It was late in the evening when we stumbled breathlessly into my apartment; the only illumination was the yellow burn of the streetlights streaming in through the half-pulled shades. The party had been a dud at best, and it took a dramatic downhill plunge when Daryl drunkenly sloshed his beer across the front of my shirt (which I took as an indication it was past time to go home).

"Make yourself comfortable," I told him, "I'm gonna rinse this beer off."

I left him in the living room and made a beeline for the shower. I shed the tight, lacy top and the jeans I'd been wearing, wrapped my hair up in a bun and stepped into the shower. The warm water felt amazing as I washed off the day: a long day at the office should never be complemented by a night out with your coworkers. I could have stood there for an hour, letting the warm water pound the knots out of my neck and back. But he was waiting for me, and a good hostess never keeps her guests waiting. I stepped reluctantly out of the shower and dried myself with a fluffy towel. I cracked the bathroom door- damn, I forgot to close the door to the bedroom. I wrapped the towel around me and crept out into my joining bedroom, closing the door as silently as I could. Phillip and I had become close friends, but we weren't close enough for me to be walking around in the buff. I let the towel fall to the floor and I stood nude in front of my vanity mirror. I shook my long hair out of the bun it had been trapped in and tousled it across my shoulders. It still looked great, bedhead sexy and feminine. I grabbed a cleansing wipe and gently sponged off my makeup. I donned a simple black cotton bra, matching panties, a grey boat-neck 3/4 sleeve sweatshirt (which made my neck look impossibly long and graceful), and white cotton shorts that offset my deep tan beautifully. I wandered back into the dark living room where I found him watching the Blue Planet dvd we had started last weekend. I sank into the couch next to him and he put his long arm around my shoulder.

He was older than me. His swarthy good looks had caused me to fall for him ages ago. In time, we became fast friends and nothing more, a convenient party date or drinking buddy or just somebody to watch a movie with when I felt very alone in my apartment. He was olive-skinned with dark brown eyes that melted me and his long brown hair made me ache to run my fingers through it. And his voice: oh, his voice. Deep and smokey, I loved the way my name sounded as it rolled off his tongue. Every time he spoke, my insides began to awaken.

I felt good tonight, and I could tell he did too. He sighed contentedly and absently stroked my shoulder with his fingertips. I felt warm and clean and comfortable snuggled against his heat and I leaned my head against his shoulder. For a long time, neither of us spoke. We were lulled into placidity by Sigourney Weaver's throaty voice and the calm blue waters she was narrating.

I suddenly felt his eyes on me and I looked up to see him smiling at me.

"What?" I asked uncertainly.

"You look nice when you look normal," he teased.

"Is that so? Well, good for me I guess." I turned back to the TV, where swordfish were darting past each other in flashes of green and silver.

"I like seeing you like this," he continued, "This is the real you."

"How would you know? Maybe the made-up me is the real me."

His eyes crinkled and his smile broadened. "No," he said, "This is the real you."

Then suddenly the hand that had caressed my bare shoulder entwined itself in my hair. The other hand cupped the edge of my jaw, tilting my face into his kiss. His lips pressed against mine firmly, but not roughly. Gently, but not timidly. My heart skipped a beat and a rising heat spread in my chest as I felt myself flush. My shock was so great I forgot to kiss him back, my arms hung limply at my sides and though my mind demanded I pull him to me, my body would not obey.

Just as the sweetness has begun, he broke it off and looked in my eyes with his hand still on my face.

"I've wanted to kiss you for so long," he whispered.

I finally remembered myself and pressed my lips against his with and urgency I had not felt in a long time. His beard and mustache tickled my face as I stroked his silky hair with my hands and traced the muscles of his back. His arms wrapped around me and pulled me down on top of him; we kissed with increasing fervor and I felt my muscles way down below begin to flex as I felt his begin to harden. He moved one hand down to the small of my back and pressed my pelvis into his. I felt the outline of his manhood against my lower belly and I squirmed in anticipation. I wanted to be closer to him. I pulled back a few inches, just enough room for me to grab the bottom of my shirt and pull it over my head. His eyes devoured my tan body and I lowered myself back onto him, grazing my breasts against his chest. His fingers toyed with the waistband of my shorts, sliding in and out of them, tickling my hips and lower back. The need was too strong, the desire too great. I pushed myself off of him, breathless.

