Impulses

by Brock, V. L.

  Samantha’s company––her presence––it has blown some of the dust away from my deeply embedded sentiments. She is gradually restoring parts that I have lost, that I have forsaken.

  What does this mean? Why her? Why now? Why has she acted this way?

  SIX

  ---------------------

  SAMANTHA

  The darkness of the Fillmore Point parking lot is deluging, mirroring how I feel; reprehensible and alone. Alas, no matter how hard I try to keep myself from being consumed by the grasp of darkness, I always manage to fuck things up, and suffer the bleak aftermath in the lugubrious part of my psyche. Turning off the ignition of my pale blue Honda, I slump back into my seat, and attempt to put things into perspective.

  Unlike any of the others, the element of repression that I have endured as I strived not to act upon my impulses with, Mr. Wentworth has made the encounter more impressive. I feel my lips twitch fractionally. I feel appeased as my frustrations no longer obstruct my every thought. Although, the mere comprehension of the illicit feat we assisted each other in sends my body into an electrifying frenzy.

  Still? What happened to ‘quench the thirst and you’ll be fine’?

  I gaze down at my hands, my fingers stirring, writhing one by one as I visualize the gentle weaving motion his fingers made between mine and his soft, moist lips pressing against me. It was everything that I have wanted to experience with him and more.

  Crossing my arms over the steering wheel, I rest my head against my forearms. Oh, what have I done? I’m ashamed of the weakness that I have bared tonight, and devastation filters through the swelling of guilt, which forms a weighty sphere in my stomach when I realize; I have just marred this incredible, handsome man with my fucked-up ways of coping. He doesn’t deserve this.

  Why didn’t I listen to, Jessie? How the Hell am I going to dig myself out of this hole? A hole…more like a bloody chasm you mean, my subconscious chides while cleaning the lenses of her designer glasses.

  A loud buzzing from my cell phone––which lies vibrating somewhere in my purse on the passenger seat––startles me from my brief moment of defeatism. With grueling reluctance, I lift my head from the comfort of my forearms, and aim all my effort into pulling myself together. Delving into the vastness of my purse, I recover the handset and without so much as a glance at the number flashing on my screen, I press the green button.

  “Hello,” I answer, depleted.

  “Sammy, where are you?” Jessie probes, sounding panicked and concerned. “I was expecting you home like…two hours ago.”

  “Yeah…um––” I hesitate and knead my brow with my left hand. “I’m sorry to have worried you, Jess. I was…caught up. I should have called before I left the office. I’m sorry.” I hate lying to her. She’s another person in my life that doesn’t deserve the shit I generate from my selection of reckless choices. “I’m in the parking lot; I will be up in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, see you in a minute.” She sounds significantly relaxed, and the line goes dead.

  Throwing the handset into the bottomless pit that is my purse; I toss my head back against the headrest and groan petulantly. My heart is hammering against my chest and my fingers are starting to feel faint tingles as numbness creeps upon them. I draw in a breath, striving to find an explanation to why my sexual desires prevailed against reason, yet again. I cannot cloak my irresponsible exploit from Jessie––she can read me like an open book and she knows my infamous ‘Walk of Shame’ from a mile away.

  She has witnessed it often enough.

  Both apprehension and foreboding seizes me, delivering me to the place that used to make me feel free and happy––my tranquil place––but now, it’s a dark void, a void which compels me to feel shame, demoralized and dirty. My head is spinning, revolving mercilessly. I feel as though G-Force is pushing me––pushing me firmly into my seat as I watch everything moving around me at light speed, but unable to fight through it. My head is pounding; I hear the thrumming and crashing of my blood coursing through my ears like waves beating against the rocky edges of the shore.

  I gather up my purse and my composure, and leave the sanctuary of my car, and hopefully my thoughts.

  Jessie is in the kitchen as I enter the apartment. Go for nonchalant, Samantha. I stroll to the oak veneer dining-table and place my purse on the cold surface.

  “Glass of wine, sweetie?” Jessie calls from behind the breakfast bar.

