
The car stops. We're back at the party.
"I don't speak Farsi," I say in Farsi. It's the only thing I can think of to say because my mind is so boggled I don't have any words left.
We crack up.
He says something in Farsi. I have no idea what. I assume it's, 'Then my job is done here.'
He slips a card into my little dress purse.
The driver helps me out of the car. He manages to keep a straight face. A true professional.
My date says something to me in French. Thank God it's not Farsi, I've exhausted my vocabulary. It takes me a minute to translate it because my mind is still not working properly.
Ah, 'The white limo is not back yet. Do you want to wait? Do you want me to get you that taxi?'
I feel like I should get while the getting is good.
"Taxi."
He walks me over, kissed the back of my hand.
Says something to me in English. Fuck if I know what.
Pays the taxi driver, puts me in the cab.
"I'll make sure your friend knows you are safely on your way home."
I nod.
"To the finest start of the New Year a man could possibly ask for, mademoiselle."
"Right back at ya."
I fall asleep in the cab and wake up at my place.
I let myself in and plop onto the bed, still in costume.
I realize I never got paid.
Whatever.
Giselle will probably catch me up.
It's an adventure for my diary for sure.
Of course, I can never tell anyone.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I must meet you. Tell me where and when and I will come to you. I'll drive or fly to wherever you are. Tell me where. I'm begging you.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I take this to mean you like my stories?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
Groan.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I find every morning the first thing I do is look in my inbox, and when I see a note from you I smile. To be writing again, even if it is only for one is such a blessing. (You do realize I'm writing these stories exclusively just for one person, right?) I have not wanted to say this before, but things have not been all peaches and roses here. Some hollyhock with hemlock on the horizon.
So you are a breath of fresh air that cannot be underestimated.
Thank you.
And, regarding meeting.
No.
Bad idea.
But I am so flattered.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Tell me about the bad that is making you frown. You don't have to just entertain me with tales that entice. Let me know the truth that is casting such a long shadow.
--C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
A friend of mine is very sick. It's a long road. Remission gives hope and then snatches it away. A swift end would be a blessing but that is not in the cards. Being a caretaker sometimes seems harder than being struck with the disease.
I spend a lot of time praying, and staring at the ocean, when I'm not riding the mental rollercoaster. I don't really talk about what it's like, the kind of day-to-day drain that dealing with... both the nuts and bolts the endless river of medical crap and the nebulous psychological toll of being a constant cheery support in the face of... blech.
If you carry a big purse around long enough you get used to it, adding, adding, adding slowly; then the weight bearing is your new normal. So you forget when it turns into luggage. Usually it doesn't get me down. Sometimes, however, it makes you question everything.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
If only I had your gift with words, I would soothe you. I would take this burden from you if I could, know that I mean that in all honesty. I can only tell you that you've given me something that have made my days so much brighter. Your friend is lucky to have you. I am sure you are cherishing every moment. Sometimes that is all you can do. I will keep you both in my prayers.
Know, as always that I am always here. If there is anything I can do, let me know.
I'm including my phone number. Feel free to call, 24/7.
-- C.
DJ
I didn't write Chris, or write anything for that matter, for a few days. My boyfriend took a turn for the worse. He had blinding headaches. He wanted me to spoon feed him his meals, put compresses on his head, rub his neck. Nothing helped. He whined, a constant low-pitched keening. He threw up. A lot. His skin looked grey. I had a feeling the medicines were doing most of the damage.
The doctors said this was a normal reaction and sometimes "just happened". The advice was 'to ride it out.'
His skin was hot to the touch, and for nights on end, I held him while he had the shivers. His hair looked brittle and he looked small and frail curled up under our patchwork quilt. His eyes were flat, a look that said more than anything, that he'd give up.
Then one day he woke up and he was better. A lot better. He had a huge breakfast, went to work, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We had gone through five steady years of watching his blood results get worse, and the hope get less, and the medicines need change, and scares and crises. But somehow this week seemed like the worst. Not someone managing a disease but someone defeated by it.
I wanted a week in Aruba, I really did.
I stared out the big glass windows onto my back patio and lawn. My herb and vegetable garden had shriveled up and died. We had had a heat wave one day and I was too preoccupied to notice.
