Standard Disclaimer – If I owned Dragonball Z, there'd be sex. And lots of
it.
Prey
Chapter Two Touching the Void
I saw him again.
Through a window.
I was working.
I had called the number left on the card millions of times in my dreams. I came up with funny, sultry, honest, and forward things to say should I get his answering machine. I knew I'd freeze if I spoke to him. It's so silly, when I think about it. Here I am, one of the most forward people I know, and I get shy when some guy has a pretty face.
When you need something said, you come to me; I say it. To whoever you want me to say it to. I know I have a big mouth. Some of my friends call it endearing. They know I'll say whatever it is that's on my mind, and they don't cry over it. I guess it's that honesty that makes my friendships so few and far between. I guess it's that honesty that makes the ones I have so much closer.
But I managed to call him once. It rang, and it rang. I saw so caught up on what I would say, I never noticed that it rang for almost a minute. I felt incredibly foolish and hung up, wondering why the Hell I bothered in the first place. This is where I mentally cut myself down in the worst kinds of ways. I'm loud and I'm obnoxious. I guess I'm pretty. I wouldn't say I was drop dead anything. Okay, I know I'm better than average. Whatever you want to call it. I'm confident enough in myself. But I'm picky. I'm finicky. Hell, I'm female. I'm moody. I'm prone to violence. I'm defensive. I'm opinionated. My tummy's flabby. Maybe my breath smelled bad when I told him my name.
I spent the next twenty minutes creating thousands of reasons why someone like him, like him, wouldn't be bothered with a girl like me. Then I thought, what? I don't even know him! I'm basing this entirely upon some physical attraction! That meant nothing! ...didn't it? I felt guilty. I'm the kind of girl who can honestly say she can look beyond the surface. But the surface of this guy was so damned pretty, I couldn't help but be swallowed whole! Can I be blamed? Can I possibly be blamed by being so attracted to his physical appeal? If he turns out to be a nice guy, what's the harm, right? Bonus material. Nice guy who looks better than Brad Pitt. My guilt was starting to turn into pleasure.
I wonder what he looks like naked.
I wonder what he looks like in candlelight.
I wonder what he looks like with my legs draped over his shoulders.
He was my obsession for days. A week, even. Every waking breath was devoted to the wondering of this stranger who reeked of macho masculinity. I would damn my dreams for not envisioning him, his lips, his kisses. He simply oozed sex appeal. A raw, fresh sore, that was just begging to be scratched.
My hope was beginning to die. Like a candle stuck in a bell jar, it was dwindling fast, having burned up the fuel. I had dreamt up steamy trysts and romantic getaways, and now I was stuck with the cold hard fact of reality: he is never going to show up in my life again. My dreams became fewer and fewer, the degrees turned down a few notches (as if frigid counted as a 'few notches'). My fantasies of consummating my deepest passions became erotic simply by seeing him again. How hot is that? Oh my god, he waved at me! And I just... I just melted!
Then he showed up again.
And my body turned on the overdrive. I remember looking up from the table, my smile still stupidly plastered to my face, when my eyes met his. He was staring at me through the window and I forgot where I was. My mouth dropped open, hand releasing the printed copy of a customer receipt. I was suddenly the sexiest woman alive and wearing next to nothing, my hair a curly mass that reached by butt. He was my hero, my savior, my knight in shining armor. The nag of my customer shattered my dream and shut my mouth.
I looked down to apologize, and after doing so found him gone. I wandered through the restaurant, thinking maybe he had stepped into the bathroom or sat at the bar. No. No, he wasn't. He was gone.
Had I dreamed it? He was my fantasy personified. He was every carnal desire, every hope and wish, every lost tear and every drop of blood. He personified my pain. But he was unobtainable. And because of that, I wanted him more. It was perverse, I thought. How else would my pain be? I cannot have it, for then it would stop hurting. I couldn't help but wonder if I had dreamed it. Knowing how I had often felt his breath on my neck, hands upon my hips, all in my visions, why wouldn't I recreate him whole and before me? Or was he teasing me?
My childish side rejoiced. He remembered me! He sought me out! But my mature side parried menacingly. He knows where you work. He probably knows where you live. Oh god. He knows!
I finished my side work in a hurry and left work in a storm of emotions. He knows where I live! Maybe! It's not for sure! But if he knows where I work, what else does he know about me?
A/N – Touching the Void is the title of a movie of two climbers who make the impossible happen. A true story. Watch it, cringe, and be very afraid.
