The book project is moving along nicely.  I’ve sent it back around to those that have already read just to get the signatures as testament.  It will get underway as soon as a major source of my attention clears itself.  She should, by all rights get the first chance - then off to NY.

To my UK request, of course, for you.

… … … … …

I’ve written on everything … right up until the hurricane hit.  It didn’t impact us beyond a little local flooding, and the lake only went up to nestle against the dock a few hundred yards away.    My attention is still divided, however, and that has me pacing and me giving my rosary a finger polish.

Everything will resolve itself, if for no other reason than I’ve willed it to be so.  Let’s just pray I’m right, hm?

And now, our regularly scheduled program begins….

… … … … …

In my not-so-discerning youth I got around.  Hell, I still get around more than I’d ever admit too, but back then, it was…epidemic.  Beauty was all that was required to get into my pants.  Beauty and perhaps a bit of a dark side, or turn to the kinky.

When I was no longer the fat college freshmen, drunk off too much freedom, pizza and beer, it only got worse.  Objectify women?  In spades.  We even went with the usual grading system with a few tossed in peeves that were deal-breakers.

Dirty feet?  Big one for me.  I hate seeing black bottomed feet ( to this day ).  If you are wearing a slip on shoe, I will notice.

Breaker for J?  Body hair.  No all-natural women for him. (Which now-a-days, he certainly doesn’t have to worry about.)

Between us it felt as if we’d run through the East Coast.  When I met Taylor, and later N, that didn’t change, sadly.  N’s loss (for surely Taylor was no loss) forced me to re-evaluate my behavior.  Celibacy, something I hadn’t practiced since I lost my virginity, gave me perspective.

My profession and education gave me the further insight I needed.

I still get around just a little more than I should.  Indeed, my mother has had my wedding planned for years.  However, it’s the mind that snags me first.  Dirty feet excluded, of course.

Aside from the visual, which I appreciate, don’t get me wrong, I look for the mind.  I look for a connection that defies the slots I’d try to place you in during our conversation.  (geek, stupid, professional, whore, etc) The best place to be, actually, is that place between friend and lover - where I’m not quite certain. (Perhaps you can call this just another form of objectification, I don’t know.)

If you fall into bothcategories soundly, you must be N, hm?  Her influence in my life has been substantial.  And while things are not settled between us, and there is much history (good and bad) she still holds rank.

It’s terrible to want things just outside your reach.  It’s painful to wonder if you would damage the image you have of that desire by taking it.

I seem to be digressing into something I don’t want to think about at the moment.  However, the point of this post is to say…

Nothing turns me on better than a hot brain….

(please just don’t have dirty feet)

‘You should go for a run.’ My friend says, after watching me pace, and listening to my announcement of boredom that sounded much like a petulant teenager.

‘I don’t want to go for a run.’ I reply. ‘I’ve already been, besides.’ One by one, the ideas get knocked down. He is quite useful for giving me ideas, when I’m looking for some direction. Usually, I don’t take one of his, but the thought process involved, the ideas he spews, often spawns my own. Today, it hasn’t.

‘I give up. Have you figured out what you want to do, instead of me giving me grief? You’re stressing me out, man.’ He glares at me in accusation and then gets up, tucks the paper under one arm and proceeds out the door, calling out behind him. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours.’

I roll my eyes, standing alone in the living room of my house. I brace my hands on the back of the sofa ahead of me and continue my thinking. A second later, I smile and walk to the phone.

I dial. There is no answer. I don’t bother to leave a message. I click end, and a second later my phone rings. No greeting. I simply say, ‘Are you home today?’

‘I can be, I’m just out running errands.’ She says. ‘I went in yesterday, so they owe me big.’ Her voice lowers. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Uh oh.’

‘Mm. How soon?’

‘Your place, or mine?’

‘Here. You can stay for dinner.’

‘Are you cooking? What’s on the menu?’

