Lustful Memoirs
By: Gina - gina@basic-nstynct.com
Chapter Thirty SixMy eyes opened to find darkness. Only the small light from the balcony illuminated the room, casting ominous shadows on the walls, over the furniture. I rolled my head from left then to right, slowly I pulled my hands above my head, my fingers meeting the cool wood of the headboard. My toes stretched to a point, my body elongated, trying desperately to release the tension in my muscles, more so trying to ease the pounding in my head. I relaxed my muscles, but the tension remained, as did the pounding, incessant, unforgiving, reminding me of the events of the day. Inhaling deeply, my lungs filled with air, and I was consumed by his scent. Did it linger, or did he? I wasn’t sure which I wanted more. Fear penetrated deep within me as I thought that he could be gone, deeper fear that he was still there. I rose to a sitting position, glancing around, my eyes having to squint. Across the room, in the chair that once held the afghan that was now twisted around my feet, my gaze fell upon his form, his head lying to one side. He was asleep. I laid back down, my hands coming to rest on my face. Gently, my fingers wiped my eyes, trying to relieve the stinging and burning caused by the river of tears that had emptied from them. The tears were gone, no more would come, this I knew, but the feelings remained, raw and exposed. My fingers moved to my temples, moving in small circles and applying pressure, hoping to stop the pounding, knowing it was futile. The marching band in my head served as a reminder, of the grief, of the despair.
I sighed, trying desperately to decide what needed to be done. Could I recreate the web that I had spun around these thoughts and feelings, the protective cocoon that had gotten me through the last five years, to return to the sterile, emotionless world in which I lived? Did I want to? I took several breaths trying to remain calm, trying to ease the hurt of the fifteen-year-old girl deep inside of me. The intake of air didn’t help, I felt the sobs come, tearless, but sobs all the same as I thought of the girl I once was and the woman I had become. My mother had accused me of being a whore then, as I stood on the front porch with only a small bag and my trusty backpack, the one that was too expensive but all the cool kids had, the one that he had worked so hard to buy. She falsely accused then, it was true now. I suppressed the sobs, I refused to give back into these feelings. What had happened was in the past, I needed to move forward. Isn’t that what I had done, I questioned myself with a sarcastic tone. I had fooled myself for all those years, fooled myself into thinking that it was over, gone, that I no longer cared, that I could handle it and get over it. Until that afternoon, on that otherwise glorious day full of hope and anticipation, until JC said the word and caused the whole in my normally impenetrable exterior. The steel door erected between the feelings and myself. His use of that word, that long hated, long denied word sparked the fire in my head that smoldered right through the steel as if it had been mere butter causing a small whole, and through which the horrid memories and emotions poured, until the steel door no longer existed and I proceeded to do what had for so long been the unthinkable, the forbidden. I felt.
Smothering my face with my hands, struggling with the very thought of what was to come. I sat up, my eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, lingering on the man before me. The man that had come to me as my world was thrown into the hell of feeling, the man that had held me, comforted me, been my rock when the world crumbled. And now lanced me with fear. I shook my head, pushing away all disordered thoughts, all jumbled feelings. A quiet sigh escaped my lips, echoing loudly in the dead silence lingering in the room, I looked up quickly, hoping that I had not roused him. His head remained lolled to the side, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. I rose from the bed, careful not to make a sound as I stood and stretched. Pleading with myself to bring it all under control, I softly padded toward the bathroom. Being as quiet as possible, hoping to not rouse the snoozing figure, hoping to not have to confront him, to look at the questions in his eyes and not be able to answer them, to see the pity that would hide within the deep blue depths. No amount of hope would stop the inevitable, I knew that. But I had to delay, there wasn’t any way I could face him as I was, broken, defenses down, exposed. I needed a shower, I needed space, I needed to re-erect the barriers between my heart and everything else.
