3***************************************
I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The goodbyes were short: loose hugs and muttered words that had no real meaning to me. Either that or they just couldn't puncture through my very genuine nervousness and fear. I walked away from them, from my last link to reality and into a dream, and ascended the stairway to the gate.
The next few minutes were kind of a blur as I passed easily through security and sat outside the terminal waiting for my flight to board. I tried to focus on the book I had brought to pass time, but the words didn't make much sense. I couldn't concentrate. My heart was pulsating almost painfully against my ribs as if to be free of its confines: the anxiety was too much to bear. I remember fidgeting in the worn leather of the chair I had taken and idly wondering if I was at the right gate. That would have been absolutely wonderful to miss the flight I had waited so patiently for. What would have happened then?
Finally the plane began to board. I jumped up at the opportunity to be the first on and pushed through the other people fussing with their luggage. The winter chill seemed to ooze from the minuscule cracks in the walkway, and it stung against unprotected limbs: I had forgotten to don my coat after the security checkpoint. Too late now.
The actual plane was entirely too small to be considered comfortable. I managed to stuff myself and my carry-ons into one of the double seats and hope no one would sit beside me. No one did. As we took off and made our way north, it was all I could do to breathe. Fear had lodged itself deep in my throat, confiscating any rational thoughts. My fingers trembled on the armrests; what would she think of me? What would happen? I didn't know. It was almost like I didn't care to know.
To say I was nervous when we landed would have been an understatement. I held back as the other passengers (all nine of them) went ahead of me, eager to be with people they knew. But not me. I was scared. I shakily pulled my coat back on as the stewardess stared at me, silently wondering why I was still hanging around. I finally trudged past her and off the plane.
Something returned to me then: hadn't the pilot announced that our luggage would come out at pickup number ten? My heart caught in my throat. I had told her it was number six.. would they still be there? Would I have to roam an unfamiliar airport to find someone I hadn't even met before?
I caught up with an older man that had come off the same plane as me. "Did they say baggage claim number ten?" My voice was shaky.
He appraised me for a moment before nodding. "I think so."
Not good. I exhaled sharply. "Great."
"You told your ride to meet you at another claim, didn't you?"
I had turned sullen, bitter. "Yes."
He shrugged. We started walking. "They're all in the same place. Shouldn't be too hard to find."
I hoped so. To calm myself, I started a conversation with him: he inquired why I was here. He just couldn't believe that people really met over the internet.. is it really that strange an incident? I wondered. All the while we talked, I had my eyes riveted ahead.
Finally I saw her. The man was forgotten completely. Maybe it was rude, but what I felt then couldn't be described. I was paralyzed at first. She took my breath away completely: was this what I had so feared? She was beautiful. Everything I had imagined and more. Our eyes locked for a moment and then I looked away in embarrassment. I knew then that what I had tried to deny before was true. I was in love with her.
I can't remember exactly what was said. I remember, somewhat, that she asked if I would hug her, and I did. But I was shaking. She was so indescribably beautiful, and I was.. nothing. Nothing to compare to. I followed her and her mother dumbly through the airport, eyes focused on everything but her. I could feel her own gaze on me, but what was she thinking? Was she judging? Judging me? The thought hurt, and it hurt even more when we reached the car and she climbed in front with her mother. She had judged. Chosen. And it certainly wasn't in my favor.
I was silent the rest of the way home. What could I say? Occasionally her mother would mumble something in Portuguese to her and she would reply, but I could understand none of the conversation and so left it at that. Tears blurred in my eyes. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could imagine the blood pulsating beneath that thin layer of flesh and fat that cloaked my bones: how I wanted to cut. But that would come much later. For now, I was trapped within that uncomfortable, suffocating silence.
We reached her home within a few minutes; it had seemed like forever. I managed to drag my bags inside with some help from her. A few awkward words were exchanged with her father before we climbed the stairs to her room and the guestroom I would be staying. I dropped my things by the door and followed her uneasily into her own room. I couldn't say I was surprised at the posters and memorabilia that cluttered the area: it looked much like my room had before we had moved. I shuffled around a bit before finding a nervous seat at the edge of her bed.
We locked gazes for a moment before both looking away. The depression hadn't left me just yet, and a dark feeling, a miserable feeling, had settled deeply within. I can't really remember what all was said, if anything was said at all. There was still a hanging discomfort that threatened to burst open any moment.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on which way you look at it), we were called down to dinner. This was not something I was accustomed to and couldn't say I was entirely comfortable with. I was ushered into the far corner seat. To avoid those probing gazes of her parents, I pretended to have a very real interest in the clock above the doorway. Not much was said except mindless chatter that revolved around my trip. Said to me, anyway. most of the conversation I couldn't understand and so blocked out appropriately.
In the end, I walked out of there somewhat shaken. I was still hurting from the ride home and wasn't feeling very welcome. Her parents had avoided me completely, and I would later find out that they would lay that blame on me, expressing that I was the anti-social one. What a lovely reception.
After a few hours things settled down somewhat. We talked a bit about nothing much, listened to music, and I even got the opportunity to show her Silent Hill. However, the game was merely a distraction, as I played without really seeing it. My mind was elsewhere. We were skipping around the problem at hand like we were dancing on hot coals, probing here, pressing there. Subtle hints and flirtations were dropped but none pursued. It was almost as if we were only friends, and I was starting to believe that myself. She didn't want me. Why would she?
