by Ryan Ramsay
Not entirely, though. She’s changed. Her mind has changed. Her thoughts. Her words.
Through the phone she felt… mysterious. Grown. She seems to be the older one, even though I am.
I regret it. I regret saving some for the journey back, not giving it my all.
I sit here sipping tea and watching people. I could do so much better. I could be so much more.
When we were little, I think I was seven and she was five, mom and dad got us a raggedy policewoman doll. It had spiky blue hair for a coat and dark, almost black sequins for a skirt. The socks were made of pure dried noodles, and her eyes were drawn on the fabric.
At that age, neither of us thought it wise to ask where such a thing could be bought. We loved Lieutenant Master Sergeant Boop Boop more than anything. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.
One day I was outside, playing in the swing set that dad and I had made together. I remember the sand, rough and soft at the same time, sifting through my tiny fingers. I see it now. The colors, differently matched and sorted after a fun paint project, glinted in the sun like stars in the day.
I was trying to make some kind of castle without water. It was cool under the shade of the wooden cardboards, keeping some moisture trapped in the sand. I was using some buckets, some small and some big, to start on the moat, when I heard the sound of ripping.
I looked up. On the back patio was Mia, holding part of L.M.S Boop Boop in one of her hands, and the other part of her in her other, far apart.
I was enraged. I forgot about the moat and started crying, trying to wring the larger remnant of the doll away from her tiny strong grips. Mia would not relent. We started fighting in the grass, much to the laughter of our parents who were watching over us.
That was the beginning of a long series of fights and spitting arguments. It gives me chills thinking about it. I wish. Oh, how I wish, I would never have kept quiet.
It’s why I’m an entire ocean away. Keeping the distance has worked out well so far.
The tea is getting cold. I gulp it down and place the five dollar bill under the sugar dish, winking at Jass, who arguably doesn’t notice as her eyes are on her future baby daddy. I rise steadily, gaining balance, and put my left foot forward first. The journey home will be short, giving me time to think through her offer.
It does not make sense for one woman to fall in love with three different men, does it? I mean, at different intervals it is quite alright, given some time apart. But, the way Mia put it, it seems as though she meant it at the same time.
I know I’m not jealous. I guess I just wonder; is it necessary?
The street consists of cobblestone lined with cracked pavements, all the way through Holywell Street. A cat whose fur is spiraling black and orange at the edges trots by my boots and purrs. She looks well fed and has a blue and orange collar strapped to her thick neck.
Still, I nudge her away. Not today, kitty. I came here to eat onion rings and absolutely hate my Monday afternoon. And I’m all out of onion rings.
Chapter 2
Ashley
I need to think. No. I need to write.
There was a time, back in grade school, when I hated journaling my thoughts. It always felt as though there were some mysterious force watching over me, breathing over my neck, sneering at my prose and getting judgmental about my latest dark thought. Then I discovered a secret: fire.
Every once in a while, I would write my thoughts down on paper. Every little thing that came to me, in a dream, or thrust upon me in reality, like when I got my first period, finally, in gym class, while struggling on the high rope, of all places, was cannon fodder for my pen. I would take a seat by the bleachers, journal, or, on a good day, printer paper stolen from the AV room, and get going.
I would surprise myself on most evenings when the thoughts left me and flowed to the paper like molten steel melding onto a surface. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I laughed. Most of the time, however, I suppressed the desire to scream.
When I was done with my beautiful emotion-ridden paragraphs and prose, I would read through it all once, careful to edit any mistake, or cross and dot the necessaries. Only then would I flick the black lighter, dad’s old souvenir from the Corps, from my left jeans pocket, hover the blue and yellow flame before my eyes, and burn the paper from the corner-most edge.
I watched the words engulfed, and by some miracle, every detail that had gone into the pages would evaporate from me. For years this was therapeutic.
Until Mia — on a fucking Friday afternoon — saw me do it.
Mom said I was depressed. Dad kept his vile words to himself. Mia was in her room when the scolding happened. Scolding! And for what reason other than the need to get everything off my chest?
I wondered silently, in tears on such cold winter nights, why I was all alone in the world despite ostensibly having a family. No one seemed to get me. I still feel this when no one’s looking, and even when they are, I am sure my face, my eyes, and my voice, hide the facts all too well.
The walk home gives me time to think about what I want to write. The conversation with Mia is one. There is a lot of supporting material on there.
My sister is in love with three men, and she is in no way disgusted by the thought. I mean, every girl has that one fantasy about being with another person, and some have fantasies about being with more than one.
But that’s just it. It’s only fantasy. It shouldn’t be reality. It never should.
I stumble. A quick check reveals an uneven set of stones are strewn across some public lawn. I kick the closest one to me to the side and keep on walking.
We promised each other. I made her promise we would carve our own slice of life, away from what mom and dad expect. The gangrene walls before me line up perfectly with the rough and archaic stones of the university.
I guess I stumbled far off the quest of my teenage self.
