My inner workings scolded. Thinking about Dream Stellan was near to sacrilegious, and I should just cut it out, they said. I ignored the inner voice. I felt held by the memory, as though Dream Stellan was still next to me, his arms around me. I felt the sleepy comfort of being in love, or at least what my subconscious had decided was how love should feel. Yet, under that I felt frustration - the aggravation of what I was sure a man might refer to as ‘blue balls.’ I wanted to hunt each of those dream cock blockers down.
A moment later I felt a warm rush between my legs. My body had responded to the dream as well.
I shifted in bed, fighting the tingling that seemed to be emanating from down below. In my attempts to ignore it, I climbed out of bed and headed down the hall, towel in hand.
I undressed, climbed into the shower and sat down. Despite years of having done this, I still faltered for a moment at the thought of doing this in my mother’s house. I wasn’t seventeen anymore.
You’re alone, I thought. Even if she were to come in, you’re in a locked bathroom. I let my fingers begin their work. I thought of that warmth. I thought of the arms around me. I thought of Stellan’s eyes.
Stop it! Think of something else.
I thought of the most passionate porn scene I’d ever witnessed. I thought of the second most passionate porn scene I’d ever witnessed. I thought of a handsome Captain named Malcolm, piloting a ship called Serenity. I thought of young Val Kilmer as Mad Martigan in Willow, of Cary Elwes whispering ‘As you wish.’ I thought of Stellan towering over me, my fingers curled into his shoulders.
Stop it Faye! God damn it!
Ok, ok. Edward Norton? No. Sam Rockwell? Usually, but no. Stellan’s blue eyes and him pinning me up against the porcelain sink whispering in his bedroomy voice?
Oh god yes!
It was innocent enough to just let a dream carry me through, wasn’t it? I didn’t ask for the dream, but I enjoyed its effects, and I was going to strike while the iron was hot. Oh wow, it was really hot. The voice in my head hissed and booed, but I noticed that as my hands moved, the minute Stellan’s image appeared in my mind – his face, his hands, that bedroomy voice of his that always made me squirm – it made the sensations triple in intensity. The heat rose, rose again, and then my fingers and my wrist went nearly limp and useless – a side effect of relying on one’s own efforts to achieve orgasm and not having a Garden Bath Tub like I did in my condo to do all the work. I fought against atrophy to maintain, but the orgasm had crested and fallen back, not half the strength it could have been. I would have to be satisfied with that.
I’ve read that three orgasms a week make women look ten years younger. Well, actually, the article said women should be having sex three times a week – a feat I’ve never actually managed to maintain for any real duration of time due to lackluster partners, but they said solo trips counted for single ladies. At this rate I probably look forty something, because my vagina and I haven’t been on speaking terms. Previously to that, Meghan wasn’t wrong when she mentioned Cole’s libido in comparison to mine. I think three times a week is low – far too low. Maybe Cole was right and I really am just obsessed with sex, but damn it, I don’t think wanting daily sex makes me ‘oversexed.’ I remember thinking, in order to be called oversexed, I would need to actually be having sex, but I didn’t say that out loud at the time when Cole made the comment.
That morning there was a definite spring in my step.
I rustled around the house for a bit, filling Mom’s birdfeeders, wiping down the counters and picking up here and there. Once I’d spent a couple hours simply plodding around the house, I performed my second miracle of the day. I went out.
The air was cool and crisp. Autumn is New England’s season. The trees don’t fade into a wintery slumber by any means. They explode. The world was bustling outside. Even the quiet empty streets were in constant movement, the bright orange and red debris swirling across the gray asphalt, leaving it collected along the roadsides, only to be picked up in a gust by the next passing car.
I drove aimlessly until I found myself by my old art supply store. I went inside to explore.
I’d spent hours here once, buying my notebooks and pens, paints and brushes. They’d known me by name once. Today I entered as incognito as any other.