"The bedroom," I whispered, and he smiled in agreement.

I climbed off of him and took his hand. I led him into the dimness of my bedroom, our bodies zebraed in the amber and black stripes cast from the blinds.

I had been cruelly seated at the singles table, a move (I had no doubt) that was most consciously and intentionally done by the bride who seemed to think herself a matchmaker of sorts. And now I was at the mercy of several single men I worked with, most of which were mercifully shy, and the rest of whom were cretins. I was sitting with my chin in my hand and poking what was left of my cold food with a fork, pretending to listen to Chris' story about the hunting trip he was about to go on (during which he intended to shoot a grizzly bear), when a hand appeared in front of my face. I looked up and grinned at the amused look on its owner's face.

"May I have this dance?" He asked, smirking.

"It would be my pleasure," I replied gratefully.

I let him help me out of my chair and lead me out onto the dance floor. A slow country ballad had just begun to play, and we moved effortlessly into a easy, waltzy step.

"You looked like you needed saving over there," He teased.

I nodded eagerly, "You came just in time. Where's Sharon?"

"Livvy is sick, she decided to stay home with her."

I had been in love with this man far longer than I wanted to admit. Everything about him tantalized me, from his dry, sarcastic humor to the deep blue of his eyes set evenly in the smooth plane of his face. And now he was leading me across the polished wooden floor looking too handsome in the well cut suit he had on. The gauzy flare of my dress swirled over my knees as we swayed together. I realized we had locked eyes too long, people would be watching (and talking) so I flushed and looked away.

"Where's your date tonight?"

"He had a gig tonight. But I had to come...office politics and all that."

He rolled his eyes in agreement, "Right."

The song changed, but he didn't release me. The tempo was slower; he pulled me a little closer and changed the step to a simple swaying, making it easier to talk.

"You look really nice tonight. It's too bad your man couldn't be here."

I looked him in the eyes expecting a joke hidden there, but he appeared sincere.

"Well thanks, I try." I flashed a mischievous smile, trying to hide how flattered I was by his compliment.

His face was very close to mine. I could feel the faint breeze of his breath on my cheek. I could smell the sensual fragrance of his cologne. One of his huge hands tightened over mind, the other pressed eagerly on the small of my back. I wanted him to kiss me. In fact, I'd never wanted anything more in my entire life. I slid my hand from its perch on his shoulder down to his chest and gently pushed him away.

"Thank you for the dance," I managed to whisper, "I should probably go home now."

I started to pull away, but he didn't budge; he still held me firmly against him.

He looked deep into my eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine. It's late. I need to go," I lied.

His face fell. "Okay. Let me walk you to your car."

I nodded and he let me go. I gathered up my clutch from my table and he followed me into the warm summer night. It was a long, awkward walk to my car. He walked next to me with his hands in his pockets looking distant and frustrated. He finally looked at me.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asked

"No."

"Then what was that all about?"

We reached my car and I dug my keys out of my bag. As I turned to unlock the door, my hand stopped in midair and I turned to face him.

"You know what you were doing."

His face changed, he looked like I had slapped him.

"I-I'm sorry. I thought we were having a good time."

I closed my eyes pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers. This man was giving me a migraine.

"We were," I replied, "It's just that-"

And before I could finish, his mouth was on mine. My hands fell to my sides and I gave in to his kiss, letting him push me against my car and press his body against me. He kissed me deeply and well, with such passion I couldn't help but feel that he had been feeling similar longings for me.

We sat in darkness, our faces illuminated by the television........


His kiss was a question, gentle and imploring on my lips, and though I received it willingly, I did not answer. His lips brushed my own like a feather floating in summer air, one I could swat away with the back of my hand had I not enjoyed the sensation so thoroughly. His hand found the back of my head and his slender fingers entwined themselves in my silky hair. He parted his lips as he pulled me into him, his mouth now making love to my own instead of flitting across it like a smooth stone across still, glassy water. I because lost in the tranquility of this moment, and I no longer existed. My body disappeared and was reborn as that kiss, as pure and sweet as fog still clinging to high grass in the dim glow of early morning. His tongue entered mine and toyed with my own playfully, luring it into his. I tilted my head up into his embrace and opened myself to the kiss that was flowing smoothly in to a smoulder which would very soon burn off the timid mist that hung around us. Sitting beside him on the couch, my hands stayed on my lap and behaved themselves, for I knew his passions would be ignited if I should reach up and coil my arms around him and his persistence might render me powerless to deny the longings of my loins.

