Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Wanting More

   by Adrian Mailenna



   Val called me his Asian prince, and I never doubted his sincerity.  His
tribute-gifts were black silk sheets, and I would stretch out in them each
night, imagining that their soft caresses were his own, quietly talking to
him, spilling my words to him through the ether, a slow, sensuous seduction
from a thousand miles away.  Later, when I bought toys, to warm the cold
nights, priceless bringers of pleasure in glass and stone and soft, fleshy
silicone, I would share their joys with him, whimpering into the night as I
writhed there, feeling the comfortable fullness and the tiny droplets of
sweat beading their way over my flesh, disappearing into the all-consuming
blackness of the sheets.



   I don't remember how I met him, or when, only that it was very long ago,
and that I had not yet learned the hunger for men.  Somehow we seduced one
another, like heroes of old, two horsemen, each circling the other,
endlessly jealous of the other's smooth, effortless movements, until anger
and fear bled into lust and admiration, and the four became two and the two
became one, just as earth and horse and man and steel once blended into one
seamless force of dangerous beauty.  We talked for hours across the ether,
staving off the loneliness of the world with our desire.  He taught me to
love my body, wiping away my shame at the soft-edged, almost-girlish
curves, and I loved him for it, returning his quiet tribute in bright Kodak
color and regal, epic language, my best imitations of the hot,
just-barely-innocent styles I adored best.



   I dreamed much more, then, still in the quiet, confused beauty of the
late-blooming child, and I often dreamt of him.  I dreamt of his body,
pressed to mine, like a coolie's, strong and somehow controlling in his
submission to my will, and its heat, seeping into my body as I took my
pleasure upon it, so wonderfully hot against the cool night air.  I dreamt
of his skin, smooth and milky against the blackness of the sheets, and in
the hot, bothersome nights of summer, I dreamt of him above me as I
stretched, catlike, on the bed, egging him on with little playful yelps
until his tribute of white, sticky gold had satisfied me.



   He told me that he dreamt, too, told me, once, of the beautiful tomorrow
that might one day come, the day that dreams and truth might come together.
He poured me a thousand dreams of things we’d do together, and I
drank his words eagerly, never feeling so wanted before.  I recorded them,
even, played them to myself at night, when I lay alone and frustrated,
sliding my tongue against the roof of my mouth, yearning for fullness
there, but finding only emptiness.  As the months slid by, the calls became
fewer, and shorter, though no less beautiful, but they blossomed now and
again into their former glory, keeping me ever eager for the next.  They
turned into a year, fading again, and I pushed back against the void,
wanting more, needing more, but it only pulled away from me, an endless
tease that neither let me rest nor brought me satisfaction.



   They were beautiful times, though, and his prince adored his lone
subject, bound in a nut-shell but king of infinite space.  Certainly even
the most learned scholars of the court could never have prophesied his
fall.



   --



   I spent each Saturday afternoon with some friends, in a comfortable
refuge where we could indulge in our wordy playgrounds.  We called it the
the Circle of Scribes, and in it we shared our efforts and our smaller
troubles, enjoying the banter, kinship, and petty little rivalries of the
group.



   I met Henri there, one day, another friendly soul reaching out to
another boy another thousand miles away, close enough for hope but too far
for touch.  We played the ancient game of allusions, teasing each other's
minds from behind a dozen veils, each new story a Chinese puzzle-box,
trying to stump each other or hint at our lovers so far away.  Slowly, we
came to know each other the most intimate way, from the inside out, slowly
peeling away the beautiful words, to the literature beneath, and then the
minds behind that.  I knew his volumes of Dumas before I knew his
fantasies, and he knew the reverent touch of my brush-pen on paper before
he ever felt it on his skin.  He taught me to love the cultured, rolling
accent of his voice, half Cajun French and half New England, before the
low, feline purr of his sleek Yamaha, all glistening blue and chrome,
wicked fast even standing still.  He fell in love, he said, with the images
I caught on paper, long before he loved the ones I caught on film.



