Stress Relief

Throw a bunch of words in a hat, pull one out, and write a story using that word.

This week’s word: SURPRISE

STRESS RELIEF

Life can be counter-intuitive, and full of surprises. The more you live the more you learn it, and here, today I’m learning it again. An art museum, world famous, the biggest in the city, and yet, I’ve never been here before. I’m smart, educated, I’ve lived in this city my whole life, but somehow I’d just never been here. It took you Jared, you, my boyfriend, to bring me.

Jared, the unexpected boyfriend, Jared and me. Jared, so hot and muscular and not a brain cell in your body. Me with my Masters heading to PhD, and you, dumb as a brick, if you’re lucky maybe one day you’ll get your GED.

But whatever, doesn’t matter. All that matters is you like me, and I like you too. Your mind, your body, your personality. Working out at the gym, I was open and free and you came right over; I don’t remember but I must’ve been looking, because over you came and with no hesitation, you just walked right over, introduced yourself, swept me off my feet.

It was probably the timing, no question it was. Deep in my studies, just out of that breakup, I was free at last, free from old boyfriends and their bullshit relationships, all brainy and needy and bad in bed. They’re all like that, all my men, smart and intellectual, knowing everything about something and nothing about anything, nothing about relationships, about women or being a man. But Jared, you know all that, everything they don’t, and it’s not just your muscles, your body, or that you’re dynamite in bed. You are thoughtful, you are sensitive, you are sweet and cute and caring and yes, it’s worth repeating: you’re dynamite in bed.

“I see you’ve found Vetheuil. One of my favorites.”

Huh? What? Who said that, that voice, uninvited? Not mine, not yours, someone else has come over. Someone else and it’s one of those guys, can tell in an instant, stamped on his forehead, a brainy nerd who’s bad in bed. “It’s a lesser work, everyone so in love with his waterlillies. But I find this one really captures… sensibility. The hidden blacks, the white on the lake. It’s so simple and pure. What do you think?”

Ugh, this guy, simple and pure and pukeworthy. So full of shit, this is what I left, egotistical and condescending, just like the rest, and I wouldn’t care except he’s intimidating my guy, making him feel bad, his brain so big, my guy’s so small. “You must have some opinion. You think this is a good representation of the artists sensibilities? Or you prefer something else? This is one of his lesser known works after all, but I’m sure you know that. Tell us your thoughts.”

“Yes sweetheart, what do you think of this fine painting?” I say, helping him along, encouraging a reply. Helping him to be confident, to be strong, to believe in himself, to not let this this pest of a man show him up or put him down.

“I… I like the colors,” he says, trembling and sad, out of place, his intellect too small.

I hold him close, squeeze his arm. “I like the colors too. You really don’t need to know more than that. They’re beautiful,” I say as I move in tight, intimate and warm. And that pest, that loser, he’s smart enough to know, to get the picture and off he goes, back to his world, to his life, empty, pathetic, and forlorn. For I like the colors and I like you Jared, simple and sweet, honest and warm. Jared, who’s unlike the others and you may be surprised, but I like you, not them, you. As I said, life can be counter-intuitive, but only if you don’t understand it. And don’t worry Jared, I got it. I’ll understand it so you don’t have to. You just be you, sweet adorable you.

Now lets get out of this place, go back to your world and into your bed. Cause it’s you that I want, just you, only you. It’s you that I want, and I want to screw.

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The One

Throw a bunch of words in a hat, pull one out, and write a story using that word.

This week’s word: TEASE

THE ONE

Third date. Number three. I don’t get a lot of these. Normally it’s just sex after one and then we are done, or no sex at all but still equally done. Depends on how it goes, I guess, but either way, it’s one and done. I’m just not that good with girls, they’re so beautiful and elusive and I never know what to say or do. Sometimes I wonder how I even get laid at all.

But this one is different; she’s special. Date number three and I think this is the night, where we’ll go all the way, my place or hers. I think so; this is the night.

It’s been difficult, going out, a pretty girl like this, two dates with nothing. But actually, it’s been okay, there’s something about her, something special. I’d wait four dates, even five, probably not more than that, cause then she’s a tease, but still, five dates? Willing to wait? This girl, something about her, her attitude, her spunk, cute and sweet but also a badass, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I wonder, am I falling for her? Could she be the one? Who knows, we haven’t even had sex.