I was hydrating my boyfriend and I forgot the tomatoes.
I decided I needed, NEEDED, to get back to writing Chris.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I hitchhiked through Europe and South America for a year between high school and college when I was too dumb to know better. I sold a short story to an English magazine. I thought I'd become a great novelist. It's years later and only you know my name. Do you think that's enough?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I'm so glad you wrote. I was going through serious withdrawal. It's enough for me. More than enough for me. Was the year abroad where you honed your language skills? Sell any other short stories? Ever write a not great novel?
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
1.Yes, honed languages. Found I had a great ear for it. Thought about being a translator but then realized I'd have to listen to people.
2.Wrote two novels, haven't been able to sell them, maybe they suck.
3.Sold a few short stories over the years. Horror genre. The erotica thing is new, just these past months. How'm I doin'?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
I'm not going to flatter you unless I think I'm going to get something out of it.
More please.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Here's a story. I forget what city, Boca Raton?
I've always wanted to go to a sex club. I'm not sure what kind, or what I thought it would be like. How would I find one, who would I go with? Would it be dark, mysterious? A sensual den of hooka smoking hotties in heat?
Anyway, it was one of those fantasies in the back of my mind that I guess I sort of wished would come true, but who knew if it ever would. Who knew if those places even existed anymore in this day and age? If they did, it was probably only people in the know who could find where to go and how to get in.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Surely it would never happen.
I was working at a gym and one of the other personal trainers and I got to talking and somehow in passing it came up, I don't remember how.
And he said, sure, he could find a place and he'd be glad to be my wingman.
Well, what do you know.
I bought a flowing, short fire-engine red mini-dress with a plunging neckline and little cut-outs at the waist, and thick wavy brown hair extentions down to my ass, which I clipped in row by row until I had the most gorgeous hair you've ever seen, and off we went.
It was a plain, dingy bar with a few people sitting around on bar stools against the walls looking bored. Not a single person talking to another.
What?
I sat on a stool next to my wingman, ordered a drink and got bored.
After a while, I got up on the bar, turned my back to the room, and very gracefully stepped out of my underwear. I handed them to my wingman. Verrrrry carefully got down off the bar.
Everyone came over and started talking.
A few minutes later we all went downstairs to a private room that looked like a sultan's den. I wasn't interested in joining in, but it was fun to watch.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
I. HAVE. TO. MEET. YOU.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Laughter.
Still not a good idea.
-DJ
DJ
My boyfriend actually picked me up and carried me to bed when he got home. We hadn't had sex in... I don't know, what month is it? And we didn't then, but that he had the feistiness to pick me up and throw me down had us both smiling and giggling like we hadn't in a long, long time. We rented a small cottage right on the beach, a ridiculous expense considering we could drive back and forth in no time, but waking up to an ocean view fed our souls.
Maybe the tomatoes weren't the only thing I forgot to water.
I went back to writing Chris, but didn't include any of the 'did this really happen to me' stories, or any fiction or quasi fiction at all. I just emailed him a few times a day about my normal life things: Having trouble changing a flat tire, finding a dress on sale for $7.99 that I really wanted, and had passed up buying the year before, running into an old nemesis at the local coffee shop and trying to sound classy when she showed me a engagement ring the size of a hubcap.
Then I took a break from the computer for a while, it was if my eyes had stared so long at the shades of white on grey on the computer screen that my brain was only thinking in zeros and ones.
And I realized that I missed Chris in a weird way.
This was not good.
But on the other hand, it was so human.
*From Chris1970*
DJ,
Where are you? Haven't heard from you today.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I've told you all my stories that are interesting. Pretty soon I'm gonna have to start makin' shit up. I'm basically boring. I live with my boyfriend who's sick. I write blogs for money. I teach a yoga class. I volunteer in a soup kitchen once a month. I don't have a lot of friends. I used to, but over the last few years, the caretaker thing has sort of taken over. I spend a lot of my day with fantasy characters, thinking that I'll write them down, but I don't.
I'm lazy, boring, average. I have a quick wit and a weakness for peanut M & Ms so I don't keep them in the house.
Now you know everything.
What else is there to say?
By the way, did you like Darkly Stranger?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
First. Yeah, I loved Darkly Stranger. Have I said thank you yet?