   That took time, though, less like two horsemen than like two friends,
lovers in spirit but only barely aware of the seduction that washed unheard
on the edges of our consciousness.  It began, like so many other wonderful
things, as we sat over our pads of paper, he with his signature strong,
fragrant Turkish coffee, I with the thick, creamy milk that relaxed me so
well.  We talked a little, in our teasing, half-flirtatious banter, lapsing
into silence as the urges came.  He had written a story, and a beautiful
one, but also a farewell, a mournful cry over a love still wondrous and
perfect on the surface, but rotted away beneath, now only a gilded shell
over the decaying body of memory and wishes beneath.



   "You're leaving him, then?"



   "Yes.  I'm happy you caught that.  I only hope he will, too."



   "I'm sorry."



   "I'll shed no tears." He was matter-of-fact about it, as though it had
happened long in the past, and it surprised me; he showed none of the
passion I'd seen in his words.



   "It's okay to cry sometimes, you know."



   "My tears ran dry a month ago, B.T., when I knew I had to write this."
He reached out, ruffling my hair beneath his long, elegant fingers, and I
offered him a comforting little smile.  "Sometimes it's important to be
able to touch someone."



   "You don't have to tell me that." It was a weak joke, but he smiled
anyway, and ruffled my hair a little more.  "But it's a beautiful goodbye,
Henri.  He'll hurt, I think, but in the way of poets."



   He got up to leave, crossing his fingers.  "I hope so, B.T.  Wish me
luck." I gave him a nod and turned back to my story.



   ---



   He came over for dinner a few nights later, and we talked of our little
troubles over fish and rice, and the sharp-bodied ice wine that he brought
with him.  His lover was uncaring, worse than uncaring, clueless, never
understanding the depths of the beautiful, perfect requiem sculpted for
their love.



   I'm an easy, friendly drunk, though, and I smile a lot when the alcohol
hits me.  It's not the kind of shy, little smile I usually carry; it's big
and goofy, the kind that makes you want to pull little happy sex-noises
from, the kind, as Henri says, that couldn't look friendlier until it was
wrapped around your cock.  And it's real.  Everyone's my friend when I'm
drunk.  Henri holds his alcohol better, but he's like the ocean, gentle and
seductive in his confidence and muted, irresistible aggression.  He had
never seen my apartment before, and I proudly showed him around, like a
schoolboy, everything he wished to see, never realizing the way he pulled
me deeper into my drunken friendliness, slowly unfolding my life like a
rose before him.  He saw first my battered old Selectric and the small
collection of calligraphy, but slowly, the show-and-tell grew more
intimate, from my cameras to the prints they let me make, then to the
half-finished letters I'd written to Val and the sheets I lay on while I
wrote them.  He even noticed the gentle curves of the toys on my shelf,
half abstract and half obscene, leading me with his questions until I told
him of each one and its smooth, special sensation, deep inside, and the
ways they made me feel.  "There's something really special in a good toy,
something wonderful when you're alone," I told him, licking my lips,
watching innocently as he stalked around me, licking his own.  "It's the
weight and shape of it, I think...  the way it makes you feel warm and full
and wanted, loved and wanting more."



   He was admiring the clear, perfect glass in my hands, I thought, until
he caught me up against the wall in a smooth, fluid motion, swallowing my
words with a kiss.  I'd only kissed girls before, and they kissed as I did,
understated in their gentle passion, inviting the slow wave of desire to
grow as it willed to grow.  Henri's desire was already strong, though, and
his kiss caught me as a wave might catch a shell on the beach, filling my
mouth with its warmth, so deep and powerful that I could only respond.  It
held me captivated as I felt his hand cup my rear, picking me up as his
strong fingers kneaded the flesh through the worn-thin denim.  I felt his
hips through it, too, and the thick hardness that he ground against me. 
"Don't feel wanted, B.T., " he breathed, breaking the kiss.  His eyes
sparkled in the light, like the brilliant sapphire stud in his ear.  "Know
you're wanted.  Be wanted.  Don’t want more.  Get it."



   My breath came deep and ragged as I melted into his embrace, comforted
by his words.  Through the heavy fog of alcohol and excitement, all I could
do was nod, and pull him closer, to begin the kiss anew.



