|One Year Later|
He makes me feel vulnerable, and I don't like that.
This vulnerability is gnawing at the epicenter of my chest. It's stained in the familiar pang of wretched heartbreak.
In reality, it's certainly the fear, the doubt, and the risk of newfound love.
I don't want to "catch feelings". I don't want to fall in love. Not again.
Love hurts too bad. And I hate that everything revolves around it. Music, books, movies... The world.
It's a topic so drilled because it can never be obtained indelibly. It's the wind lulling flirtatiously through the trees. Or brilliant lightning stroking the sallow sky. It fleets. It never stays.
"True love". "Real love." It doesn't exist. Love is like Bigfoot. People search high and low for it, but has it ever been found?
That's why it is so sought after. People look for what they can't find, and want what they can't have.
Love, the daunting sojourner, will lure you in to only snare your heart. It will cheat on you.
Put you at ends with your kin.
It will make your heart believe it is all you need to survive, when it is the keen reason every part of you is on the brink of extinction.
Love is happiness. Happiness is love. I don't believe in either.
So, here I lay. In my colleague's bed. We've known each other since our college days. I've always had sort of a crush on him. However, I was too head over heels and faithful to act on any desire.
He was there when I- when I was in a very dank chapter in my life. He coaxed and comforted me. He was my alcohol. My pot. My therapist. Only he could behead the vicious pain that accompanies lost of love.
Now, I lay in his bed. I don't know if it was due to the amazing sex, but this obtrusive pulsation fluxes my heart. I want it to end. I feel susceptible to injury, ache.
At any given moment, I could say I love you and he wouldn't say it back. My guard is down. The plaster chipping with every thought and pulse. I had to get it back up.
"Phee!" He beckons.
Hot steam bogarts the bedroom. The sashes are closed but dim, yellow street light whirs in, illuminating the evaporation. My eyes are kissing the popcorn ceiling. My flesh is raveled in the sheets misted in ardent dew.
"Yes, Alex?" I call back. The vulnerable part of me is eager to engage in joining him. I want him to ask me.
Please.
"I need a towel! Could you go to the laundry room and get me one, please?"
Damn.
"Yeah," I sigh, slightly disappointed.
When I return with the thick, brown cloth, his thick, brown member is begging to be rode, stroked, and sucked. A bit transfixed, I just stare clutching the towel. The expression on my face must have said it all.
Alex simply takes the towel, throws it aside, and hoists me upon himself. We scrabble to the bed as a vehement unit, and the vulnerability conquers.
After getting my fix, I remember who I am. I remember what I must avoid. The thing I have to prevent. I can't fall in too deep. I won't fall in too deep.
Sweat beads line our bodies. He's brushing his broad finger tips against billowy strands of my hair. Alex really fancies my hair. He says it reminds him of silk. I mesh up against him, lingering in his haven of natural heat. He is like a geyser. Always hot. Heh, and when it comes to me- always ready to explode.
My eyes wander to the analog alarm clock on the bedside table.
2:34 AM
"Alex?"
"Yes, love?"
"I have to go..."
Alarm tinged with grogginess rang in his voice. He says, "Why? You normally spend the night,"
"I know... It's just, I need to go. Chelsa needs to be fed."
Chelsa is my loyal, old terrier.
"Baby, it's two o'clock in the morning. Chelsa will be fine. It's not safe to be out this time of night. Stay with me. We have to go the same way in the morning, anyways."
Then he wraps his bulking arm around me. Instantly, I feel secure.
In defeat, I muster, "Okay."
An hour passes, and Alex is out cold. His arm is still seizing me. It is as if he is going to make sure I don't leave his side. Even in his sleep, he is on guard.
Touché, Alex. Touché.
For a moment, I'm stymied. It seems to be no way out.