Next, you couldn't be boring if you tried. If you were blind, mute, lost use of your arms and had to type with your mouth, you still would be the most interesting woman I know by far. Hands down, no contest.
And, oh, regarding the sex club story, so, you used to work in a gym? Now that part is fiction right?
Tell me about all your characters. Tell me about your blog posts. Tell me about your walks on the beach. Tell me about the stuff where you make shit up.
Anything. I'll eat it all up.
-- C.
P.S. -- Where do you want to meet?
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
You're a guy, right?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Picture a tail coming out and waving at you.
-- C.
DJ
I get the reference immediately. It's from my story, Darkly Stranger, where Donna realizes the creature is male when he raises her tail and waves it at her, in answer to the same question.
Meeting any fan, under any circumstances, isn't too smart. Meeting Chris, who I almost felt I was emotionally cheating with, was out of the question. Maybe part of the reason I could send the stories I didn't know anything about Chris. Chris could have been a 65 year-old woman from Alaska for all I knew.
But now that I knew he was a him, it was obviously impossible.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
As I have a boyfriend, meeting my pen pal is a bad idea. So, no, I don't think I can see you.
-DJ
DJ
I didn't hear from Chris for a day and half. Which might not seem like long, except I was at my computer, writing very boring posts about lauding the benefits of leasing European cars rather than buying, and checking my email every half hour. Chris usual responded within a few minutes, so the "radio silence" seemed long. I wondered if it was in response to my last email, or if he was just busy.
*From Chris1970*
DJ,
Let me come be with you and not see you. We'll gather at a restaurant and I promise to keep my eyes closed the whole time. Like the blind gathering solace from a voice, it will be well and good, company without temptation.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
Laughter.
You're a sick man. Which probably explains why you like my stories. In your imaginary scenario, would you wear dark glasses and carry a thin cane?
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
DJ,
I'm trying here, throw a guy a bone. You said you didn't want me to see you. This would work.
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I could be mistaken, but I think I wrote, or meant, that I shouldn't see you. Not the other way around.
-DJ
P.S.: And if you're thinking about suggesting blindfolding me in a restaurant, I can already tell you the answer to that is no.
*From Chris1970*
You'll think of something. You need a friend now more than I do.
-- C.
DJ
The last note pissed me off. Not just because it was presumptuous, but because it was true. I was frazzled, beat down, at the end of my rope. The emails from Chris were what were keeping me going. The idea of meeting him was exciting and filled me with hope.
But what I didn't want was to cheat. I wasn't the kind of person who would have an affair. Not that I had judgment against those that did, I got it. But I didn't want to slowly fall into a pattern that became an irresistible trap and then feel like I was a shit.
It had been over a year since I'd had sex. I was, in a way, a walking ball of need. And as much as I didn't like to admit it, I'd already developed somewhat of an emotional attachment to Chris.
Yet, I needed more from Chris. More support, more connection, more everything.
But I was afraid. Deeply troubled about being further naked in front of someone with whom I'd already taken so many protective layers off.
I wanted to meet him; I was worried I'd touch him.
I needed a fail-safe.
Chris was right. I'd think of something.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
It's a beautiful day here, a gorgeous 78 degrees. I'm working outside. Today I am praising the value of an alarm clock that walks away from you after you hit the snooze button, so that you have to get out of bed to smack it to shut it up when the second snooze alarm goes off. After that I get to write about the wonder of turquoise print dresses for the spring, and weed fertilizer.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Thank you for the update. To reiterate from my last message, I know you'll think of something.
-- C.
DJ
It was later that day that I did think of something. It was a perfect idea. And like a separate part of me had taken over, a lemming drawn to the water, or an addict sleepwalking toward a pill, I went to put the pieces in motion.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I thought of something.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
D,
Are you going to tell me?
-- C.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
At some point, I suppose.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
Dear DJ,
Do any of your stories feature discipline?
-- C.
DJ
A shiver of pleasure went through me at that one. You're a bad girl, DJ. I left that email alone; it obviously didn't warrant a response.
I had made all the arrangements. I dressed with care, a brown and green A-line dress and brown knee-high boots, right out of the 70s, even though he would never see me. Then it was time.