   The moment melted into alcoholic bliss, and the next I knew, we were
clutching at each other, scrambling to pull away the clothes between us,
lost in the tangle of limbs, and he tore my jeans open, hearing the rapid
staccato pops of the button fly.  A hot, desperate longing grew in me,
somewhere deep inside, as he pulled away the denim and the cotton beneath,
making little pleased noises as he exposed the flesh beneath, and gave me a
little kiss, a gentle press of his lips that slid down and opened his mouth
wide as he swallowed me, bathing me in the hot, wet caresses that had
filled my mouth a few moments before, as his eyes glittered up invitingly
at me.



   He brought my legs up, over his shoulders, and gently pulled away from
the kiss, letting the warmth evaporate from my flesh in the cool night air
as he slid up my body, raising my legs with him, until I felt them pressing
against my chest.  Holding me there, helpless beneath him, he ground his
hips insistently to mine, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, just a
faint hiss of pleasure as I squirmed beneath him, lost in the pleasure of
his hands at my rear and his warm, hairless skin, soft and wonderfully
smooth against my own.  "You've never done this before, have you?"



   I shook my head, blushing hotly; for all I'd written and dreamed, I'd
never been touched this way before.  "Only girls," I murmured.



   He laughed gently, lowering his weight onto me, pinning me beneath him
as he slicked himself with lube.  "Time to find out how the boys play,
then."



   I'm afraid I only remember the rest in quick, sudden flashes, like my
body, accepting him so easily, and my screams, sharp-edged with sparks of
beautiful pain and unspeakable delight, and my writhing on my sheets,
jerking every time he thrust into me, threatening to tear me in half with
his thickness.  More than that, though, I remember being a warm little
plaything beneath his hands, and the way he held me tight afterwards,
drifting off to sleep, as though he wanted nothing else so much in the
world.



   ---



   I woke up clear-headed and scared, remembering Val now, and my devotion
to him.  Henri's comforting embrace still held me warmly captive, though,
so I wriggled until he woke up.  "Sleep well, kitten?" he rumbled, letting
his long, elegant fingers stroke against my belly, feeling the hard,
crusted reminders of last night's pleasure.



   Purring despite myself, I settled back down, pulling his arms tighter
around me, and began to tell him my story with Val, of the sheets and the
fantasies and our shared moments on the phone, too far apart to share any
more.  The gentle strokes never ended, playing a slow, soothing rhythm on
my flesh, reassuring me as the words became a crying torrent, babbling out
beyond my control, and I felt my cheeks grow hot in shame against his
chest.



   "It's okay to cry sometimes, B.T.," he soothed.  "You didn't do anything
wrong." He squeezed me close again, and I felt his lips press against my
forehead, as he might have kissed a little brother.  "Sometimes the body
needs what the heart can't have." I made a little face at him as he pulled
the sheets tight around me and slipped out of bed, leaving me to their
seductive caresses.  As I watched his fluid, jungle-cat walk slip
confidently from the room, I realized that they had never felt so
comfortably warm before.



   I slipped into the shower as he toweled off.  The air was thick with
steam and faintly spiced with Henri's cologne, and I breathed deeply of it
as the deliciously hot water washed away the sweat and guilt from the night
before, leaving only the dull, satisfied pain and tenderness of a body
wracked by pleasure.  My fingers began to wander as I slumped against the
tile wall, exploring the sweet, sensitive places where he had gone before,
and I felt a low, moaning purr escape my throat as the night came surging
back to meet me, a flush of sweet, adoring pleasure cloaked in the ethereal
fog of alcohol.



   The sweet smell of fresh strawberries and crackling batter filled the
kitchen by the time I broke my reverie and wandered out, wrapping myself in
a soft robe.  Henri greeted me with a hug, slipping an arm around my waist
to hold me close against his side.  "I don't know what you like for
breakfast," he shrugged, "so I decided to make some crepes."



   His hands were an artist's, I noticed, or perhaps a surgeon's, slim,
long-fingered, and elegant, his touch an effortless seduction of reality,
light enough to fold the papery-thin pancakes without tearing them, but
strong enough to melt on the curve of my body, as though it belonged there,
bundling me into his lap as we began to eat.  The crepes were wonderful,
such a perfect, beautiful pleasure that I could have sworn them sinful,
melting seductively from clean, crisp simplicity into the thick, pure
sweetness of the strawberries and chocolate hidden within, catching me in
some half-expected, half-surprised pleasure, and I found myself settling
comfortably into Henri's lap, too happily satisfied to move.