**
The hallways of Thompson Hall are littered with knowledgeable freshmen and debt-ridden seniors. Paintings of high society life and daft portraits are positioned strategically at the vantage points, where you will always see them whenever you turn a corner.
My nervous feet shuffle alongside stressed ones. A lot of caffeine-induced tea and drinks and smokes fill the air here. It is exam season.
Even I am not cured from my bouts of anxiety. I shift my light weight easily and run across the many simulations going across my mind in whatever speed they go on in.
I am well aware of my knees right now. I stop by the vending machine next to the third floor restrooms, trying to catch my breath.
Fuck you, Mia. You brought this upon me. How could I not see it clearly?
I am horny as fuck. And I need to release it.
I put her scenario in my head the moment she said it.
I found love… times three.
All I thought about when she said it was sex. The immorality of it. The sheer taboo nature of the act. The defiling aptitude soared my already starved libido to levels I didn’t wish to think about.
My cheeks are flushed, I’m sure. My body is all wet in the kinds of places that make me crave having a boyfriend around. They come in handy in such times, I think. But now, I will have to take care of myself.
And that, on all days, works just fine.
I pinch a note from my inner pocket, crisp it out, and put it into the machine. I punch in the code, and then gently the sweet candy rolls forward and drops out of the coil that was holding it in place.
I hunch down and grab the orange wrapper, stuffing it in my jacket pocket. I’ll need a snack right after.
The dorm room door is locked from the inside, but not really locked. I let my hand fall on the knob lazily and stumble my way through, almost stripping by the time I plant the door back in its hold.
Stifled moans grab my immediate attention from the farthest corner of the room. Sandra’s bed.
I watch, standing, as the shapes move and converge under the raised sheets. I see her gree
n fingernails alone, her body, and his writhing in sedated pleasure. I catch myself before yelling at her to kindly observe our house rules. No. This time, I want to watch.
Although I see nothing more than the faint outline of their bodies, I know where his tongue is at. Otherwise her mouth would be obstructed from screaming.
Even the posters on our dorm room wall stare at me, judging, condescending, as I watch. My pussy aches. It burns. I need to stop them, right now.
“Ahem!”
The shapes suddenly stop moving and converge at the head of the bed. Sandra’s lock of red, soft braids appears slowly, her face contorted in pleasure and childlike apology. I notice the trickles of sweat too.
“I am so sorry, roomie,” she apologizes, “I thought you would be out till late.”
“Well,” I start, careful not to go any closer to the musky smell of sex, “I’m here now. You might as well clear out and do this elsewhere.”
“Sure thi— Ow!” she yells and swats her free hand beneath the sheet. The guy responds with a soft laugh. “Stop doing that.”
“Sandra…” I call as I’m over by the window, already latching it open.
I need this place smelling a little better.
She gets up and pulls the sheet around her body. Why, I do not know. I’ve seen her naked more than a handful of times, and on different occasions, in compromising situations with her current boyfriend.
I finally see why. Her clit is strapped by clip to his lower lip. A chain links her arm to his neck. She sees my hanging jaw.
“Oh, come off it, Ash,” she says roughly, sweetly, “you’ve seen me in worse. I’ll be back by morning. Please don’t wait up,” she adds sarcastically.
They hurry to dress and then the door shuts behind them as they leave. I pop the window open and drop heavily on my bed, and only then do I notice that the bedspread is wrinkled.
What the hell, Sandra? I think. You know I hate it when you start the foreplay on my bed.
I grab my comforter and put it in her laundry basket. She can find the quarters to wash it in the only large washing machine in the laundry room that fits blankets that big – not me.
Instinctively I grab a mop, some cleaning supplies, and clean. Time passes by quickly. I think of nothing more, other than making my side of the room black light free.
I think fifteen minutes have gone by. My muscles feel just right with the amount of work done.
A reward is in order, I think. And so, I watch the sunset while standing at the slightly ajar window. I watch as students walk back to their dorm rooms, arm in arm, alone, in groups, or with the companion of their choice.
The streetlamps that line the walkways on campus, shining brightly as they always do, but softly, light the pathways beautifully with the light of a setting sun. The wind flutters right across the room, bringing in a lightweight breeze. I shut the window and latch it carefully, making sure none may enter while I enjoy my evening.
The room is dark and fresh. My posters, hanging on the right side of the wall, watch me in silence as I take my clothes off, one by one.
I make it an effort to keep my eyes locked on Einstein’s as my jacket falls to the carpet. My blouse is wet and sweaty all over, especially at the back and neck.
Good.
I take my time scraping off my jeans. The fabric feels rough off my skin. When my foot is out of the hole, I stand in the silence in my blouse and panties. I sigh. I inhale. I sigh once more.
My feet trudge and take me to the foot of the bed. A collection of my oldies await. There, a set of candles I made in my first year here, with soy wax and really special essential oils, make their way into my now-rough hands.
I walk in the darkness, aiming for the bathroom, not in the care to light the room up. I like it this way.
In the bathroom, I turn the taps on and let the water flow, both hot and cold, into the tub. I place the candles on either side of the tub and make for the lighter. I flick the tiny rotating cuff. It sparks once. It lights on the second try. Blue and yellow dance in concert, the blue carrying the yellow like a male ice-skating dancer would his counterpart.