  “Please.” I make a halfhearted attempt of a smile, while Jessie pours a large glass of Pinot Gris and places it on the counter of the bar. I slid myself onto one of the barstools.

  “How was your day, Sammy? I cannot believe it has been two weeks already.” A proud glint is displayed in her big, bright emerald eyes and her model-worthy cheekbones rise to occupy her smile.

  Seeing her reaction is like being hit by a wrecking ball, I feel winded as I briefly contemplate where I will stand now at work. How will I be able to look at him, knowing exactly what he looks like and feels like, when he is gloriously naked? When he is inside me? Knowing how skilled his fingers are when he possessed me with them? The motions he made with his tongue as he…

  “Oh, my, God––” Jessie yells stowing her wine glass on the bar. “You said you wouldn’t have sex with him, Samantha,” she rebukes. Aggravated, she throws her arms in the air and then allows them to fall back to her sides. Fuck, was she reading my mind? Nope, just your facial expression, the voice states blatantly as she turns the page of her Vogue magazine.

  My God, she is furious.

  “I didn’t,” I wince at my audacity to be so dishonest. Shame and disappointment radiates from my body and I hang my head timidly while knitting my fingers together in my lap.

  So much for nonchalant.

  Time seems to come to an abrupt halt as the seconds pass feeling like minutes. I peek up at Jessie after a few beats. Her brow creased, her eyes now dim, as she glares down at me with her tell-me-the-truth-now-Kennedy look. She supports her hands on her hips. I sense the degree of her maddening scaling by the rhythmic tapping of her foot against the wooden flooring. She purses her lips at me, waiting for me to spill my guts again.

  I take a huge gulp of the crisp Pinot and place it back on its spot on the bar, before placing my head into my hands, inwardly cringing at the detrimental consequences I must now suffer, as a result of my promiscuous feat.

  “I couldn’t suppress the feeling any longer, Jess. The ache was making me feel physically sick. I couldn’t sleep. I was agitated––” I fight the lump in my throat whilst my eyes burn with the pool of tears that now forms at the corner of my eyes. My stomach tightens as the annoyance I now feel, which is aimed solely towards me personally, burns deeper into my soul and I taste the bitterness raise up into my throat.

  Jessie saunters around the bar, propping herself onto the adjacent artic white stool. Relieving a cemented sigh, she places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and offers a reassuring squeeze.

  “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” she sighs, rubbing my shoulder with friendly support. “What are we going to do with you, eh?”

  I lift my head from my palms and meekly look up into her loyal eyes. I shake my head with great sadness and boundless disappointment; even I have no clue as to what to do with myself.

  Abandon on a desert island with no men––that could work.

  My vision is blurred, swimming as the result of the collective of tears that rest unshed. I attempt to blink them away, but it’s of no use. Like a burst dam, the tears of shame, fury, regret, and burden are unfettered.

  “Come here.” Jessie wraps her right arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward her as she enfolds me, offering me comfort as I weep into the crook of her neck. She sways us from side-to-side, lulling my sobs and rasping breaths. Her hand smoothes through my roots and massages my scalp.

  Sniffling, I pull myself away from her mollifying embrace, and quickly dry my tearstained face with my fingertips. Reaching for my drink, I take a warranti
ng sip.

  “You want to talk about it, sweetie?”

  I swallow my mouthful of crisp alcohol, and fill my lungs to bursting point––fully aware that if I don’t get it out into the open air and off my chest, it will only consume me internally for days.

  “I…I––” I vaguely shake my head, my eyes vacant as I gaze upon the corner of the breakfast bar, but not actually looking at it, more like…through it. I try to find the words, the answers…to attempt to verbalize the assemblage of insubordinate emotions that my head and my heart are contending with.

  Jessie cocks her head to the left so she is in the periphery of my vision, snapping my out of my vacuous, hollow state. I blink, and promptly focus on my best friend. It warms my heart when her mouth curls into a faint reassuring smile. She watches me with obvious expectancy, gauging my thoughts I assume, and she nods.