I walked into the cathedral and was immediately struck by the sense of the sacred. Shafts of blue and red light filtered down through the stained glass, mounted high up between the buttresses. I smelled a lemony smell of wood polish and a smoky smell that was probably snuffed candles.
My heels made a loud clicking sound on the tile. I walked to the confession booths and stared. Which one would he be in, the confessor's or the priest's? I decided he'd be in the latter. I opened the one on the right a crack. Empty.
I stepped in and sat down. The brown lattice between the booths was intricate. A shadow, clearly indicating a large man, was seated on the other side.
For a moment neither of us spoke. I had a second of wanting my voice to be as enticing as my emails. But I didn't want it to come out as affected, or fake sultry. So the silence dragged on.
"DJ? Will you tell me a story? I don't mind driving two hours just to listen to you breathe, but if you'd tell me a story, you'd make my day."
I smiled. His voice was low and deep. Pleasant. Normal. No accent.
"And by the way, you smell divine."
"Just soap," I said. My very first words to him and that's what they were.
We talked for a long time about nothing and everything. Mostly I talked about my boyfriend. How we met, what it had been like since he got sick.
He told me a story, about how he had to enter a stand-up comedy contest wearing a dress in order to get into his fraternity, that had me laughing so hard I was in tears.
I decided, much like I often had, that I should get while the getting was good. I stood up and let myself out of the small box without even a good-bye.
"DJ?" I heard Chris call after me. "Will I see you again?"
I closed my eyes. Oh, I don't know if I had it within me to stay away. But I said what came to my mind, in an old timey voice. "One never knows, do one."
--
DJ
In all this time I was writing to Chris, and doing my day job, I wasn't writing any new fiction. After the church I went home, with the muse on fire. I sat down at the computer until four in the morning, the characters in my head dancing across the page, lighting up the night. Their prose was perfect, their dialog witty. I sat on the edge of my seat as I followed them through dark alleys and into lush metaphors.
Chris had opened some pipe way that had been squeezed; I felt like I was breathing clean air filled with inspiration.
It was the beginning of a pattern for us. Every Wednesday I went to the confession booth and spun a story more horrific and fantastical than the next. Every Wednesday evening I went home and wrote the story down, my fingers flying across the keys with blurring speed. I sent the stories out, and people bought them. Early spring became abundant blooms, then the grasses dried brown as spring turned summer, and fan groups of my little off-world crossed lover assassins sprung up on the internet, causing me to strut around my backyard like a peacock when nobody was looking.
And then one day I had a thought.
*From DJtruewriter*
Dear Chris,
I have a surprise for Wednesday.
Something wicked this way comes.
-DJ
*From Chris1970*
If the surprise is holding me captive by reading me Shakespeare, I have to tell you, I much prefer your original tales to his. But then, I prefer your stories over all others.
-- C.
Wednesday came. As always he arrived in the both before me.
"Chris," I whispered. "Close your eyes and promise me you'll keep them closed."
"Okay."
Vroom, vroom.
I revved the cordless power drill.
I pictured his eyes snapping open. But as he promised they wouldn't maybe they didn't. Or if they did, maybe he closed them right away.
"What's that?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
I just started working on the screws; unscrewing the four screws that held up the latticed panel between us. When I got them all loose, I took the panel and placed it behind me.
I got my first look at Chris. I guess he was in his late 30s, early 40s maybe. He was wearing a loose, worn, light tan jacket, probably to ward off the chill of the air conditioner in the church. In the dark confines, with the loose jacket, and the way he was sitting, I couldn't see all the muscle groups to tell the exact shape of him, but he was a big guy, gone a little to bulk. Salt and pepper hair, heavy on the salt. Square jaw, kind face. Full lips. I wondered what color his eyes were.
"Once upon a time," I said. I got comfortable and let my voice take on lush, sing-song tones. "There was a very elegant woman. She was tall and willowy. She had more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. She was aloof and often alone. She was rarely lonely, but sometimes she was.
"She was driving to a charity ball. The crème de la crème of society. She had made a big donation; people were expecting her to show up. It was a long way from where she lived. She wanted the scenic route, so she took the winding, twisty roads, with their huge shroud-like trees that hung over the pavement like a canopy. Sun set and a light mist started.