   He wanted to cuddle more, to savor the way I fit against him, and deep
inside I wished the same, but he must have felt my unease.  "I'll go now,
and give you some thinking time," he whispered, gently helping me to my
feet, and kissed away a little trace of syrup at the corner of my mouth. 
"Take care, okay?"



   Hours later, I found myself sitting under a lemon tree in the park,
dialing Val's number, over and over, hearing his phone ring, hoping to
reach him, but he never answered.  I ate alone that night, taking no
pleasure in my food, and curled fast asleep, wrapping the sheets tightly
around myself, as though their embrace could pull away the emptiness I felt
within.  Morning felt little better, so I reached once more for the phone,
hoping to find some answers to the questions I felt.  Val answered, this
time, but only a few words passed before he left me to the quiet company of
my thoughts.  Henri's answer came as a knocking at my door, a few gentle,
persistent taps that stirred up memories of the hands that made them.



   He'd come, he said, out of worry; I hadn't joined the Circle the day
before, as I always had before.  The sheaf of papers in his hand lent some
truth to it, so I invited him in and began to read, chatting idly with him
as the pages fluttered beneath my fingers.  I turned to his, almost
unconsciously, hunting through it for the notes I knew it hid.  His story
told of a frontiersman, one of those big American heroes of legend, a man
who wandered a thousand miles in search of treasure, only to find the
wealth he sought in the town he once called home.



   How long he sat there I still don't know, but he let me think of what
I'd read, knowing full well the turnings within my mind, and the troubled
feelings within my heart, so he waited patiently, putting his arm around my
shoulders.  "Still the world turns, B.T.," he murmured, eventually.  "You
can't dwell on it forever." I wanted to protest; a day was not forever,
after all.  I don't think he expected a response, though, and one never
came.  Already he was pulling the warm, comfortable leather of his jacket
over my shoulders and fastening a helmet under my chin.  He lifted my gaze
up, made a few adjustments, and kissed me between the eyes.  "Come on,
kitten.  Let's go places."



   I rested against his back for a while, as we drifted through the city on
his Yamaha, watching the endless parade of street life.  He smelled of New
England oak in the warm spring rain and fresh, black pepper, of motor oil
and sweet incense, and I held myself closer, intoxicated with the smell and
feel and wonder of him, before I remembered myself, loosening my grip once
more.  I wasn't ready to go there yet.



   When lunchtime came, we found a comic faire, stretched out over a few
awning-covered blocks of street, and decided to spend the day there,
milling through the stacks of robots and Nazis, sweet, sexy schoolgirls and
schoolboys, their little romances, and the slimy tentacle-things that tried
to tear them all apart.  The smell of yakitori filled the air, and we
wandered together, chewing on the pieces of hot, tender chicken.  We
watched costumed dog-boys fall flat on their faces, arch-enemies shouting
epithets at each other from across the streets, and legions of different
skirt-chasers slapped silly by dozens of pretty girls, all in the fun,
affectionate spirit of the day.  I even found a new friend in one of them,
a tall, svelte catgirl with a wonderfully bent view of the world that I
found hard to resist.  She noticed a book of Hokusai prints that caught
Henri's eye, so I bought it for him, despite his protests, and he bought me
a soft hat with furry kitty-ears, in spite of mine.



   Jen bought a big, gleaming black rubber tentacle and chased us with it,
just for fun.



   --



   After the vendors had closed, one by one, and the crowds had begun to
break apart, spiraling off into the night, we found a little French
restaurant nearby, the end to our quest for dinner.  There was no menu, the
waiter explained, only a few questions, and the chef would make what he
felt we would most enjoy.  It seemed strange to us, but we played along,
letting him scrawl notes on our tastes, and he left for the kitchen a few
moments later.  The chef made me a beautiful Trout Amandine, with golden
slivers of almond over the crisped golden fish, and Henri found a lightly
browned rabbit beneath a silver cover, carefully glazed with a delicate
brandy sauce that drew quiet praise from the waiter, as he left us to our
food.  It seemed a crime to mar his art, but in the end, we ate in reverent
silence, watching each other through the candlelight.



