by Carter Blake
Whatever my motivations were, I’m wishing they’d been different. Well, my cock does, anyway.
I look down and see my cock poking from underneath the blankets around my waist. Had Rebecca been here—or if I’d been with her—then it would be a simple matter of waking her to enjoy another vigorous round of baby-making.
Of course, all of that is pointless thinking, since she’s neither here nor am I there. And I have no intention of strolling through the rain to knock on her door just to declare that I’m ready for more of her.
It is an enticing thought, but I feel as though it would be for the best not to. Waking her in the middle of night isn’t likely to get me the result I want.
My eyes wander up to look at the blank, lifeless ceiling.
If I lie here doing nothing, I will go out of my mind.
With my mind racing the way it is, and the ability to sleep feeling like some distant, far-off memory, I’m well on my way there already.
What I want, what I need couldn’t be clearer. But I can’t have it.
Maybe I could do the next best thing.
My eyes close, and instead of the black void of my mind, I see her face looking down at me with a smile. She’s lying beside me in the bed. She’s bare, and her body radiates with pent-up desire.
“Just relax, Killian,” Fantasy Rebecca whispers with a smile.
It’s vivid in my mind’s eye: the vision of her hand moving across my chest, the feeling of her hand—or rather mine—sliding down over my stomach.
My hand slips under the covers at my waist. My fingers gently caress the base of my cock. It twitches against my touch as if it were hers.
Swallowing hard, I throw back the blankets with my other hand.
The cool night air hits my bare body, and I feel a shiver along the base of my spine. My cock throbs against the sudden shift in temperature as if to stand—literally—defiant against the chill.
My palm slides up along the shaft of my cock before twisting and gripping it firmly. I start stroking slowly—as I imagine she would—and my lips part slightly at the sensation.
With each stroke, I tighten my grip, and my wrist twists and turns with each stroke.
The fantasy version of Rebecca in my mind’s eye sits up beside me, and her smile widens.
She begins to stroke with more purpose. Almost as if tugging at the base of my cock with each hand movement.
“Do you like that?” Her whispered voice echoes and fills my senses like a summer breeze.
My lips part wider to let a louder groan of approval escape.
A rush of precum washes over me like a glass that has been filled with too much water.
In my invented fantasy, I see Rebecca leaning over me and drooling down onto my cock with each stroke she makes.
Another moan escapes my lips, and my thighs twitch at the new sensation.
My other hand slides down to cup my balls within its grasp.
The gentle massage that follows—coupled with the firm strokes of my cock—has me teetering on the edge of wanting more and needing a release.
In the end, it’s the need that wins out as I stroke faster to catch that climax that sits just out of my grasp.
“That’s it, Killian. Let it all out for me,” the red-haired fantasy coos.
My breath gets caught in my throat as I feel my body cave in on itself. My head rises from the pillow, and my chin pins itself against my throat. My back pushes down toward the bed beneath me, and my knees quiver and shake.
And when I release, my breath lurches from my throat in a growl.
I collapse back against the bed.
My eyes open to the real world, and my head lulls to the side.
The space beside me is void of the red-headed beauty that I desire. And yet she still manages to send me to new heights.
I close my eyes again.
I couldn’t give a fuck about the mess all over my waist, stomach, and sheets. I just hope that sleep finds me and that I do not wake until the sun has returned from its sojourn to lands I’ll never know.
Only, the repose that I hoped would follow after such an intense release never comes.
Even a sexual release just isn’t enough anymore. Whatever I’m after, whatever I’m missing, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever known or understood.
Opening my eyes, I look over at my clock.
It’s about half-past midnight.
“This is going to be a long fucking night.”
I sit up and throw my feet over the ledge of the bed. The wood floor creaks in mild annoyance as I stand.
My first stop is the bathroom, where I clean the mess I made and dry myself off.
After strolling back to my bedroom, I grab a pair of red flannel pajama bottoms and pull them on.
My eyes fall to the bottle of Jameson on my nightstand behind my alarm as the elastic band of my pants snaps around my waist.
Without another thought, I walk over and pick up the bottle.
My eyes dance over the label, and my thoughts are taken over by vivid memories the last time that I had shared the taste of it with Rebecca.
“Fuck it.” I open the bottle and bring the bottle up to my mouth—only to stop before the glass touches my lips.
That distinctive smell of sweet barley and cereal that the Black Barrel blend is known for hits my nose first, and I’m taken back to that feeling of waking up alone all those years ago.
Before that final step of imbibing, I lower the bottle and look down at it with bitterness.
It’s like seeing the horrible ex-lover who left you for another—but still tempts you with their ever-present sexiness and mystique, because—no matter what they did to you—you still crave and desire them.
“It’s all fucking shite.”
After recapping the whiskey, I start toward the kitchen, bottle in hand.
There’s no way I’m going to keep the whiskey within eyesight, so I open my cupboard and place it up on the top shelf. I push it back away from the ledge for good measure before closing the cupboard back up.
