by Kara Liane
Better to leave than be left, am I right? Everyone leaves at some point, I just happened to make the first move. It’s like a game of chess. I strategically place my pieces on the board, and some moves may be foolish or genius. Either way, I’m the one who gets to call “checkmate.” I’m the one who gets to end the battle on a high note.
I knew it was pathetic that I didn’t have any girlfriends to call up and hang out with or vent to. I had a neighbor down the hall named Dawn, not to be confused with the B next door that I taunted. Anyway, Dawn and I would converse once in a while, but we weren’t that friendly. Granted, I didn’t like doing much of anything, but since things were slow at work and my dickhole editor was still not giving me the good leads on stories, I was getting bored—a lot. This boredom led to me masturbating—a lot.
I had tried my hand at doing some crafty shit I had found on Pinterest. That crap lasted for two seconds. I ended up burning my finger with a hot glue gun, wasted over a hundred bucks on supplies that I’d never use again, and drank a whole bottle of wine while I attempted to make my wreath resemble the origami thing it was supposed to. Yup, I needed to get some ass.
But hold on. I’m not that desperate to jump just anyone, and I’ll prove it. They hired a new intern at the Timez. This kid—I’m totally going to call him a kid—wouldn’t stop texting me. His name is Stuart, and he’s twenty-four years old, so to me he’s just a baby. He has a lot of growing up to do and whatnot. I’m not going to front and act like I’m not attracted to him. I have eyes and perfectly working hormones, thank you very much. But I was not going there! He had that surfer-stoner vibe thing going on anyway, and I was so not attracted to that persona. I also make the conscious effort not to shit in my own backyard.
As I said before, it’s hard enough for a woman like me to make a name for herself, mostly because they, the men in my field, want literal head to help me get ahead. Therefore, beach-bum boy was not going to help me in any way, regardless of whether his daddy did happen to own the building where our newspaper was housed. I could continue to give myself orgasms, and no one would get hurt. I did realize quickly that Stuart had a crush on me, and I don’t have time for that shit. I didn’t even do the whole dancing-around-the-subject thing.
I told him flat out: “Don’t go sniffing around this bush, because it will bite your pecker right off.”
He turned green at the gills at my words, so I thought that had done the trick. Yup, I thought he had gotten the hint, but in his boyish brain he probably thought it was hot that I told him off. Ugh, this isn’t a kindergarten fantasy where the mean boy—girl in this case—teases you or taunts you because he likes you! I would kick him in the nuts if he tried anything, so I hoped his daddy was ready to pay for reconstructive surgery.
I had set a specific chime on my phone just for him, so I knew not to bother checking his messages.
Of course it went off just then with a text: Happy Forth! :)
What a dumbass! He couldn’t even spell “fourth.” Naturally, I didn’t reply. I just snickered at the offensive phone sitting next to my computer.
I had switched from wine to coffee. I had added way too much sweetener, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away my precious coffee. I took in a whiff of my hot-chocolate-scented wax melts. It was a calming thing for me to smell the aroma. I heard the chime again, and the fucker broke my Zen. The tone was that annoying alien-sounding buzz. I wanted to throw the damn thing across the room.
I stood up, squealing the chair legs against the floor in the wake of my abrupt movement. God, I hated that noise too! I took my phone and put it on the nearby couch, then proceeded to put a throw pillow on top of it to suffocate the defenseless thing. Looking satisfied with my handiwork, I turned and went back to my kitchen table. I needed to get my act together and start planning my next story. I was thinking of doing a column piece, or maybe an advice piece. But since I’m shit at advice, I dumped that idea just as fast as I thought it up.
I wanted something trendy and on-point, but it was hard to come up with things when I didn’t feel inspired. I hate when a story doesn’t come to fruition, and lately I hadn’t been as clever and witty as I normally was, which led to my editor being even more disapproving than he normally was. I needed something to reenergize our readers. We were lucky that our publication didn’t have to stick strictly to news, weather, politics, and so forth. We had some leniency with our stories. At times we went borderline into tabloid territory, but not quite that far—if that even makes sense.