   When the last roll was eaten, and the last bone picked clean, our waiter
returned to offer us our final drinks, and a bill for the evening's fare.
Henri took a glass of aged Bourbon whiskey, but I remembered too well the
fruits of our last drinks together, and drank only Pellegrino.  He saw my
hesitation, I think, and his whiskey sat untouched.



   We wandered a little more in the labyrinths of the city, stopping now
and then to feed quarters into the loud, flashing machines that we found,
shouting our obscenities at the endless digital zombies and a thousand
glittering balls of polished chrome.  Perhaps we were too loud, too
indulgent of our whims, but also we were too caught up in simple, innocent
fun to care.  In time, the arcades closed as the bright city lights began
to dim, and the Yamaha carried us home.



   --



   The morning sun found me tucked neatly into bed, sleeping happily
despite its warm insistence.  I wore my pajamas, and I found my clothes
neatly folded on the chair nearby, but I could not remember undressing, or
even reaching home, only feeling the warm, soft leather of Henri's jacket
against my cheek, and the low, rumbling purr of the engine beneath us.  It
was a pleasant memory, and I stayed there for a while, watching the
sunbeams play against my pillow, before I rose to meet the day.



   It went slowly, with the horrible creeping pace of uncertainty, and many
times, I wanted to find Henri or call Val, and beat against a door, or
scream across the ether, until I found the truth behind my jumbled mess of
feelings.  Eventually I found myself sprawled beneath the lemon tree once
more, numbly scrawling away at my little pad of paper as I ate at take-away
curry beneath its spreading branches.  I called Val, then, losing myself as
he told me his secret dreams of pleasure, and we talked for an hour, as
beautifully as we ever had before, but then he had to go, before I could
speak of my indiscretions.  The wind ran cold soon after, even through the
curry's fire, leaving me miserable and alone on the hill as it blew
flower-petals from the gardens below across the setting sun.



   My sheets felt colder that night than they ever had before.



   --



   A few days passed, and life fell once more into familiar routine, much
as it had gone before.  I ate only mechanically, when I was hungry, as my
food lost its taste, and my playthings gathered dust on the shelves,
unused, as they ceased to bring me pleasure.  Still I wrote, though, still
I felt the keys against my fingertips in their beautiful, clicking rhythm,
reaching within, into the dark and secret places from which my passions
grew, but now the words came with voices and feelings I barely felt were
mine.  It scared me, a little, and I pulled away, bottling them up until
they became too much to bear, and the words came bursting out, time and
time again, pouring onto the paper as fire and tears that I could barely
hold within.



   It felt horrible, like beating myself endlessly for things beyond my
control, and it felt beautiful, like touching the fundamental act of
creation, like riding an unbelievable surge of energy that I had never
dreamed possible.  It became a drug, an addiction, and I let it eat of me
as I ate of it, pushing myself harder, faster, through the pain and silence
into the golden light beyond.



   Three weeks passed before Henri noticed, three weeks before the nights
of broken sleep began to show, three weeks before my fingers began to
twitch as they sat above the keys.  He walked me home, as was his way, and
bought me an icy little mint-drink, letting the cool crème de menthe caress
my aching brain.  "You need to relax, B.T.," he said, his arm around my
shoulders.  "You're all tense, like a spring wound too far.  Hold it like
that, and it'll snap you."



   I didn't really want to talk about it, though, and just sipped quietly
at my drink as he walked up to my apartment beside me.  I'd let it break
into a mess since he'd last come, with scraps of paper and oily, half-empty
boxes of take-out food stacked wherever I could find the space.  My bed was
a mess, even, littered with bits of writing and a mess of sheets bundled
tight where I'd cocooned myself the night before.



   "You aren't sleeping so well, are you, B.T.?"



   "Henri...  I don't really want to talk about it."



   He left at that, but came back later with a thick, soft quilt, deep blue
and embroidered in silver, and bundled me up into its warm, fluffy folds.
"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, at least you can sleep better."