I turn and lean back against the counter. My arms fold across my chest.
A sigh that embodies my frustration and annoyance is released with purpose.
Another clap of thunder catches my attention, and I let myself focus on the downpour outside.
A flash of lightning momentarily floods the interior of my cottage in vibrant purple light.
For a second, it feels like the fucking apocalypse.
But in that brief moment, a glint of metal catches my eye.
My typewriter.
It feels as though fate—the incredibly fickle lass that she is—is giving me a sign.
“Alright. I’ll play along with your little game.”
I sit down at my desk and switch on my desk lamp. My gaze falls to the blank sheet of paper already prepared for me.
I have no idea where I’m going to start—or where I’m going to go with it—but it’s better than twiddling my thumbs all night in boredom.
Clack.
The sound of the first type echoes through my cottage, loud enough to drown out the rain.
Click. Clack. Click, click. Clack.
Let’s see what I can come up with, then. Let’s put this marvelous fucking brain of mine to work.
I don’t think. I just type.
Letter after letter. Word after word. Sentence after sentence and so on and so forth.
I become so engrossed in my work that I don’t even hear the thunder anymore—even when it’s so loud it shakes the cottage. I don’t hear when the rain stops.
The hours fly by as if they were minutes—not that I’m keeping track—and soon, day has nearly passed me by.
As I lean back in my seat, my hands rub against my face. My eyes burn from fatigue.
I couldn’t give a fuck, though—not now.
I pull the last sheet from the typewriter and set it with the stack of others.
Around me are small hills and giant mountains of cru
mpled paper balls. It’s almost as if I’ve trapped myself in a papier-mâché relief map of the Swiss Alps.
My gaze cascades to the cupboard of hidden Jameson.
I’ve beaten my writer’s block—kicked it in the arse—and I deserve to be rewarded.
I wade through my paper mountains—destroying what would have been the Matterhorn—and grab the bottle of Jameson that I hid from myself.
“I am going to enjoy this. I have fucking earned this.”
After properly hyping myself up, I pour out a generous glass. For a rich, soothing moment, I let the glorious aroma fill my nose.
My mouth begins to water in anticipation of feeling that barrel char, oak, and plummy fruit flavor fill my taste buds once more.
I return to my desk and set the glass down. It’s not time to drink any of it yet.
I wait. The anticipation of it is part of what makes it so great. I just want it near so that I can toast to myself and my fucking brilliance.
An entire night—and fucking day—was spent working away at this book. And now I get to read it and be in awe at how magnificent the fruits of my labor turned out to be.
Only I’m wrong again—something that has been happening more since Rebecca hit me with her American-made behemoth of a vehicle.
I skim listlessly through the pages, looking for any glimmer of hope.
No luck.
“This is all fucking pish.”
Well, this is fucking frustrating. What an infuriating waste of fucking time that turned out to be.
I dump the stack of papers onto the floor, adding to the Swiss Paper Alps.
The glass of Jameson is mocking me with its presence.
Once more, it’s turned into that ex who taunts you at every turn.
My chair falls backwards as I stand and start towards the bedroom.
“Fuck this shite. I’m going to the damn pub.”
Rebecca
Grrr.
Those lines look…terrible. I put the pencil down and glance at my sketches.
What is wrong with me today? How many hours have I been sitting here drawing one useless sketch after another?
Too many, that’s for sure.
Randomly, I pick up another piece. This one looks a bit like an angry monster about to devour a vegetable that looks remarkably like Killian.
The eyes are especially reminiscent of him. Even without color, I’d somehow captured that essence all too well.
Before I can delve deeper into the resemblance, I rip it into as many tiny little pieces as I can in a few frustrated seconds.
Garbage. The entire morning—the entire day—has been a waste.
Nothing is useable.
I sigh and scatter the pages across my desk.
This one looks like an evil alien on a mission of apocalyptic destruction.
Even I shiver looking at this creature.
What has happened to my imagination? It looks like it’s had a brush with the dark side. Come to think of it, my drawings look like they’re pushing the boundaries of the dark side far enough to make Darth Vader blush under his helmet.
My contract allows for quite a bit of creative freedom but not this much. Not for a children’s book.
I sigh again.
What should I do?
I could keep going until I get something right or I could accept an entire wasted day and go back to it later.
Neither option seem attractive.
I chew on the bottom of my pencil, a habit I thought I’d broken years ago.
My inner voice, the responsible one, reminds me of the deadline.
It’s not like it’s tomorrow, but if I don’t stay on top of things, then it’ll really be tomorrow sooner than I realize.
One minute you think you’ve got plenty of time, the next you’re doing all-nighters because you’ve spent too much time doing nothing.
Rapidly, my pencil moves across the page again.
I convert the blank space into something I can’t recognize.
I was going for a literal food fight of sorts, processed food versus fruits and vegetables, going along with the book’s theme of natural versus artificial.