  “Okay, I’ll go first. You understand and accept what I think about your way of living, sweetie. You may not value my thoughts on the matter, but I am here for you…and I always will be. I appreciate that you will sit, and listen to me drone on and on about the changes I feel as though you need to make––” Her voice is clear, confident, yet concerned. She moves her hands to encase mine, which are knitted together in my lap. Her emerald eyes are brimming with love and empathy, while she strains the words that I have heard time and time again. “But I am disheartened that I need to keep iterating this conversation with you, sweetie.

  “I understand and respect that you have had held onto this mentality for a long, long time, but like everything else in life, there has to come a stage, Sammy, when you have to give it up…when you have to just flash a ‘V’ at those impulses, and begin to live your life with self-respect.”

  I gawp at her like she is from a different planet, although knowing that she is speaking sincerely. It’s just so difficult; I live by indulging my impulses, without indulging them…what…I just overlook them? Or avoid temptation completely; lock myself in the apartment for the rest of my pathetic, miserable, shameful life? That’s not living––that’s existing. I dash my tongue across my lips and sulk.

  “You always think that something is a good idea, until after you have done it. You don’t think of the consequences of your actions. You got hurt, I respect that,” she removes her hands from around mine and holds them palms up in a defeated fashion. Her ponytail sways as she shakes her head. “But you cannot keep jumping from man-to-man; bed-to-bed. It is not a practical way of living, and you only get to live your life once…I don’t want you to have a life full to the brim of regrets and missed opportunities. If you continue to go down this path, Sammy…that is what is going to happen.”

  I exhale loudly and peek up at her. She tucks an escaped tendril behind her ear.

  “I know you’re right, Jess,” I concede, finally finding my voice and rolling my eyes. I grin broadly as I recollect the positive effects my exploits had on my self-esteem. “I remember the times I used to feel vivacious and untouchable afterwards. Feeling and having that confirmation of being desired by witnessing the effects I have on a man is the headiest feeling in the world––but now…” my face falls, a frown steals its way across me. “It leaves me feeling dirty, and ashamed. So I know that the time is coming for me to strive with the normal way of––”

  “Achieving a natural and more importantly––healthy sexual relationship,” Jessie concludes, and I nod acquiescently. “Set the bar higher…go on a date with a guy first––even better, make him work for it.” We smile simultaneously at the hint of amusement in our conversation.

  Jessie brushes my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears.

  “You need to step back, analysis your approach, and you will soon come to realize, Sammy, that it is not going to help you. I appreciate you want to avoid any likelihoods there may be of emotional hurt, but is this attitude you have towards it, really preventing that hurt? Because honestly, Sammy…you don’t look happy and satisfied. You look like you regret it. You look depressed, apprehensive, ashamed and remorseful.”

  I twist my ring around my middle finger. “I’m scared Jessie. Mr. Wentworth professed a few things tonight in regard to how he felt, and I don’t know why but…I think he expects more from me, if that makes any sense.”

  “Okay…listen to me.” She leans in and holds my hands firmly. “Sex is an act that shouldn’t be given into lightly. I’m not saying, ‘no sex before marriage’, but it’s something that you cannot and should not abuse. Anybody who hasn’t experienced what you have would say the same thing. You say that you think that he will expect more, but, Sammy––to a person who hasn’t had to put barriers in place, Sex. Is. More. It’s too late now to take it all back, sweetie,” she sniggers, although successful maintaining a degree of compassion.

  “I don’t know how to overcome this, Jess. It has saved me for five years…it’s the only way I know how.”

  “Saved you? Really?” she screeches before sighing heavily as she redirects her emotions. “Samantha, you truly cannot believe that this has saved you heartache. No…what you are doing is setting yourself up for one hell of a fall; but you can prevent it. You can rewrite how you future will unfurl.”

  Her eyes are wide, her expression one of reassurance. She shakes her head and raises two fingers in the air.

  “Okay, two questions for you to contemplate, Sammy––ready?”