   I made myself a little hood and glared out at him from under it, but he
only laughed.  "Admit you like it, and I'll go away," he said, looking so
contrite that it delighted me, and I leaned out to kiss him on the nose. 
He made a little face at me, and a playful, mraa-ing noise, like a cat, and
the moment erupted into frantic, playful wrestling, all ticklish laughter
and blanket-wrapped scrambling away from his grasp as he chased me around
the floor.



   I lost, of course; Henri's bigger and stronger, and being wrapped in a
blanket is no way to wrestle.  So I lay there as he settled above me,
keeping me pinned in a cloud of soft, happy warmth.  He smiled that faint,
satisfied smile, and leaned forward to return the kiss I'd given him.



   "Do you treat all your friends like this?"



   "Nah.  You're just adorable."



   I glared at him again.  "You want something, don't you?"



   "Yes, but I'm not telling."



   I huffed and thrashed against him again, trying to wrestle my way to the
top, but that didn't work any better than the last time.  "I wanna know!"



   Henri laughed, ruffling my hair, and slid his arm into the blanket,
beneath my clothes, splaying his hand flat against the small of my back as
he leaned in and whispered his secret.  "What do I want, kitten?  I want
you.  I want to cuddle up and fuck you to sleep at night.  I want to hold
you, like this, and know, 'He belongs to me, and I to him, and that is all
that matters in the world.' I want to hear you begging for me, and the
unspeakably wonderful things I'll do to you.  I want to hear your words and
see your pictures and know, 'He made those for me.' More than that, though,
I want to love you without guilt, and have you of your own will, not
because we're drunk, or because I want you.  You're with Val, I know, but I
can wait.  You're worth waiting for."



   As I lay there, stunned, he kissed me on the cheek and stood.



   "Careful what you wish for."



   I was still thinking it over, half excited, half afraid, when I heard
the door click shut behind him.



   --



   I don't know how long I lay there before I drifted off to sleep, still
buried in the thick mess of quilt, but the morning sun found me snuggled up
inside, and I had to wriggle my way out, so tightly had I wrapped it around
myself.  It was wonderful, though, I admit, soft and cocoony, and I
shivered as the cold morning air slipped in around my legs.



   I shivered for other reasons, too, even as I found my way into the
shower, even as I turned it up as high as I could stand it.  The water
cleansed away the worry and frustration, as it had so many times before,
and the air grew heavy with steam.  It filled my lungs and sapped my
strength away, until I could barely stand, and I crumbled, kneeling against
the cold, unyielding smoothness of tile and glass.  Weak, then, as much in
my body as I felt in my heart, I crawled out, into bed, lying wet and naked
on the tangled mess of sheets and quilt, and lost myself in thought,
staring up through the skylight at clouds that went drifting by.



   Morning gave way to afternoon, and the sun stabbed into my eyes before I
rose again to dress.  Hungry now I wandered out, in search of the dull
happiness that came with food, and bought a big bowl of sweet eel and
fragrant jasmine rice.  Henri found me eating beneath the lemon tree,
watching its blossoms float away, one by one, on the breeze.  He stood
there for a moment before he joined me, eating his own meal in silence, as
if he understood my confusion, and wished to comfort me, but not to disturb
my thoughts.



   Jen wandered by, a little later, and dragged us off to distract
ourselves.  The bookstores entertained us for hours, one after another,
letting us browse through a hundred beautiful tales, but she wanted
something else, and we followed her through the shopping centers, watching
as she wandered from one store to the next, trying a hundred different
looks, a hundred transformations of the same irrepressible girl.  I made
one myself, in the end, after Henri joined her in egging me on.  They
helped me dye long, bright streaks of racing blue into my bangs, and we
ended the afternoon sprawled across Henri's couch, cheering at Kurosawa
heroes until the sky turned red with the setting sun.



   I'm not sure, anymore, about what I thought as I walked home, talking
things over with Jen.  I don't even remember what she said about it.  There
are times in life when you don't have to think, really; something just
takes you, deep inside, with a certainty so perfect, almost crystalline,
that there's nothing to do but put your chips on the line and hope for the
best.