‘You at the moment.’

She laughs. ‘Tease.’

Silence falls for a minute as her laughter fades. ‘Hurry.’ I reply.

‘I am, D.’

‘Good. I’ll be waiting for you. Let yourself in.’

‘Your word?’ I say a moment later, just before I hit the endcall button.

‘I need one?’ She says. I don’t answer.

‘Faith.’ She says a second later.

I end the call. I walk to the front door and leave it cracked.

And then I walk upstairs.

…more later.

From way back when…

‘Daemon’

I cringed when I heard my name uttered. She used it without apology, ignoring my preferred measures of address, how my friends called me, and instead opted for formality, in more than words, in tone and voice. I could see her in my head before I even turned and looked at her.

‘Yes?’ I watched her come around the desk, my end-of-term paper, that I had turned in days earlier, in her hand.

‘Do you think this is worthy of an A?’ She tossed it on the desk beside her as she leaned back against it. I ran my gaze down her body and back up. I felt a hand pat my shoulder as one of my friends left with the rest of my class - a small group of only 12. I caught his gaze and he shot me with pistols made from his hands, an adolescent gesture, but still I found myself smiling.

I looked back at her. Her eyes were hidden behind lightly tinted glasses, but I could read the appraising quality of her gaze. I watched her lip quirk at the corner as I turned back, his gesture was not lost upon her. ‘That’s really up to you, isn’t it?’ I glanced at my watch with a smile. I had hours to go before I was needed at my job, but wanted to get back to my dorm.

‘I think you are very arrogant in your presumptions. Haughty, cold.’ She glanced back at the paper on the desk and a lock of curly, brown hair fell forward over her shoulder. ‘Almost as if you look down on your subject matter rather than taking an actual measure of it.’

‘I wasn’t aware objectiveness was being measured.’ I said it flatly.

‘Neutral ground should never be surrendered until you know your footing is sure in other directions.’

‘My conclusions were sound.’

‘I meant your footing with your audience.’

‘You?’ I snorted.

‘Me.’

The sounds in the building were dying off. This was the latest class and ended well into the 9′oclock hour. The campus was slowly dying as we headed into summer. I shifted my foot from one to the other. ‘So you didn’t like it.’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you were arrogant. Almost combative, but decidedly less passionate. Snide.’

‘I stand behind it. I won’t change what I wrote.’ I stared at her and she stared back. When she reached up to take off her glasses, I arched an eyebrow. ‘So what is my grade?’ I smirked. ‘B?’

‘I failed you.’

I reached around her and pulled the paper off of her desk and opened it. I flipped through the pages, looking for red notes, the hand-written paragraphs that would explain her decision. I reached the final page and saw an A circled at the top. Written beside the grade was ‘with reluctance.’

‘Reluctance? What are you playing at?’

‘If you cared about your subject as much as you cared about your grade, the paper would have been extraordinary. They,’ she thumped my paper, ‘need to have some of that passion.’

I stared at her and then, leaning over her, dropped the paper back on the desk. I stepped closer to her, rather than away. She leaned backwards slightly to keep the distance, but my body still caged hers. I dropped my backpack to the floor. She stumbled back slightly as she misstepped in her heels. ‘Passion, huh?’

She nodded her head rapidly. I bent my head to her neck and inhaled sharply before releasing it slowly from my lungs. My hand slid around her waist and pulled her to me, my palm cupped her ass and I ground my cock into her belly. I scraped my teeth across her neck and felt a shudder vibrate down her spine.

Her arms twined around me. I heard the soft gasp of air leave her as my other hand succeeded in pulling up her skirt, pushing it around her waist. The noise came sharper when I cupped her sex and pressed the heel of my palm into her mound - grinding wet folds against her clit.

‘Passion?’

I felt her hand slide down between us, wrap around as much of my cock as she could and squeeze. A moment later my zipper, the buttons were open and my cock was being milked by her hand, my fingers buried in the slick folds of her cunt.