  I nod my head wearily, feeling as though I am about to get graded on my answers that follow.

  “Question one, do you ever intend to get married and have a family?”

  My face falls and I turn ashen. I always dreamed of my wedding day––every little girl dreams about it. I did see myself getting married…before he sentenced me to the realm of anguish and self-loathing. He made me evaluate the way men think––the way they work. I followed meekly as my defence mechanism guided me towards my promiscuity––my only lifeline, disguising itself as hope and self-assurance.

  Another mistake to add to my ever growing list.

  She softly frames my face with her hands.

  “Question two, how are you going to succeed the entire process of finding somebody and give them your heart, your trust, honesty. Your hopes and dreams…if you are adamant in not even getting off the starting block?” her voice is velvet soft and empathetic, as though she is talking to a wounded animal.

  I simply shrug my shoulders.

  “We have all suffered heartache at some point in our lives, sweetie. I have, you have. By, God I bet you even, Mr. Wentworth has––”

  For the first time since having this repetitive one person intervention, the fog is rising, and I can see a little bit more clearly. I know what I need to do. But I doubt that I can succeed.

  “We just deal with it in a way that we believe is facilitating––yes they may be the incorrect way, or in an unhealthy way––but it is not supposed to be a major lifestyle choice, it’s not a shortcut. Hence the term’ rebound’. You do eventually need to remove your head from the sand and get back on the horse.”

  “It is going to be difficult, and trying––”

  “Yes, it will be. But you will be doing it for all of the right reasons. The problem with maintaining this philosophy of yours, Sammy…is that the longer you leave it, the harder it will be to separate from.” Jessie pushes herself up from the barstool and kisses the top of my head. “And believe me when I say, that you, Samantha Kennedy…are very long overdue.” We chortle and she exits the room, leaving me with my thoughts once more.

  I take a gulp of the now warming Pinot.

  My heart swells as I recall Mr. Wentworth’s intense revelation of nightmares, and the reawakening of emotions that he long ago abandoned. Just like me.

  Sometimes, the detrimental effects of both emotional and psychological pain can rival those of cuts and bruises. For years I sought solace from that form of pain by setting an impenetrable barrier in front of me. Those fairytale stories you’re told about a woman’s heart being encased in ice
to save her and the safety of the one thing––the one flaw that could subsequently break her––that’s me.

  But, could Hayden abandoning his emotions be his barrier to save himself from hurt, also? Could we be more alike than what I believed? Could Mr. Wentworth be the hope that I need to regain my faith in men? Can I even do this…change my ways? I don’t know, it has been so long, I think it will take nothing short of a miracle to thaw my icy barriers.

  It’s just a case of letting the correct one in; Mr. Right is out there somewhere. I snigger and flail my head dismissively at the thought. Knowing my luck, I have already met him and let him escape.

  Right place…but the wrong time.

  HAYDEN

  I feel her beneath me; her legs wrapped around my waist as I slowly rock my hips into her. My hands and elbows rest above her head and the coolness of the satin sheets are grasped in my hand as I am overwhelmed with sensations. Feeling the plush walls of her sex around my girth, holding me…squeezing me as I push into her again…and again.

  Moaning my name in supplication, her body bows off the bed. I lean down to meet her lips with mine. I can feel myself building, climbing higher and higher. My already rapid heart rate accelerates further as my cadence increases, feeling the end of her as I push deeper and deeper. I explode inside her, freeing myself of the heaviness I feel as I empty myself, and fall on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. My face buried in the crook of her neck.

  “Is that all you got? Can’t you do anything right? You’re a man, and you can’t even make me come just once?” Her voice is cruel, condescending and ruthless. I push myself up, and gasp at the form beneath me. A bronzed round face looks up at me from the satin pillow, her shoulder-length chestnut hair with scattered blond streaks weaving through, is splayed across the pillow. She narrows her menacing hazel eyes. Glaring at me, she curls her mouth into a malevolent smirk, an evil smirk, a familiar smirk.