“Can I help you find anything?” A woman asked as I fondled a few journals on my way through. I politely refused. I was out of the house, and this was a deed to be proud of, but I wasn’t quite ready to be friendly with strangers. One step at a time, I thought.
I explored the store, fondling every item as though it were some precious artifact. There was a journal with a canvas cover, so the person who buys it could literally paint their own cover. I held it and turned it over, startling at the price, then I replaced it on the shelf. I remembered that I was, in fact, broke ass.
I picked up a few new pens and a new sketchpad and held them in my arms as I continued to shop. I handled everything, fondly remembering what it felt like to have the means to buy these things.
That canvas journal is thirty five bucks, who cares? I’ll take two!
I did my best not to frown at the thought.
Those days were over.
I stood there staring toward the registers. It wasn’t much more than thirty dollars, it wasn’t going to break the bank by any means, but still. It wasn’t my money.
I swear I stood there for ten minutes, debating how I could properly repay my mother if I spent her money. I turned back to the sea of coveted artifacts, set my prizes back amongst their kindreds and left the store. I vowed then to look online for jobs again when I got home. At that moment, I was ready to do just about anything.
I took the long way home. Aimless drives were where I did my best thinking, where I processed my bull shit without the concern of someone knocking on my door because I’m sobbing and cursing God. I let the art of the aimless drive go when I worked for Precise Marketing. By then, I had an office and a condo where I could do whatever thinking I might need to do, and background music became more of a distraction than a tool. By the end of the drive, I sang, I laughed, talked to myself, practiced an imaginary argument with Cole, and cried. Miraculously, it hadn’t ruined my mood.
Wow, the wonders of masturbation. Were I attempting a marketing campaign, the catch phrase would be: Masturbation! Start your day off right.
I pulled into Davis Court and rounded the hill only to involuntarily slam on my brakes as I caught sight of my house. Stellan’s jeep was parked outside. I sat there in my car, awkwardly staring at my own house with a knot in my stomach. I nearly pulled into the Hodges’ driveway to turn around and flee.
Faye, he isn’t going to know you imagined him naked this morning. He isn’t going to know you had an orgasm at his expense. Just go inside.
I didn’t move. I fidgeted with the radio, cleaned my glove box, and organized my dashboard, all the while keeping my eyes averted from my front door and his jeep.
I glanced at my phone. I’d managed to spend eight minutes futzing around in my car. Pathetic, I thought. It still took me a couple minutes to get up my front steps. I actually almost sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs, just to keep the wall and the front door between myself and the sole member of my morning spank tank. He was going to take notice and come out soon.
I opened the front door and went inside. Stellan wasn’t on the couch.
“Hello?” I called.
“Hey Ray!”
His voice came from the office. He was muffled, like someone speaking through a blanket. The butterflies in my stomach only quadrupled at the sound of his voice. He was just a few yards away. Just go say hello, just be cool. Just stop being a jackass. I mean, seriously.
I dropped my keys on the table beside the door and walked down the hall. I didn’t immediately see him when I looked into the office. The room consists of white walls, and built in bookshelves and cabinets surrounding the empty space where I’d once had
my drawing table.
Let me rephrase - where my drawing table now stood, two long denim clad legs protruding from beneath. It looked like a dusty angled surface with work boots on its second set of legs. Stellan shifted out from under the table, a screwdriver in his hand.
He sat up, smirking at me. “Whaddaya think? Pretty rad, eh?”
I stood silent.
He seemed to take my shock as a positive thing. “Just a few bits of missing hardware, and it’ll be all set.”
I wasn’t sure which thought to share – how furiously my stomach was turning at the mere presence of him, or how far my stomach sank at the sight of that table; a table I spent hours upon hours at for all of my youth.
Should I say ‘thank you?’ ‘How thoughtful?’ Wait, why is it thoughtful? I haven’t drawn so much as a comic since college. What the hell was he doing?
