Page 53 of Recollection

I smile. I’d rather him blurt out his undying love for me, but I’m not a teenager or a fool. This is good. This is everything I should expect. “Good. Me too.”

nine

Present

––––––––

IWAKE UP IN A DARKroom absolutely convinced I just made love to Arthur.

I can still feel his hands on my body, his thrusting inside me, his low, thick voice vibrating through my blood.

I’m hot and panting and damp with perspiration, my covers tangled up around my limbs so much I’m momentarily trapped when I try to sit up.

My first instinct is to look at the other side of my bed, expecting to see Arthur’s naked form. Maybe sleeping. Maybe awake and thoughtful and relaxed, watching me quietly.

He’s not there. My chest tightens with an instinctive ache over the idea of his leaving without a word after we had sex, but finally my mind is starting to clear.

We didn’t have sex. The last thing I distinctly remember is having dinner with Arthur on the couch as we watched movies. I dozed off. He carried me up. I was groggy and fell asleep immediately after, but I’m sure that much really occurred. Now I can recognize Fred at the bottom of the bed, stretched out and snoring softly.

Arthur was so kind and strong and gentle and reassuring this evening. I’ve never had a man treat me like that, make me feel so safe.

The sex that’s filling my mind didn’t happen. Not tonight. Not ever. It’s some kind of wish fulfillment dream. The closer I get to Arthur, the more I want him physically. And now it’s taken the form of intense, erotic dreams.

Even the vague remnants of the dream are enough to turn me on. I keep focusing on them, trying to hold on to them even as they fade, turn them into a complete story.

It’s hopeless and only serves to arouse me to the point of desperation. I roll over, lift my bottom, and rub myself hard and fast over my panties until I come in quiet gasps against my pillow.

My body is more satisfied afterward, but not my mind.

There’s something there, lurking on the edges of my consciousness, hidden by the dark, swirling fog of my brain.

It’s terrible—this taunting blackness. It’s torture.

I lie awake for a long time but come up with no answers.

***