I also wanted to lure in a younger, more hipster crowd. I figured with a younger target audience as readers, we could appeal to a whole generation that we weren’t currently tapping into. I mean, let’s face it, that black-and-white print thing is out. I get it that millennials like their news on a tablet screen and not in print. But there is something about the printed version that makes my veins sing. I love holding a paper in my hands and sniffing the ink. I love when the black smudges across the page and I get my hands all dirty. It’s like confirmation that something is going on in the world, that there is something beyond what each of us is currently doing in that moment.
I had also recently discovered that some groups in the younger crowd were getting back to brick and mortar by going to libraries and ditching the tablets. I thought the same trend could transfer to these groups picking up a paper, so I figured I’d have as good a shot as any if I tried to reel them in too. I knew my managing editor, Steve, wouldn’t like the direction I was heading, but what the hell at this point, right? How cliché of me to remark this, but I was going to do it anyway.
I said aloud, “You do only live once.” So I was going for it!
Even if it was a challenge—and anyone in my profession has to like challenges—I still nixed writing about things I wasn’t well versed in, like politics or economics. And I definitely avoided stories about the Middle East because I wasn’t prepared to come across anything to do with Brent, accidental or otherwise. I didn’t even know where he was on the planet. It was better that way.
So I decided to write a piece about things girlfriends talk about that guys don’t realize is being said. I know it’s ironic that I chose this topic considering I had no girlfriends to talk to, but therein came the challenge. I was going to focus on how guys think women should be prim and proper, but yet the majority of us are just as raunchy and dirty as they are. I think it’s therapeutic to discuss certain topics. For me, this piece would help my own psyche by being able to reach women. Since I obviously couldn’t do that on a personal level, well, I’d settle for a professional one. I didn’t want to alienate men; the idea was more to educate them—and this story would help.
My fingers began flying across the keyboard as I started to get to work. I was so jazzed and excited to have a new focus. I made a mental note to remind myself to stop and pee at some point. Sometimes when I’d get so into a story, my bladder would cry until I finally realized I’d have to pee myself, go right there in the sink, or start wearing diapers. TMI, anyone? Sorry, that’s gross, but that’s just how it is. Clearly, I’m passionate about my work. I was typing snippets of information and some general thoughts I had. I couldn’t wait to go out and interview women to confirm that I was hot on the trail of what was typically exchanged among besties.
I thought back to conversations I had had with peers in college, had overheard while eavesdropping on the train, or had witnessed while sitting in the park. Girls did talk about all kinds of things. Nothing was sacred, secret, or off-limits. It was a good, refreshing feeling knowing women could be “real” too. After all, we’re not just women. We have brains and libidos that are just as active as men’s. Sometimes I think our dicks are bigger than theirs. I’ve had conversations about the best method or practice for shaving your asshole—once, my college roommate’s boyfriend walked in on us demonstrating by air shaving. You know, like when bands play an air guitar? Well, we were air shaving. It was hilarious and ridiculous, and I loved every minute of just be
ing “one of the girls.” That story was definitely going in there!
I also wanted to find out whether flavored cum was a myth. I heard that if a guy ate a bunch of pineapple, consequently his cum would be sweet. I had to research that one, and, of course, everything would be tactfully or scientifically written, so as not to offend anybody—God forbid the news be blunt!
I also owed it to ladies to discuss certain unfamiliar slang terms. Half the time I’d have to look up things on the internet because I didn’t know what a “pearl necklace” was, for example. I was proud, although maybe I shouldn’t admit this, that I knew what a “golden shower” was and what “tossed salad” meant. I remember a guy telling me about “the shocker.” Let’s just say I was less than impressed when he informed me it was “two in the pink and one in the stink.” It made me roll my eyes so badly when he told me that it gave me a headache.