Sadly, the most prominent thoughts I had were how handsome he looked with his hair pulled back. The words, ‘You fucker, you’re not helping!’ crossed my mind.
After another minute of silence, he got up off the floor.
“You alright there?”
I nodded and swallowed.
“You’re ok with it, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, and the word stuck in my throat like raw octopus that doesn’t want to be eaten. “I just – why did you bring it up?”
I tried my hardest not to let my voice betray – well, any number of thoughts.
He shrugged. “You remember that project I mentioned? The one I needed your help with?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
He gestured to the table. “You’re gonna need this. That is, if you say yes. I hope you say yes.”
I was going to say yes. No matter how uneasy I felt looking at that table, I knew I’d say yes to anything Stellan asked. So did he.
Jesus, what was I going to agree to?
He nudged my arm and turned to explain the last bits of work that needed to be done to finish the table – a few screws of various sizes, easy things that we could pick up in the hardware store down the street. He put his hand on the corner of the drawing board and shook it. Despite a slight squeak, it was sturdy. I watched Stellan bend down to pick up the little amount of trash he’d created in his project and felt ridiculous. One stupid dream and I’ve turned into a slack jawed yokel in his company, ogling his bum when he bends over. This is just fucking fantastic. I felt like a wolverine was giving birth in my intestines.
“You’re really quiet today,” he said after another moment passed.
I nodded, but quickly realized that a silent answer would only further fuel his sense of something being wrong, or worse, a lack of gratitude from me. “I’ve just had a strange day.”
“Oh yeah? What you been up to?”
I replayed the simple, and somewhat pointless pursuits of my afternoon and almost felt embarrassed to share. “Driving around.”
He nodded. “It has its place,” he said. I caught my breath as he brushed past me and stood there listening to him in the kitchen. However fleeting and pointless the contact was, I hoped it would happen again.
I fought the desire to follow him. This was unreasonable – it’s Stellan for Christ’s sake!
“You wanna’ walk down to the hardware store with me?” He asked from the kitchen. I could hear him cracking the top of a can of soda and despite my inner berating, I was hoping for the sound of his returning footsteps. He wasn’t moving.
“You don’t have to do that -” I called. He appeared at the dining room doorway. I jumped at the sight of him. He smiled as he always did when he snuck up on me.
He smelled good today – like clean laundry and soap. Why the hell does he have to smell nice today?
“You coming?”
I’d been standing there silent while he waited. God damn it, Faye. Snap out of it! “Yeah, if you want.”
He swigged at his root beer, and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he had our jackets.
We walked down to the center of town, meandered through the hardware store on Main Street, Stellan scouring the screws and bolts and things and me looking at paint swatches, mentally paint shopping for the house in my dream. Stellan finished his shopping, and I followed him out, only to have him suggest we stop in the Boathouse Café for a cannoli. I love cannoli. Stellan could survive without them, and I knew this, but still he pressed the suggestion.
“I’m trying to avoid that stuff right now,” I said, avoiding eye contact like a twelve year old.
He nodded. “Ah, I forgot about that. Do you want coffee instead?”
He seemed quite adamant, so I accepted. It was a few doors down, a bistro style coffee and sandwich shop that made the neighboring alleyway smell of cookies and Italian subs on any given day. He ordered my Salted Caramel coffee and nothing for himself. I did notice, however, that he spent a good few minutes talking to the girl behind the counter. She was mid-twenties, auburn haired and quite lovely in a green hills and leprechauns kind of way. I stood back toward the door while he made her laugh.
I stared at the floor, my stomach churning and my throat tight. It was a fury I wasn’t accustomed to and without warning, I turned and walked out. I didn’t feel like waiting for Stellan to get some random girl’s number. Problem was, I didn’t think she was random. Stellan knew full well she would be behind that counter, and I was sure that was why he was so adamant to go.
Well, he can fucking stay all day for all I care, I thought.
“F-Bomb! Wait up!”