As darkness descended and our own lights faded to the dull shine of her black lamp, we lay there in bed, only inches apart and yet we dared no further. How I wanted to touch her. I couldn't explain the urge then and it's hard even now. I wanted her. I wasn't sure how or even in what way, but I knew I did, like a moth drawn to the fatal flame. She shifted beside me, and the springs creaked with her slight weight, her hand dropping accidentally (or was it?) into my own. I jerked at the touch at first. Fear caught in my throat for a split second: if I held on, would she get disgusted and draw away? But if I let her go, what then?
Somehow I overpowered my fear and my hand tightened ever so slightly on her own. Surprisingly she returned the gesture, and we both shared a glance, each searching the other for any sign of discomfort. There was none for a few short moments, and we were content to lay there, basking in the knowledge that something had been started and we still didn't know exactly what that something was. But it was I who eventually pulled away, never content to let anything be.
I remember making up some excuse. Bringing up something irrelevant to mask my unease and confusion. She didn't question and I turned away from her, cool blues boring into the wall as if to tear my answers from there.
Her fingers brushed softly at my side through the material of my shirt. I was somewhat stunned at her bold movement, but showed no protestations as her nails caressed over the folds of my own hated skin. I shivered; she teased at me with that playful tone I can never forget. A strange arousal welled up within, one I had never expected to come from the touch of another female. But it was there, and growing stronger with each tickling touch. After a few moments my breathing had betrayed my physical state and she laughed quietly.
"Stars and moons," she whispered, fingers tracing gently over the menial designs on the blue pajamas I wore. I think I managed to tell her that her nails would have been much more appreciated flesh against flesh, and surprisingly she slid her palm beneath my shirt. Her body shifted closer to mine until we were touching, her front tight against my back. Her arm remained draped loosely over my middle. I gasped softly as her lips touched my ear, my neck. What was happening? Why did this feel so strangely right?
I was shaking powerfully against her. She gently tugged at me and I obliged, laying on my back as she slid her upper body over me. She teasingly touched at one of my breasts. I had been wishing for it, wanting it, and exhaled deeply.
Suddenly her lips were touching my own. So forbidden and yet so sought after. It was short and sweet, and when she pulled away, I found myself needing it again, needing to feel her and taste her. We both smirked softly in the dim light, and then she was kissing me again, the desperation in both of our actions entirely too evident.
I needed her more than I can even describe. I loved the feel of her, her warm skin, the taste of her lips. It was all so wrong, so wicked, and yet I cherished every second of it. Deep emotions began to brew inside of me. Even then, not having been with her more than a few hours, I couldn't help but think of when I had to leave her. I knew I wouldn't be able to bear it. Just the thought brought tears to my eyes that were hastily blinked away.
In light of this newfound feeling, I also summoned up a courage that I had not had in some time. Gently I pushed her back and away, only to return seconds later over her. I wanted to touch her, explore that which was presenting itself to me. My lips fell to her throat, my hands to the buttons of her nightshirt. She gasped beneath me and I pleasured in that sound; I couldn't even imagine how amazing it would feel in just a few moments when her gasps would turn to soft cries of gratification.
Buttons were undone, shirt was parted. I studied her for a few moments, an action I would come to enjoy very much over the next few days, and exhaled softly. Her stomach rose and fell with each breath she took, her small and yet absolutely attractive breasts illuminated in that dull, strange light. I previously had thought I would find myself embarrassed to look upon her, as it had always felt to look upon men, but it was exactly the opposite. She was stunning. My fingers ran a course across her chest, taking in everything she had to offer. Her skin was soft, smooth to the touch. It felt wonderful.
She was shivering, as I knew she would be. A smile I couldn't even help graced my lips. "What do you want?" I whispered to her, soft kisses trailing down her ear. She didn't respond; couldn't, I think. I started to draw away until she clutched at my wrist, her eyes desperate, pleading. Beautiful.
"Please," she finally responded in a voice just as soft as my own had been. I watched her for a moment, goading her into some sort of response. She trembled. "Pleasure me."
I nodded quietly. I wanted to, more than I can even explain. Wanted to feel her own powerful pleasure beneath me. My kisses descended, falling upon her breast, tongue snaking out to catch a now very aroused nipple. Her shivers became harder, and I couldn't help a soft chuckle against her flesh. Slowly my hand inched past the bridge of her pants, falling over the satin material of her undergarment. I caressed her gently, sweetly almost, and she writhed beneath me. She was eager. I could already feel her warm wetness spreading to my fingers.
As if this were a cue, I began my administrations. Her breaths quickly evolved into something deeper, more extreme. I enjoyed every second of it. It took only a minute or two for her body to shudder in orgasm, and I clung to her, attempting to calm her from the tiring effects.
We lay there for a few moments in silence, and she finally laughed softly. I could detect some disbelief still lingering in her voice. I couldn't share her bliss, however. I tried to summon a smirk but failed miserably, and to hide it from her, I turned my back.
"What is it?" she asked quietly, her hand falling to my arm. I shrugged indifferently. "Please tell me." A small tug came, more insistent. "Please."
What could I possibly tell her? That I felt used? That would only serve to upset her. I didn't understand my feelings; it seemed I never did. My next words were bitter. "I don't blame you for not wanting to touch me." And I didn't. I was ugly, twisted: dark scars made hideous patterns across my body, webbing and marking my flesh. I bit down on my bottom lip to stifle any sort of grief that threatened to escape.
She didn't respond, and that hurt even more. So it was true. All of my feelings were washed away by her silence, and for a moment I thought about rising and returning to my own room to be alone. But she stopped me by putting her arms around me, holding me close. A few words were exchanged, but they were petty, unimportant. Nothing that would change my feelings.
Finally we turned over and fell asleep. It was well past five in the morning by that time, the blood red letters of her digital clock haunting my restless dreams. I woke several times, expecting to be back in my own bed, but I wasn't. Not yet. My story had just begun.