"A deer jumped in front of her car and she narrowly missed it, but a second deer followed the first and as she swerved to avoid it she hit a deep gully on the side of the road.
"She got out to inspect the damage, climbing into the small gulf to see it was minimal. But the tire was stuck in the mud and there was no way she was getting out. The mist increased slightly, damping her simple white sheath, with its now mud-stained hem.
"She got behind the wheel of her car anyway, thinking one try wouldn't hurt, even if the tires just spun. But there was nothing but a coughing-hick when she tried to turn the car back on, as if the engine too decided it had had enough.
"She opened the hood, propped it up. Looked down at the hot engine steaming in the mist like she knew all the answers when she knew none.
"She got her phone out of her small silver clutch purse but of course there was no signal. She was far away from everything. Her only hope was that a car would come by. Surely one would.
"The wait seemed long with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her. She had gotten so used to everything being instantly served, less than a second wait for internet, servants, waiters.
"But it was probably only 15 minutes before a car came by. Just as it slowed, the mist turned to a warm drizzling rain.
"The car stopped for her immediately. It was a silver Benz, the exact same model as hers, and somehow that gave her peace.
"The man got out. She had the strange feeling she'd seen him before, in some other city maybe. He glanced over at the car. 'Let me get down in there and get a good look, maybe I can push it out.' He gestured to his own car. 'You can sit in my car if you'd like, get out of the wet.'
"She knew it was a foolish thing to do, get in the car of a stranger, even a stopped car, even for a second. But she'd been standing for 15 minutes in high heels not meant for harsh paved roads, and the rain would turn her dress see-through in a few minutes if she didn't do something.
"The car was warm, and cozy, and smelled nice, like donuts, as if he had stopped somewhere recently and bought sweets that were actually fresh baked.
"She closed her eyes. Perhaps his cell phone would work. Maybe he had a different carrier.
"The driver's side door opened and closed, and then she was looking at him, so much larger than she realized, crowding up the space.
" 'Can't get it out.' He looked at her then, and there was a hunger in his eyes. She wondered if her dress had gone partially transparent after all."
Chris' breathing changed a little at that, and I leaned in slightly closer to him. I let my voice get even quieter, huskier.
" 'I'm guessing your heading somewhere specific, with how beautiful you look,' the man said. 'I could take you there; I'd hate to keep you.' But somehow his tone said the opposite.
"For a second she stopped breathing, the in and out literally suspended, as her whole body gasped in and then held. Something in his voice, a need she hadn't heard in a long time made her want to answer. She had to try twice, and lick her dry lips and let her mouth hang open, relearning how to breathe for a second before she managed to say, 'I could be fashionably late.'
"He drove a bit, and her hand crept toward him. She noticed jumper cables between them, their edges looking sharp, the cord looking strong. He glanced over and caught where he was looking. He pulled off between some trees and his expression was wicked and dangerous."
I leaned forward so my lips where just a hair's breath from Chris' cheek. Then I was speaking in a raspy whisper, right into Chris' ear.
"And she didn't know whether to be excited or scared as her heart beat faster, but she realized that perhaps she'd be much, much later than just fashionably later, after all."
I backed up abruptly and screwed the panel on as quickly as I could.
"DJ? DJ!"
I had the dividing panel on in record time and was out of the booth.
"DJ!" I heard him yell. "What happened? What happened to her? What happened to the lady in white?"
The click on my heels sounded loud as I started to walk away and then stopped. "You know what happened."
"Did he kill her? Did they make love? Did he use the cables on her?"
"Whatever you think happened, happened Chris."
I walked away, the echoing of my heels sounding even louder.
"DJ! I want to see you again. I want a part two to the story!"
"There's no part two," I called out as I was almost to the door. "The moral of the story is you make your own endings. In the end you are always the one who creates your own thoughts to please yourself."
"DJ!" He yelled.
But I was out the door. I ran down the sidewalk wondering if I had intended to have a steamy car scene, and if I had, if that would have been crossing a line, building a relationship, almost cheating on my boyfriend by taking the friendship too far.
Or maybe I already had.
But I knew I'd come back.
Even if I never told another story.
Because I was hooked.
# # #
This chapter is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Copyright belongs to MJ Roberts 2014. Please do not reproduce without permission from the author.
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