Entering the bathroom, I closed the door, slowly, with caution. The air in my lungs left me, leaving my lungs deflated, as I released the breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding. I turned, my reflection staring back at me. My stomach twisted, and I cringed. My hair was tousled, knotted, my eyes red and swollen, the mascara and eyeliner long washed away. Red blotches covered my face, deep dark circles around my eyes. The mirror divulged my deepest thoughts, emotions, secrets. Silently I whispered a prayer, thankful that he slept, thankful that he didn’t see me in this form. But he had, my mind screamed at me. He was the one that pulled me from the floor and laid me in bed. It was him. My stomach convulsed, jetting bile into my esophagus, up to my throat, burning its path. The emotions had stopped pouring from my eyes, now to be retched from my stomach. I collapsed, the waves of nausea taking over. As the last contents of my stomach emptied from me, I rose from the floor. A shower, the thought entered my mind, a shower was what I needed to erase the events of the day.
I stripped off my clothes, letting the wrinkled fabric fall in a pile around my feet. I reached into the shower, my hand meeting the cold metal faucets. I turned on the water. Feeling the wetness on my skin, I adjusted the temperature, to the hottest setting possible. I then entered. The heat burned my flesh, I welcomed it. I rolled my head from left to right, my arms wrapping protectively over my body as the assault of the water beating down on me began. I hoped that the blistering heat would mix with the shame exuding from my pours, trailing it down my body, away from me, to join the whirlpool of water surrounding my feet, to be sucked down the drain. The shame that built from deep with in me, the shame that my father had left, the shame that I allowed my mother to blame me for his departure, the shame of my current life style, the shame of the word JC so casually used to describe me, the shame that Justin had seen me at my weakest, most vulnerable point. I stood, the water streaming down over me, washing the surface but not delving deeper, not removing the thoughts and emotions I wished to cast aside. The steam filled the room, the warm moisture filled air flowed into my lungs, only adding to the suffocating feeling. My hand quickly reached out, wishing to ban the source of heat. I turned the knob, ceasing the flow of hot water, so only the cold poured. It kissed my skin like a violent lover, removing all warmth. I wished it to freeze me, to numb all of my senses, to bless me with the only emotion I longed to feel: to not feel at all. The flood pouring from the showerhead streamed through my hair, over my body, covering me, deadening the boiling emotions ripping through me, until the thoughts stopped and the only thing that chipped through the icing, numbing effects of the water was the bluish, painful tinge to my fingers and toes, mistakenly punished in my efforts to rid my mind of the hurt.
I stood back from the water, shivering, teeth chattering, goose bumps covering my frozen skin. My hands were stiff and hard to move as they grasped the faucet to stop the flow. I continued to stand in the shower, the air around me as cold as the water had been, glacial droplets of water continued to run down my back and over my chest from my hair. The external cold could never match the internal freezer. As I stepped out, I grabbed my robe and wrapped my chilled body in it. I dried my hair, removing from it the excess moisture, before arranging it in a meticulous bun on top of my head. I then went to the closet, thankful that it connected directly to the bathroom. Knowing exactly what I wanted to wear I began to dress. The expensive fabric covered me, first my matching bra and panties and thigh high hose, then the beige silk blouse, followed by the emerald green skirt. One layer at a time, I began to once again protect myself from the world, the clothing comfortable, secure. I reentered the bathroom, fumbling briefly with my makeup case. I applied the foundation over my face with my fingers, then a small wisp of blush to my cheeks, carefully I colored my eyelids and lips. As I applied the mask that concealed the real me from onlookers, I felt my resolve returning, as if the frozen tundra I had plunged myself into had reinforced the molten steel, making it once again hard, an impenetrable barrier between myself and the outside world. But, as I had learned, it wasn’t as impervious as I had thought. Certain weaknesses existed that would cause it to open, and I wasn’t interested in the openness any longer. As Superman must do away with kryptonite so that he can survive, I too had to do away with my weakness, and that meant I needed to leave. I needed to return to the unfeeling world I had created, where the people that hired me, fucked me, left their money on the table and departed. They didn’t care about me, I didn’t care about them. They wanted to get off, and I wanted to get paid. I needed to get back to LA. Standing at the threshold leading into the bedroom where I had left him, I wondered if this newly erected barricade would survive its encounter with his probing eyes.