I couldn’t wait to empower women with this knowledge, and, of course, learn a few things along the way. I even wanted to interview women to find out if they had certain buzz words that weirded them out or made them squeamish. For the record, mine is “taint.” That word is just all kinds of wrong, and I shudder whenever I hear it, see it, or say it. It gives me the willies—yuck!
I typed for maybe another three hours. By that time, my back was sore. My bladder was past the point of crying; she had gone numb and was in shock. I once again stood up, and the chair squeaked as I ran for the bathroom. Once I peed and wiped, I stretched my back and moved my neck from side to side. Oh my God, I knew I’d feel this in the morning. I felt satisfied, though, that I had a good start to my story.
Once I made amends with my bladder, I decided I was a little keyed up because of my chosen subject matter. So, I padded over in my purple, fluffy spa socks to my intimates drawer and grabbed Soldier from his box. I smiled to myself and knew that either Brent or Soldier would be going to town on my clit. I just hoped the batteries lasted.
Chapter 8: Scared or Scarred?
Brenneth
July 8, 2017
It was eating away at me. The guilt. The guilt was overwhelming. It suffocated me at times. I had finally broken down and responded to Caylan’s email, but I still couldn’t bring myself to talk to her on the phone. I knew if I heard my niece in the background, I’d completely and once and for all lose my mind. Alexi threatened by text to come over and personally kick my ass, then proceeded to apprise me how the stress I was causing his wife by avoiding her was cruel and inhumane. Well, that finally did the trick and broke my silence. I sure as shit wasn’t afraid of Alexi—he could bring it on anytime—but I was afraid of what I was doing to my baby sister.
I still harbored so much anguish and pain over what had happened to Caylan. For me to abandon her like this, right after she had given birth to my niece, was something unforgiveable. What I was doing wasn’t fair to my family. I knew it. I was an absolute, total asshole of the highest degree. But that girl didn’t have a mean bone in her body, so I knew she’d love me despite my scars and flaws. My mom and dad were the most loving and giving parents. They never gave me guilt trips; they let me find my own way, in my own time. I did deserve a swift kick in the rear, though, and Alexi had sure provided that. He brought me back to the reality I needed. But having done so, disrupting the little fortress I had built in my mind, also meant the floodgates opened to make me once again think about Everly.
I wondered if Ev had celebrated Independence Day. I wondered if she had gazed up at the fireworks and held hands with some dickwad and kissed and fucked him under the stars. See, this is where I get myself into trouble—on one hand, I can spout a bunch of shit claiming I don’t care, and then on the other hand, I realize I do friggin’ care, and it kills me. I guess par for the course of having PTSD. I know I have a problem, as I’ve admitted before, but it’s not something I need to talk about with any damn head doctor while sitting on a couch, no less. I choose to deal with it in my own way, and so far I’ve managed just fucking fine.
I sat down on the Fourth and decided to write Everly a letter. I’m never going to mail it, but it was good to write it out. Caylan is always giving me crap, telling me I need to write about my feelings. I’m not into that girly, hokey-pokey, pansy shit, but no one would need to find out. So what’s the harm? Caylan is a damn good writer, and I thought she’d be proud of me if she knew what I was up to. I know it’s not Shakespeare, but it will do. I even went as far as addressing the letter to Ev’s work. I knew she worked at the Philly Timez, and I looked up the contact info one day while I was at one of the community computers they had set up for communications.
However, I have a laptop set up now in my room. I’m lucky I’m in a real room finally. I have a piss-mate, well, really a roommate is what he is, but that’s what we call them here. It’s not too bad, though, because we work opposite shifts, so we make it work. Harold Jefferson is his name, and he’s a cool dude who works in comm. He’s normally stationed in North Carolina. He gets his jacking-off time, and I get mine. He doesn’t snore and neither do I, so we seem to get along just fine. He’s not married either but is desperately trying to hook up with an old flame, so sometimes I listen to his tales of woe. When we both need private time, I’m sure we both do the exact same thing and make desert jellyfish in the tub; yes, what I’m referring to is jizzing in the shower.
