I was a small town, neurotic, set in her ways, kind of girl.
I could tell you how many Weetbix he ate as a kid and the colour of his favourite bike. I could tell you his birthday, his star sign and his favourite constellation but I couldn’t tell you the most intimate details of him – something I am sure many strangers had been lucky enough to experience.
And I was desperate to know. Even if it was only for a minute, I ached to be pulled into the fold where I kneweverythingabout him, including what brought him the most pleasure and what he looked like when he lost all control.
“Always happy to help. Just tell me how.” He was cocky and it was apparent he thought he knew what I needed, when really, he could never have guessed what I was about to ask. The forbidden thoughts alone were enough to send a buzz through my bloodstream.
“Well, given no one knows me better than you and there is absolutely no one I trust more, I have an idea. And it may be outlandish and entirely unexpected – actually most definitely unexpected – and it’s kind of awkward so you can definitely say no and we can forget I said anything.”
“Go on.” He said, folding his arms across his chest.
“That little,” I swirled my finger indicating whatever the heck just happened between us, “Well whatever that was – helped. Definitely helped. And we both know how limited my experience is with this stuff given the clientele I’ve shared company with.”
“You mean the people you’ve slept with?”
“Yes, Jack.Thosepeople. Anyway – you are far more experienced than I am and I need inspiration.”
“You’re talking in circles. How exactly canIhelp?”
“I’m thinking, asking actually, I’m asking – wait I can’t look at you when I say this,” I turned around, feeling much braver now that I couldn’t see his face. “I’m asking if you would help me with the spicy scenes in my book. Be an intimate muse, if you will. It could work both ways and obviously we would have rules because the last thing I would want is to do anything to jeopardise our friendship, but maybe you could use that experience of yours to show me what passion really is. So I can actually write about it.” I blew out a long breath before anxiously biting my thumb nail. If he turned me down, I was going to laugh hysterically and tell him I was only joking, then run to my room for the next two months and avoid him at all costs.
The silence was deafening and my fingers immediately reached for my ring.
When he still didn’t answer after what felt like an eternity, I spun around to face him and noticed his hands now firmly placed in front of the bulge.
“Forget I said anything.” I snapped, desperate to rewind an hour and go back to before shit got murky. This was what I feared most. His refusal. His rejection. His pity forRobot-Winterwho never had friends.
“No.” He said with a shake of his head.
“No?” My cheeks flamed but I stood firm. This was not the end of the world. I could definitely blame the super intense alcohol and clear my memories of everything I’d said and done.
“No, I won’t forget,” his adamance startled me. “But I need time to think. We can talk in the morning.” He stated, leaning over to give me a swift kiss on the cheek before turning and leaving without so much as a goodnight, let alone waiting for my reply.
What in the fudge cakes.
Pressing my head against the closed door of my bedroom I mouthed a lengthy expletive whilst simultaneously banging my palm against my forehead.
I kissed him. I actually kissed him. And then I asked him to be my muse. My real-life experimental sex doll.
For fuck sake, Winter, what were you thinking?
He drove six hours down the – admittedly very gorgeous coastline – to escape the pressures of whatever it was to play professional football, which included constantly being surrounded by people with no concept of his personal space – only to be in Willow Bay for approximately three seconds before I too did the same.
I mean, I hadn’t lied to him. I really was struggling with bringing home the desperation and angst of the characters.
Some things came naturally. The anticipation, the longing, the unrequited, invisible ache embedded within every moment. Those things which seemed minute to him but meant everything to me.ThatI could write about. Hell, I could publish an entire series about a lonely woman who has always wanted more but was too scared to grab life by the reins.
But the impassioned,kiss me as if I am your oxygen in an ocean of lustscene, I’m a little rusty. Of the few relationships I’d been in, none of them were anywhere near inspired.
In fact, on more than one occasion I would be glad to endure some form of traumatic head injury to ensure I never had to relive those instances again.
How did you describe something you hadn’t quite experienced? It was a very real issue, but did I have to offer myself up to him on a silver platter when he looked at me like his sister.Shit.
My body’s response to having him that close to me was anything but familial. The pressure of his hand against my lower back was enough to weaken my knees, my back arching as my chest became desperate to mould itself to him. My skin tingled and I knew if I looked down my shirt, my nipples would have been hard.
How long had I dreamed of one day having someone ignite those feelings in me? How long had I wished someone would listen to my words and create a passion I could only imagine? How long had it been Jack’s face I saw when I created these characters or touched myself in the depths of the night when no one was around? And now I was teetering on an unfamiliar line desperate to take the leap but terrified of the consequences.
Landing heavily into the chair in front of my typewriter I pushed the carriage back to its original position and stretched my fingers. My parents constantly offered to buy me a laptop but there was something nostalgic about filtering my fictional thoughts through something unplugged. The precision and beauty in watching the ink of my mind hit the paper in real time sung to my neurotic heart.