   When I got home, though, I just stopped and stared at the phone for a
while.  I didn't want to do it.  I think I knew how it would end, and I
feared the realization.  Denial is comfortable, sometimes, and it hurts to
feel it break.  But sometimes, you know that things have to get worse,
before they'll get better, so you push yourself against the pain, cut
yourself on its edges before you can heal, and I think I knew that, too.



   I took a deep breath and called Val.



   He answered on the third ring.  "Hello?"



   "Hello, Val."



   "Ah, my Prince.  How're you?"



   "Not so good." I paused for a moment, not wanting to go through with it.
I swallowed hard and pushed further into the hurt.  "Listen, can I ask you
some things?  It's really important."



   He seemed to think about that, at least for a few seconds.  "Uhm…
listen, B.T., I'm really busy today.  I'll call you back tomorrow, okay? 
Promise."



   I curled a little tighter into myself, trying not to cry, trying to
accept his words for what they sounded like.  "Okay, tomorrow.  You
promise, right?  I really need to know."



   "Yes, B.T.  Take care."



   Click.



   --



   That night, I took a bath, as hot as I could stand it.  It cradled me
gently, lulling me down into blissful slumber, where even my worries could
not reach me.  I hadn't slept so peacefully in a month, maybe more, I
remember, and I felt good, cleansed, pure, as I crawled out of the bath in
the morning.  I dried myself and curled up in my sheets, holding tightly to
them as I watched the telephone.  Over and over again, I played recordings
of his voice, promises he’d made and sweet things he’d said,
like sacred mantras that might hold off the silence, until the tape broke
and left me to my loneliness.



   Val never called.



   --



   I didn't sleep that night, just stared at the phone in denial and pain,
until the sun began to rise anew, and I could deny the silence no longer. I
cried as I stripped the sheets from my bed, and washed them.  I cried a
little more as I folded them and wrapped them in tissue paper, and I choked
back the tears as I boxed them away and walked to the post office, sending
them back to the man who had given them to me.  And so the prince became a
kitten, signing away his kingdom for a warm blanket and a caring heart.



   Henri filled the void, in his graceful, confident way, so easily that I
might never have noticed, had I not wanted that comfort so badly.  The
first day, he only held me, held me for hours, safe and warm in his arms,
letting me stain his shirt with tears as he whispered his sweet words to
me. He fed me, brought me rice and fish and warm, creamy milk, and he
soothed me to sleep at night, leaving me tucked into the soft, beautiful
quilt he'd brought me, or letting me sleep cuddled tight against his chest.
For days, he never left my side, my rock, my pillar of safety against the
frustration that a year of emptiness had built and only now let loose to
torment me.



   The flood abated, in time, and I learned to walk again, wandering out
into the world, still clutching tightly to his side, as he guided me with
the arm across my shoulders, and the hand at the curve of my waist.  I
learned to see again, too, as each simple pleasure returned, like a
long-lost friend I thought I'd never see again, and somehow, Henri kept
them gentle, let me grow into them once more, made them sweeter than I'd
remembered.  And slowly, as the time wore on, he let me remember the
reasons I'd pushed myself into the hurt, reminded me of the reasons he'd
felt like even more than my dearest friend.



   It was two weeks before he kissed me.  I wanted it earlier, even asked
for it, and he'd pressed his lips against my cheek, or between my eyes, but
never really kissed me.  He wanted nothing, he said, that came from my
grief, and he kept his promise, to my frustration.  We'd spent the day
indulging in all the things that I'd lost for a month, all the wonderful,
exuberant pleasures, until we staggered back to my apartment in the tiny,
dark hours of the morning.  I was using his lap as a pillow, I remember,
almost ready to sleep admiring the glittering silver tips he'd dyed into my
streaks of blue, when I realized that I was happy again, simply, purely
happy, full of that beautiful contentment that doesn't really need a cause,
so I made purring noises up to him, pulling myself up to rest my cheek
against his jacket, and listen to his heartbeat through the soft leather.



   That's when it happened.  His hand slid up my back, then, pressing me
close, up to my neck, until his fingers curled into my hair, and he leaned
down to press his lips against my own.