It doesn’t work when the carrots look like evil gnomes.
Instead of a likeable banana, I’ve created a monster with no arms or legs and a bent body.
Perhaps a horror movie producer would be interested if I let them have it? If only I had some connections in that world. Looks like all these will end up in recycling.
Or in the fireplace.
Sketching kid’s drawings is clearly not going to work today. After a day of these attempts turning out so disturbingly, I don’t know if my future lies in that arena, either.
After I pack up my pencils and paper, I prowl around the house. I’m not exactly sure what’s distressing me, but my universe is clearly out of sync.
I mean, usually I don’t get artist’s block, not for this damned long.
How long have I been on this little retreat? I’ve smashed through a few personal records of unproductivity and useless, discarded ideas and sketches.
Is it really Killian who’s doing this to me?
My first impulse is to blame that whole situation. The divorce is over, and the Killian thing is all that’s been currently happening in my life.
I try and dismiss the notion. I mean, it’s not like we were an item or anything. He could have called in on me today, but it’s not like he’d have a reason to.
And maybe this is the start of the trouble. Maybe I was expecting him to call, and now that he hasn’t, I’m out of sorts.
Only one thing to do.
I grab my keys and handbag and walk out the door.
On my last two attempts to get in and out of town safely, I had failed miserably—it’s time to try one last time. After all, third time’s the charm.
I swear if something happens to me today, walking in and out of town, I’ll think either the place is possessed or has it in for me.
With the late afternoon sun dipping its rays for a final farewell, there’s enough warmth left in the day for me not to take a jacket.
I try and focus on looking at the scenery.
Breathing in the fresh air and looking at my surroundings often work wonders to get me creative and improve my drawing.
Nature is such a wonderful classroom. There are so many things she can teach us.
Remarkable colors are an ongoing lesson in aesthetics I never want to stop learning.
The fascinating differences between the way everything looks here compared to what I’m used to will never leave me bored.
The landscape, the vegetation, even the implication of the unseen...
Behind each rock and tree, I imagine an entire little world of special creatures only those of a certain temperament can see.
The minute I leave my creaky, rusty gate behind, I feel my mood lighten already. I knew I wasn’t in the best mood in the cottage, but I start to realize just how grim things were getting in there.
Going for a walk was obviously the right thing to do. As I stroll along the road, I take deep inhalations of the clean spring air.
I pass quaint little cottages and magnificent gardens. Even the garden sheds are interesting and charming.
There are fields with farm animals and crops, and already I’m getting a sense of how to draw some of those creatures I attempted this morning.
With renewed spirits, I pull out my small sketchpad I always carry and make some preliminary sketches.
Not bad.
Even though I’m walking, I’ve got quite a steady hand.
Now I’ve got a laughing carrot waving back at me from the page. Much better.
There’s a chance this carrot won’t even give people nightmares.
A car horn beeping at me makes me realize I’ve drifted onto the road. I lift my hand in an apologetic gesture and keep walking.
Perhaps I better continue with the sketches back at the cottage.
Later.
&
nbsp; After what seems like five minutes—but is probably a lot longer—I find myself outside the pub again. It seems as if this place holds some magic over me.
Just the other day, I crashed right outside the pub of all places.
Seeing as I’ve already arrived, I might as well go in and have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
For a few more minutes, I rationalize my actions. It’s not unusual for someone wandering on their own, like myself, to go into a pub for a drink, right?
Eventually, I decide that if I don’t go in, I’ll be growing roots out here and attract unwanted attention.
And if there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s unwanted attention.
I push the door open and hesitate. I’m not good with these things. What if someone was to challenge me being here? It’s a totally silly thought, but it’s one I can’t push aside.
But, alas, no one is paying me any attention.
Slowly, I enter and walk toward the back of the bar. There’s one stool, and I sit on it.
It feels strange. I’m not exactly a pub kind of lady, and this one is totally foreign to me. Okay, so it is literally foreign, but that’s not what I mean.
So far, no one has paid me any attention. No one has uttered a greeting, and the bar man is doing his very best to ignore me.
The pub is busy, but I would have thought someone would at least nod in my direction or something.
I take a few deep breaths and try to signal the bartender with a subtle hand wave so as not to seem rude.
There’s so much noise I can hardly hear myself think. My eyes scan the area—he’s not here.
There’s a couple playing billiards on the solitary pool table by the restrooms.
When they, an attractive and unmistakably Irish-looking young couple, embrace and start kissing, I try to look away.
They don’t seem to care they’re in public. Usually, I’d be unsettled by this, but for a moment I can’t look away.
By now the bloke’s—that means guy, right?
Anyway, the bloke’s hands are on her ass, and she has hers around his neck. Pool sticks fall on the ground. No one besides myself seems to be paying them any attention.
I look away and try and signal the barman again. But he’s at the other end.
Like a school girl, I lift my hand. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But nothing happens.