'Moon Shapes'

Chapter 12: Part 3: (Dannity)

"Smell what?" I managed to ask, taking the last step to the incredulous door.

I won't lie I was a tad cynical since being silenced in the wake of the, all-out boy-on-old-man, action scorned about three inches into my over draught brain. How did I get to be the individual who gets themselves wrapped up in complete raveling situations (kind of on the lines of when I walked in on Nikki blowing a semi-transforming were-boy) I mean, that alone can have a lasting impression, which can be a lingering casually for a life-time. A brimming fiasco could easily sum up the unwitting plot lines of this girls' young adult life.

I hesitated myself, thinking back to the terrible, gruesome smell I had the privilege of sniffing no more than twenty minutes ago - still had no idea what the hell was going on with that - but the thought of that 'dog' sinking it's large, perhaps rabies infested prongs into my cute - could be better - derrière wasn't exactly an exercise I was willing to partake in.

Rotating my torso comically, as my eyes assume the lookout for any sign that the possible assailant hound from hell has made a miraculous return to finish the abrupt job it obviously had intended. "What is it, you smell?" I asked still dissecting every shadowy corner.

"It's hard to describe, like...maybe rust...something." He returned, taking in a big whiff. "It's kinda sweet, almost as if rose petals." His eyes were closed, with a slants' smirk creasing his left dimple. Gawd - he was some-what of a cutie. I could see why Nikki had such an infinity for him.

If only it were a story told simple; I'd rather be chopping an acre of onions with them all being pealed open to reveal the inner part where the stinging creates such blasphemy in your eyes, than being the one that divulges that immeasurable hardship to her. I could only imagine how the extremities of such revelations would sparse to the boiling point that she's dating a double-gaited hole poker. Not that I've a problem with any freedom we are bestowed with, but, not behind someone's back, whom you are to love; that's where the problem exists for me.

Of course, I didn't necessarily witness anything sexual-like going on; their clothes were reasonably non- wrinkled; now, the sweating and the odd eyewink from the professor was off-putting, but not deeming of a sexual category type.

This is purely and innocently my own venturing; a downright honest-to-god speculation; a mere intuitional thing spearing my gut; maybe I'm wrong; such a possibility could translate that he's purely a bi-sexual (all the gals, and boys are seemingly side-tracking down a road called experimentation; which again, I have no problem) but, as far as considering who, and what 'The One' can and has done, I wouldn't put it past her to judge the shat out of him, and the hole's he takes the pleasure of voiding.

Jogging back to the situation at hand, I wasn't exactly sure what the freak he is going on about? I smelled nothing like rusty roses.

I suppose the remnants of that bowel turning scent still lingered in my nose - ugh; I covered my mouth, keeping the surge of gagging from being less obvious. I better shush, or he might just witness the softer side of my dinner. I wonder if that particular action has ever been used as a way to pick-up a guy. Look out; I might just be paving the way for the future dating rituals.

"It's oddly, nice." He acclaimed, splashing into my all random train of thoughts. With a sudden gesture, his head bent to the ground.

"Ben..." I had no idea what was wrong. "...You okay?" I heard my voice speak softer than usual. In possible concern or, perhaps rather, I was feeling a paternal inkling of protecting him. It's an odd thing to feel, as well, as to admit to. Considering he is perchance screwing over my best friend.

Swiftly griping the hand, I had placed upon him, gliding it closer to his lips, easily closing the gap between the ivory of my palm, to his slightly warmed breath. I honestly could say no one had been quite so sensual with me before; especially, the previous jerk-off. Nope! There will be no mention of that - NOT HIM! Tightening my eyes; willing the train of emotions coiling within my chest to flair to a manageable simmer.

My attention - along with bulging eyes - was forced back as Ben ran his full bottom lip along my wrist. Suddenly his grip was tighter. His lips had stopped, as he stiffened in place. What was he doing?

The wetness of his tongue was quit fear-wrenching with a twist of surprising, yet the misty organ never did move, instead horrifyingly, it stayed right in one spot, just at the main vein. Then obviousness bombarded my cranium. I couldn't believe the unfortunate unveiling I had tragically been given. Oh. My. Bog. Another one to dance nightly rituals under that damn moon. Is there anyone not affected; is there any 'human' beings left?

He's intoxicated with the already closed, tiny cuts the glass had rippled upon the upper part of my hand.

Why are there so many, now-a-days, seemingly disguised as good Samaritans; dead, married, gay, or even worse - blood-thirsty dick-licks? I mean, really! Damn it!

I'm gluttony for punishment or something.

Just label my forehead with a gleaming glittery sticker that reads, 'attracts all creatures, with more chromosomes than the average human, and least not forget the, unholy!' With an additional smaller sticker reading, 'Find her, she accepts all who reap, and dwell!'

Did I ever say how I am terrible - terribly guileful - at with-holding any kind of life-altering insight; secrets to me, are like...weapons of mass-destruction. It's why many keep them, as a back-up arsenal. Ever notice the phrase, 'shit's about to hit the stratosphere,' It's never just one piece of a juicy puzzle being finally flicked into place, its numerous rounds going off, all at once; and if you're lucky enough to count your stars and get away unscathed, then, you can revel in saintliness. But, currently, who doesn't have a bit of extremities clinging to them at one time, or at all times of their lives?

And this piece of puzzle has pile's written all over it. I just hope I can keep Ben unharmed from the wrath of that friend, 'the one!', if she were to happen to ever find out this crippling tidbit.

Come to think of it, my arse would be as liable too - from breaking the 'best-friend' un-written clause of, 'thou shall bear no witness to secrets, or maintain any un-trustworthy activity as long as with continuing friendship lasts. Those who swear this, can and will stay honest.' It sounded smart-like when we wrote the 'rules' as fourteen-year olds. Who knew some things just never actually are really that forgettable?