But despite my chaste fingers, he leaned against me and pressed me down into the soft, cool leather, and it enveloped my body obligingly. The weight of his hips pressing down on mine planted me in the smooth brown material, and I wondered what sort of flower might bloom from this endeavor. One hand still rippled through my hair, which was now cascading over the cushions in a wild halo, the other was behind the small of my back, lifting me into his body against the bulge of his manhood. That hand left my back and began to explore the rest of me, grazing over the flat of my belly, the valleys of my ribcage, and ever so briefly fluttering over my breast where my nipple stood at attention at its peak. I believe this had been accidental on his part, but once he felt my arousal, his hand returned and slid gently over the hard little point that had caught his attention. He cupped and massaged my breast and circled his thumb over the nipple until I thought I would cry out in pleasure. But I did not make a sound, nor did I allow my body to betray me, save for my nipples. I continued to kiss him deeply and gently, but I made no move to undress him or pull him in harder and closer.

His hand trailed down and found the bottom hem of my shirt, and in one swift motion had pulled it off over my head, revealing only my thin bra. Fingers trembling, he moved the cotton aside and exposed my ivory breasts and small pink nipples he had so maliciously teased.

Fury, jealousy, and malcontent: my unbridled rage against myself. Hack and slash to the rawest, realest parts of me; expose them. Far past apathy or indifference to a place where comparisons do not exist. There is only me now, and everyone else, but we simply exist. There is no "right and wrong" as far as societal decency goes, we just ARE. And sociopath that I am, I believe I am more enlightened than the rest.

I live my life with excellence. Everything I do, I do excellently. I excel at everything I attempt. There are no half-assed efforts anymore, there is only a vying for EXCELLENCE. There is no such thing as perfection. I do not believe in perfection, but I believe in excellence with a force that shakes me to my soul. Perfection isn't raw, it is measured and precise. The jagged edges are sanded off and the leftovers cast aside. Excellence is something completely different. No effort is wasted, no point in trying to fit the mold. Even if it's rough and unfinished, it is done to the very furthest extent that it could be done. Excellence simply reveals what you are capable of instead of hiding your aces in "perfection". Perfection is a mask we hide behind that implies we could do more, but we polish ourselves down to achieve a predetermined standard. Excellence is so much more! It's revealing every possibility, and when you are excellent, no judgement matters anymore. Report back whatever you want, say what you please, this is EXCELLENCE. Your opinion is irrelevant.

How can a man so heartily wrong for me make me want him so much? My waking hours are consumed with thoughts of him; his silence intrigues me. Does he think of me or does he wish to forget? Only time will tell, and in a few months I will try to snare him again. Let's hope he still thinks with his penis.






After several months of chiseling away at the old me, I finally emerged a gleaming new version of myself and I was ready for another crack at him.

I set a date to meet a friend for a lunch date and a drink, and I hoped above anything I'd ever hoped for that he'd be there. I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and caught a glimpse of his face, flush, but he doesn't see me. My companion wasn't due for a few more minutes, so I opt to wait for her at the bar where I can show him how good the time had been to me.

I slid my skinny little ass up onto the bar stool and wait to be served. His eyes met mine without recognition until I smiled and said, "Well hello there, stranger."

He peered closer at me, "Chelsea?" Then a goofy grin filled his slender face and he walked around the bar to hug me. I let his arms wrap tightly around my slight frame and felt his his lips graze my hair. I surrendered to the goosebumps; he still does it to me. I knew I looked incredible, but the old doubt and poor self image made me shirk a little.

We spent the next quarter hour shooting the shit, catching up, then my friend walked in right on cue and I excused myself to join her. But not before suggesting he give me a call for a drink sometime. I spent the next hour ignoring him, but waved flirtatiously when we left and hoped beyond hope he'd call.