Anyway, I made a habit of pulling the envelope out of my cargo pocket as I sat on my bed. There’s no time to think or do anything but focus on work when I’m on duty, so my room is the only place, besides the bathroom, that affords me the solitude I need. I read over what I wrote. It made my heart and balls ache all the more when I looked again at the words I had penned.
I wish I would have gotten laid before I left. Five months without sex really fucks a guy up, ya know? I scanned the letter. The creases were becoming more prominent, as was the dirt from the number of times I had pulled it out, folded, and unfolded the note over the last four days. It was my only connection to her, so I grabbed it like it was a lifeline. I had also tracked down her email address, but I wasn’t strong enough to try that route. No, this letter was safe; I could say what I wanted without fear of being judged or having to feel her pity. I didn’t have to worry about her ever reading it, and I definitely didn’t have to worry about seeing her face when she did. I read it silently.
July 4, 2017
Everly,
I’m sorry about the way we left things. I don’t know where to begin or how to explain. You kept throwing me off. From the moment I met you, I felt so completely out of my element. You’re so damn beautiful, you scare the shit out of me. You’re the smartest woman I know, and you’re so strong and brave. I can tell you have pain in your eyes, though. Your pain matches mine. I know you feel it. I feel it too. I wish you would have let me explain things that night. I wish you would have given me a chance.
I’m a dumbass for not coming after you. What I should have done was run out the door, scooped you up, and brought you back to my room. I would have made love to you all night long. It wouldn’t have been just a fuck, Everly—at least not for me. I would have worshipped your body like the goddess you are. Every inch of your skin would have been covered by my mouth, and I wouldn’t have let you leave the next morning without the promise from your gorgeous mouth that you’d be there waiting for me when I return.
You make me feel things I’ve never felt before with a woman. You make me feel like a man worthy of your beauty, charm, and wit. I know I can be screwed up at times, but I’d never let you down. I would be your protector, even though you would say you wouldn’t want me to be anyway. I’d keep the evil at bay since I know it still haunts you. I don’t know who or what hurt you in the past, but I wouldn’t hurt you, ever.
I wish you’d give me a chance. I wish you’d let me be your man. I wish for many things. I have many regrets and too much time to think about where I went wrong while I’m sitting here in this sandbox. I know you’ll never get this letter because I’m too much of a chicken
shit to send it. But it brings me comfort knowing it’s out there in the world.
I wish things had turned out differently for us. I just want you to be happy. I don’t even know you, but yet I feel like I already do. Is it the same for you? There has to be a reason why we kept running into each other. I mentioned it to you at the bar, but maybe it really is fate. Anyway, I hope you’re well. I think of you . . . always.
Regards,
T.Sgt. Brenneth Peters, USAF
It was a shame she’d never get the letter.
Everly
July 22, 2017
It was a Saturday, and I was bored to tears. I had already finished my article and placed it on Steve’s desk the day before. It was a waiting game now, because we weren’t a daily newspaper—we were a weekly publication. So my story wouldn’t run until the following Friday, if it ran at all. I wasn’t too worried. I had to believe in myself and be confident that my article would make it. After I pitched him the idea, he knew I had something. I could see the gleam in his eye and that spark only journalists can understand.
I had so much fun going out and interviewing women and taking formal and informal polls on the subject matter and material for the story. Since I had six days until it would hit the stands, there would be plenty of time for edits. I hoped there wouldn’t be too many edits, though, because I’m very meticulous and an anal-retentive person when it comes to perfecting my work. But Steve is just as big of a perfectionist as me, which was equally good and bad. I cringed every time he slapped down an article of mine on my desk with red lines everywhere. It made me feel pathetic and weak momentarily, and then I’d remember that he was just doing his job. I’d come this close—picture me making the universal sign for “small”—to stabbing him with one of my heels the last time an article of mine looked bludgeoned to death.