   The kiss came like a hot shower, the kind that purifies as much as it
cleans, the kind that restores you with its heat until you want nothing
more in the world, and your back arches against the torrent, coaxed by the
lover you wish were there.  I knew that kiss, I realized; I'd dreamt it a
thousand times before.  I'd dreamt it with the wrong boy, though, the wrong
face and the wrong name, and I'd suffered all for nothing.  That thought
excited me, and I curled against him, pressing him back against the couch
in my desire.  He only held me closer, letting me breathe his scent as a
year of emptiness all poured out at once.  Dreams and life blurred
together, and I grew hungrier, stronger, wanting everything that I'd been
denied.



   He let me lead, this time, only holding me close as I slid my hands
beneath his jacket, beneath his shirt, and peeled the fabric away from his
smooth, perfect skin.  I helped him pull my shirt off, over my head, and
pushed hard against the heat and the pleasure of his kiss, washing away my
doubt and guilt in the strong, enveloping embrace of naked skin, until I
felt his pants tighten and press insistently against my side.  Only then
did I stop for breath, panting heavily with him as I slid my hand down his
chest, to set him free.



   His hand slid down my back, resting at my waist.  "You're sure you want
this, Kitten?"



   I curled my hand around him, feeling the soft, silken flesh, and my
fingers only barely met, sending a hot shiver down my spine.  "For a year
now I've wanted it," I breathed, knowing it in that deep, instinctual way.
"But I was looking too far away."



   The phone took that instant to ring, shattering the moment, and we
looked guiltily at each other, like schoolboys caught in some forbidden
moment.  I lowered myself gently, sprawling across his lap, and wriggled
forward, trying to answer it.  I tried even harder to ignore the hot,
insistent hardness of his body, pressing against my belly.  Henri swatted
my rear impatiently, just hard enough to sting.  I made a little face up at
him, and he smiled, in his predatory, teasing way, but didn't do it again.



   "Hello?" Henri's fingertips played against my spine, like a wave rolling
back and forth from the blades of my shoulders to the small of my back.  I
squirmed obligingly, tracing him along the long, gentle curves of my belly,
and felt him sigh happily.  So much for ignoring it.  So much for caring.
It felt good.  Being his plaything was even more fun sober, and I wondered,
now, why I'd waited so long.



   "Hello, B.T.  I'm calling now.  You needed to ask me something?"



   "Oh, hi, Val." The name brought a frown to Henri's lips, but I pouted up
at him, and it melted into a smile.  I felt him slide my pants past the
curve of my hips, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling when he
began to tease.  "That was two weeks ago, you know."



   That didn't seem to faze him.  "You sound happier."



   "I am." Henri brought the phone’s cradle over to me as he
continued to tease, pulling his hand gently away.  I offered him a little
smile, pressing back obediently.  "A lot happier."



   "That's good, then.  Sorry for keeping you waiting.  So, what did you
need to ask?"



   "It's okay, Val.  I'm better now." Henri's hand patted me, letting me
stop, crouched on my knees beside him, like a cat, and I rested my head in
his lap, taking my revenge with my breath, long and deep, warm against his
sensitive skin.  He glared playfully down at me, as if threatening a
thousand wonderfully dire consequences.  "You got my package?"



   "Yeah...  I don't get it."



   "No, Val, and I'm sorry for that." I rested my cheek on Henri's leg,
remembering the sadness, and tried to shrink into myself.  Even perfect
truth hurts, sometimes.  "That's why I sent them back.  You don't get it.
You never did." I hung up.  The click sounded like a guillotine blade
coming down on that chapter of my life, cold, hard, and final.



   Henri patted comfortingly at my shoulders.  "If you want to stop, B.T.,
I understand."



   I lay there in silence, thinking it over, and a sudden chill washed over
me, turned away by the warm touch of Henri's hand against my skin.  "No,
Henri." I traced my lips with my tongue, almost unsure of the words.  "I'll
shed no tears.  I've cried them all." I reached out, absently caressing his
side.  "He didn't get it.  He never got it."



   He only nodded in silence, understanding all too well.



   "But you, you get it." I brought myself up, kissing him in a new,
intimate way, as he'd done to me a month before.  I lingered on it for a
while, stretched my jaws wide around it, just barely bathing him with my
tongue.  "You always got it, right from the start."



   He still does.  -- Copyright 2004 Adrian Mailenna.



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