But like I said, tonight feels good, it may be the night, we’ll find out soon enough. Either way, just enjoy it, you, her, date number three. Out for Italian, her favorite and I like it too, this restaurant, where everything is themed and authentic and the waiters even belt out show tunes. Yes, date number three and it’s a good one too, talking and chatting and it’s hard to keep up, her attitude, her smarts, her sense of humor, I love it, so sexy and elusive and fun.

But wait, wait a minute, is that… fuck. Two tables down, Whitney fucking Adams. Is this happening? Is it possible, tonight, here, now? That bitch, that stupid bitch, haven’t seen her since sixth grade and she shows up now? Sixth grade, when she would tease me like crazy, make my life hell, everyday tormented and it’s amazing how you remember people like that, people who ruin your life and they never remember you, you’re just a drop in the wind to them.

“Hey,” my girl says, noticing my distraction. “You here for me or her?”

Shit, not good, she caught me, caught me looking at another girl. A pretty one too, they’re always pretty, is there anything worse you can do? “No, sorry. I know her,” I say, explaining myself so I can save face, stay out of trouble. “From school.”

“Were you friends? Did you fuck her?” she asks and there is that spunk, that attitude I adore. Except… I can’t tell, is she serious or joking? Because serious is bad and I don’t want her to ruin what we have.

“No.” I say, answering both ways, calming the mood.

“Well, you’re acting strange.”

Okay, she was serious. I should tell her, tell her something. Doesn’t matter if it’s embarrassing, I need to say something, to save this date. “It’s not like that. She used to make fun of me.”

“She made fun of you?”

“Yeah. I had acne and my voice used to be really high pitched. Everyone did it but she was the worst.”

“Oh, okay. Just forget about it,” she says. Yeah, I wish it were that easy. Been trying, all my life, forget the ones who ruined those years, who struck me down and shattered my game, who ended relationships, prevented them from even happening in the first place. Forget this girl, who laughed at me and thought the whole world should laugh with her, and of course they did because she is pretty, you always follow the pretty girl, not the acned boy with the high pitched voice. And now she’s sitting here, right here, totally oblivious, doesn’t even know what she did or who I am. I try to forget, I try, but I can’t. And now I’m ruining our date, our special one, date number three, I was falling for this girl and now I’m ruining it, everything lost, it’s all over, she can tell and I don’t know what to do.

“Well, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” she says and yep, she’s annoyed. What a loser I am, letting twenty-year-old torment ruin my date and now she is leaving, rising from the table, had enough of this boy. “Just watch me. Okay?” That’s it, it is over, I sit alone as she walks away, we are no more.

And then, magic happens. Like slow motion instant replay, one heel, caught in the other and my girl falls, Whitney’s table, her wine and her water, knocking it over, spilling everything, all over her.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Sorry sorry sorry,” my girl says, pleads really. “Please don’t be mad.”

“Don’t be mad? What the fuck!?” Yep, that’s Whitney, still awful, still a bitch. “You ruined my dress. Where’d you learn to fucking walk!?”

“No, I’m sorry. It was an accident,” she begs, weak and submissive as Whitney stands overhead, her clothing drenched, covered in red; she’s ready to kill. But she won’t, she can’t, because waiters and waitresses are already swooping in, calming things down, protecting my girl. Even Whitney’s boyfriend is in on the act, calming his girl, it’s just an accident, just a dress.

And then, it happens again. No one sees it, but I do, a moment even more beautiful than the last. A smile, just a smile. Small but powerful, like daggers in flesh, from my girl to Whitney as she rises from the floor. It lasts just a second but the message is clear: that wasn’t an accident, bitch. Just a second in its delivery but it’s more than enough, and Whitney stands dumbstruck, powerless, she lost, can’t do anything because everyone else missed it, it’s a secret, no one knows, just her, me, and us.

My girl, better now, taken care of and her duty is done. She comes back, takes her seat, across the table, across from me. “Feel better?” she asks, a coy, smart smile hidden just for me. Yes I do. Yes I fucking do. This girl, so beautiful and sexy and so fucking smart, so wonderful and awesome and by God, she can make me wait as long as she wants, because she is worth it, she will be worth it. This girl is special; she is the one.