I stretch an arm out and let the flame linger on one wick, then the other. The room bursts in light gradually. From soft, mellow pink to bright, still mellow, and still pink. I lick my lips.
The water fills the tub and I turn the taps off. I lean to the side and pick my two favorite bath salt canisters. I add the right amount to the water. It froths upon shaking it hard with my hand. I wipe my wet hand with my thigh till it dries.
Gingerly I make my way to the other room and make sure the door is locked. I double check. Good.
I am all alone now.
I head to the drawer, where we both have two compartments. Mine has a special lock in it, whereas Sandra’s is filled with porn and other sexual paraphernalia. I know what I want.
The key hangs across my neck. One wouldn’t think of it as a key, luckily. It is in the shape of an A. I place the metal in the lock and twist it, twice. The wooden compartment slides away.
I smile. It’s still here. I put it against my nose. It still smells the same.
I walk to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
I am alone now and even more isolated.
I put the book at the closest edge of the tub, where I can reach it, with its placeholder, and focus on my body. My reflection looks back at me in stark silence, her face watching mine in inexplicable ways.
She looks at my ass. Her hand glides across my own, watching, testing, careful not to hurt or maim. I pinch her. She giggles.
I handle my breasts mildly, lifting and pushing them up. It tickles. I look at the scars and remind myself that I am beautiful. I always have been. I always will be.
My blouse goes first. It is static as the fabric leaves my skin. I drop it to the floor. My vest goes next. Its retreat is silent and wanting. My bra and panties are left.
The peppermint and sage aromas hit my nose as the fire consumes the wax.
Perfect.
I watch my mirror counterpart take the bra off, one strap. Then the next. She carefully bites her tongue at the relief and pain of the fabric once pressing, then releasing, her bouncy C-cups.
They fall lightly to her midriff. I feel for them. The nipples are already erect, knowing what is to come. My pussy stirs. Only my panties are left.
The steam from the bath water makes my companion go away, if only for now.
I am alone.
I wade into the water, one foot after the other. The water scalds me slightly. I like the burn. I love it.
I settle into the nook of the tub, careful not to spill any of the water to the side. I accommodate the space beautifully. My head rests at the end, and I breathe in the bath salts. I am in heaven.
My panties tighten to the hot water.
I don’t touch them, not yet.
With one hand, I pick the book up. I know the page. I practically have the words memorized.
Sins of the Father was my first door into the world of my sexuality. There are reasons I keep it to this day, broken spine and all.
And I read.
The nun’s habit swayed in all manner of direction. It hung loosely to the side. He was being only too polite to her, applying his kindness in all ways he could think of.
Her hair was revealed. It smelled of sweetened honey, the kind that only blessed women knew about.
She was wet. He could tell by the way her thighs melded together in her haste and nervousness. He held her gently, whispering into her ear.
“You have not sinned, my child. This is but the mere act of God’s true love.”
She looked up at him, her mouth wrought with her juices and his. Her eyes watered. Her lips moistened.
She knew there was no returning. The bridge had been crossed. She tore at his black shirt, ready to meet him halfway.
I lick my upper lip and clamp my thighs together. Under the water’s hot embrace, my cunt warms and pulses. I feel it rhyme with
the beatings of my heart.
His mouth stole hers, her innocence far gone. She kissed him like she would a savior. There was no more in the world that she wanted more than he, her savior, her Silencio.
His hand, bear-like and tenfold strong, hiked up her lengthy habit and tore it away. She moaned into him, relenting at the force of his chest on her hanging tight breasts.
I exhale. I put the book in its place holder and flick the page. The page where it all happens. The page where it began for me. My hands are now free.
Her thighs were bare, as were his. He came closer to her, letting her watch the girth, the length.
She licked her lips, begging him wordlessly to take her. He watched her hazel eyes as he slid into her with the wrath of a sun god.
She screamed. He grunted. Both had sinned. Both were lost in madness.
He pulled away, only so slightly. She begged him with her fingers tightly sewn into his back to keep going. He answered. She screamed once more as he pushed it in. Their bodies matched perfectly.
I twist and pull at my panties, letting the fabric rub against my pussy lips. My other hand rubs against my throbbing clit, gently, caringly. My nipples harden.
He leaned into her to taste her lips. She made him know heaven more than once that day. The first time at the mill. The second time at the back of the children’s home’s kitchen pantry.
Silencio gave into his urges; gave into his desires. He wanted the moist wetness of the sister’s cunt to mark history for him. He wanted it forever. The innocence. The vile nature of what he was doing. The one most carnal sin of the world, sweetest of them all.
I rub harder.
She kissed him. Her body was his. Their bodies were more than one.
Fuck. I rub harder. My index finger slips inside me. My clit throbs. My pussy spasms.
They were one in sin. And they came together.
Ffffuuuuuuck… I’m so close. I am soooo close…
She screamed hard, hard enough for the congregation outside to hear.