‘Lay back.’ I pushed her hands away from me and tore open the package of the condom. Her greedy fingers returned to roll it on me. Her panties were pushed aside, her hand pulled me forward by my cock and positioned me. I thrust and sank into her with a hot vibration of pleasure. Her bare legs wrapped around me, her ankles crossed, her heels resting against my ass.

And there, amid the empty desks of the hall, in the silence of the building, I fucked my English professor. My cock slid from her only to be pushed back in by the roll of my hips or the demands of her legs. I shoved her shirt up, loosened from the waist of her skirt and bit each of her nipples through the simple cotton lace of her bra. Her fingers laced into my hair to hold me to her breasts as we ground against one another. I could feel her tightening around me. I was sweating, dressed as I was, my jeans not even pushed down, simply opened for the pure function of sex.

She moaned. ‘Stop.’ The heels of her palms dug into my shoulders. I thrust into her again and watched her elbows weaken. ‘Stop..’

‘You don’t want me to stop.’

She squeezed me with her thighs until I was all but still. I could feel blood pulse in my cock, every beat exquisite. ‘Jesus, Malory, are we doing this, or what?’

She hissed as I shifted slightly and her legs loosened their hold on me. ‘This, this is what needs to be in your paper.’

‘Fucking?’

‘Passion.’

‘Shut up.’ I all but pulled out of her before sinking back in, pulling her hard against me. She gasped. The noises coming from her throat were tempting me, alluring in quality. The pace quickened, words, meaningless words, tumbled out of her mouth.

I pushed down her bra and sucked her nipple into my mouth. My hand sank down to where we joined, I pressed against her until she shifted uncomfortably and then did it again. She arched her back. ‘Oh shit, easy, Daemon. Easy.’

‘Fuck easy.’

I pushed her until her body gave it up in the most violent manner possible, not the easy, there was no aesthetic beauty found in the sweating, grunting and sobbing orgasm I gave her. When I came, it was explosive, almost painful, my hands dug into her skin until my fingers hurt.

Later, when things were reassembled, we looked at each other. I noticed the raw pink skin on her neck and smiled. Her lips were red, but not from my kisses, I never had kissed her.

‘I’m going to miss having you next term.’ She said, turning back to hand me the paper that had seen the entire episode and whose cover bore the marks of our fucking. ‘Bring the next one by, I’ll look over it.’

‘For passion?’

‘For passion.’

So I’ve been convinced to upgrade my gym choice - driven by a new club built (somewhat) close to home and the urging of my best friend (J). It is the usual sort of place you expect - high ceilings and every feature possible, pools, saunas, etc. Very new, very bright and very filled with people who spent a lot of time on their bodies. Just what I need, fuel. I can feel the urge to go back to a backbreaking workout schedule.

N doesn’t join me here, preferring her solitary jog, or perhaps, the lack of eyes following her around the room like she is carrion and they the vultures. I think she’s likely caused her share of car accidents however the other way, but there is always a trade off somewhere.

I stood by and dutifully had my picture taken, waiting patiently while they adjusted the camera to the very top of its limits. The girl at the counter was named Candi - and yes, she signed her name on the document with a little heart over the i. She wasn’t out of her college years and hadn’t yet moved beyond the giggling stage. J leaned in and made a too loud comment designed for her to hear. It’s basic points : Blondes, stupidity and hot bodies. I didn’t laugh. Candi (with a heart) wagged her finger at us as she walked off, her pony tail swinging with each step as if she were saturated with perkiness. I caught the backwards look and coy smile. It wasn’t directed at me. I suspected J was going to be the highlight of her fantasy that night.

‘Isn’t she your type?’ I asked him. ‘You know, dingy.’

He gave me the usual fuck off look, but responded anyway, ‘I detected a modicum of intelligence.’

‘When?’

‘She chose me over you.’

Then I laughed.