Prey
Chapter Two Touching the Void
I saw him again.
Through a window.
I was working.
I had called the number left on the card millions of times in my dreams. I came up with funny, sultry, honest, and forward things to say should I get his answering machine. I knew I'd freeze if I spoke to him. It's so silly, when I think about it. Here I am, one of the most forward people I know, and I get shy when some guy has a pretty face.
When you need something said, you come to me; I say it. To whoever you want me to say it to. I know I have a big mouth. Some of my friends call it endearing. They know I'll say whatever it is that's on my mind, and they don't cry over it. I guess it's that honesty that makes my friendships so few and far between. I guess it's that honesty that makes the ones I have so much closer.
But I managed to call him once. It rang, and it rang. I saw so caught up on what I would say, I never noticed that it rang for almost a minute. I felt incredibly foolish and hung up, wondering why the Hell I bothered in the first place. This is where I mentally cut myself down in the worst kinds of ways. I'm loud and I'm obnoxious. I guess I'm pretty. I wouldn't say I was drop dead anything. Okay, I know I'm better than average. Whatever you want to call it. I'm confident enough in myself. But I'm picky. I'm finicky. Hell, I'm female. I'm moody. I'm prone to violence. I'm defensive. I'm opinionated. My tummy's flabby. Maybe my breath smelled bad when I told him my name.
I spent the next twenty minutes creating thousands of reasons why someone like him, like him, wouldn't be bothered with a girl like me. Then I thought, what? I don't even know him! I'm basing this entirely upon some physical attraction! That meant nothing! ...didn't it? I felt guilty. I'm the kind of girl who can honestly say she can look beyond the surface. But the surface of this guy was so damned pretty, I couldn't help but be swallowed whole! Can I be blamed? Can I possibly be blamed by being so attracted to his physical appeal? If he turns out to be a nice guy, what's the harm, right? Bonus material. Nice guy who looks better than Brad Pitt. My guilt was starting to turn into pleasure.
I wonder what he looks like naked.
I wonder what he looks like in candlelight.
I wonder what he looks like with my legs draped over his shoulders.
He was my obsession for days. A week, even. Every waking breath was devoted to the wondering of this stranger who reeked of macho masculinity. I would damn my dreams for not envisioning him, his lips, his kisses. He simply oozed sex appeal. A raw, fresh sore, that was just begging to be scratched.
My hope was beginning to die. Like a candle stuck in a bell jar, it was dwindling fast, having burned up the fuel. I had dreamt up steamy trysts and romantic getaways, and now I was stuck with the cold hard fact of reality: he is never going to show up in my life again. My dreams became fewer and fewer, the degrees turned down a few notches (as if frigid counted as a 'few notches'). My fantasies of consummating my deepest passions became erotic simply by seeing him again. How hot is that? Oh my god, he waved at me! And I just... I just melted!
Then he showed up again.
And my body turned on the overdrive. I remember looking up from the table, my smile still stupidly plastered to my face, when my eyes met his. He was staring at me through the window and I forgot where I was. My mouth dropped open, hand releasing the printed copy of a customer receipt. I was suddenly the sexiest woman alive and wearing next to nothing, my hair a curly mass that reached by butt. He was my hero, my savior, my knight in shining armor. The nag of my customer shattered my dream and shut my mouth.
I looked down to apologize, and after doing so found him gone. I wandered through the restaurant, thinking maybe he had stepped into the bathroom or sat at the bar. No. No, he wasn't. He was gone.
Had I dreamed it? He was my fantasy personified. He was every carnal desire, every hope and wish, every lost tear and every drop of blood. He personified my pain. But he was unobtainable. And because of that, I wanted him more. It was perverse, I thought. How else would my pain be? I cannot have it, for then it would stop hurting. I couldn't help but wonder if I had dreamed it. Knowing how I had often felt his breath on my neck, hands upon my hips, all in my visions, why wouldn't I recreate him whole and before me? Or was he teasing me?
My childish side rejoiced. He remembered me! He sought me out! But my mature side parried menacingly. He knows where you work. He probably knows where you live. Oh god. He knows!
I finished my side work in a hurry and left work in a storm of emotions. He knows where I live! Maybe! It's not for sure! But if he knows where I work, what else does he know about me?
A/N – Touching the Void is the title of a movie of two climbers who make the impossible happen. A true story. Watch it, cringe, and be very afraid.