I cringed. His footsteps closed in quickly as he came after me. Now I would have to acknowledge that I’d left. How the hell do I explain that I didn’t like seeing him chatting up a girl?
“What’s up?” He asked as he matched my pace.
I shrugged and kept walking, throwing my coffee in a trash bin as we passed. I regretted it instantly, but I was a whirlwind of spite at that moment, so coffee be damned.
He nudged my arm softly. I pulled away from the touch. That would show him.
We walked back to my house in silence, Stellan a few steps behind me as I walked. I kept my head high, inspecting the leaves overhead as though they were the most interesting thing I’d ever encountered.
I would not acknowledge him.
I would not acknowledge him.
I would not acknowledge him.
Go let Miss MacGillacuddy acknowledge you, fuck bag!
We went inside, and I slumped down on the couch.
Stellan stood in the front room a moment, and I could feel him looking at me. Finally he went for the office and began fumbling around. I took the opportunity to turn on the TV, letting the familiar sounds of The Price is Right fill the room. Drew Carey hadn’t gotten halfway through revealing the first showcase when I found Stellan standing in front of me, blocking the TV completely. He was a big man, and big men are very hard to ignore.
He lightly kicked the bottom of my shoe. “What’s up with you?”
I shrugged.
Suddenly he leaned down over me, his hands on the back of the couch behind my shoulders. I was trapped there between his arms, his face just inches away from mine. There was no escaping the sight of him, or worse the smell of him. God damn it, just let me fester! It’ll go away if you just let me fester!
“Look at me,” he said in a sing song voice. I stared at the rolled up sleeve of his flannel shirt. It wasn’t the best spot to choose, given that it made the contours of his forearm all the more prominent.
Damn it, Faye! Stop finding him attractive!
“No,” I said, still staring at his arm.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing.”
He laughed. “Come on, F-bomb. Why are you mad?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you dragged me to the Boathouse to schmooze some girl.”
His eyebrows went up instantly. “Really?”
“Yeh,” I said, curtly. “I think you’d find if you�
�d asked me to tag along for such an adventure I would have declined.”
He sank down to his knees in front of me, searching my face, waiting for me to look at him. When I did, he smiled. Despite all my effort to be angry, his smile cracked me, and I fought not to smile back.
“You jealous?”
“Fuck you,” I said, and tried to get off the couch and past him. He wouldn’t have it.
I slumped back into the couch as he half tackled me.
“You’re jealous!” He said, beaming.
For a quick instant, his hands shifted across the couch and up my legs. The sensation sent a current of electricity through my whole body, and I gave an involuntary shriek. This wasn’t my response to being tickled, for that cry is in protest. I was startled by how electrifying just the mere graze of his fingers was. Yet, his true purpose was instantly clear as his hands found my waist and my under arms. I wailed and kicked at him, only driving him on. He launched himself up onto the couch, straddling me and pinning me there as he tortured me. I screamed my undying hatred, pushing and pulling at his hands in an attempt to stop the tickling, but as you may realize, I was up against a giant ninja. It was an exercise in futility.
“I fucking hate you!” I screamed.
“No you don’t! You’re madly in love with me! I always knew this day would come. You’re no match for my masculine charms,” he said, still squeezing at my sides. Finally, he dove for my feet, pinning me beneath him as he pried off my shoes. My feet were the most tickling part of my body. I screamed so loud, the glass in the windows shook.
He laughed maniacally as I cried out. I continued to protest until he finally let me free, lifting himself up off the couch to go work in the office. I lied there across the cushions, a frazzled and tortured mess, but the warmth of his body lingered.
I didn’t dare move. Something had shifted in me. For the first time in my life, I’d enjoyed being tickled. Damn it, how could this happen?
I listened to him working in the office, still unwilling to get up from the couch as Drew Carey celebrated with a college kid over his brand new trailer. I heard a familiar sound buzzing upstairs and realized I had left my phone on the bedside table.
Catch My Fall Page 8
