Confessional Writing: Self-Indulgent Narcissism or Legitimate Art?

“True confession consists in telling our deed in such a way that our soul is changed in the telling of it.” – Maude Petre

Confessional writing.  I believe the coin may have been termed before Anais Nin, but I’m fairly certain she made it famous.  And it’s gotten a lot of flack since.  Auto-biography (the simple telling of one’s story to document experience) turned to memoir (the crafting of one’s story in such a way that it centers on a theme) turned to “creative non-fiction”(a highly stylized literary version of memoir that relies on all of the literary devices of fiction and poetry).  Be assured, these are my interpretations of the definitions.  I know many would say that all three types of writing are one in the same, or that the words can be used interchangeably.  But, I personally do see a contrast. And over time…if you read through the ages, the telling of one’s story has changed.

So that brings me to confessional writing…the telling of a story with the implicit charge of telling the truth, no matter how private, upsetting, or shocking.  One might ask…why?  Why not just keep a diary and leave it at that?  Honestly, though, in keeping a diary, one knows that his or her audience is singular.  And though lying to one’s self may seem impossible to some, it really is no harder than fabricating stories for others. 

We shape and warp and sanitize our truth so that we can live with it.  We leave things out, forget them, see them from a particular point of view.  Years after something happens, we can look back on it and see only the good in a terrible situation, or only the bad.  Our memories are fallible at best.  Our tears, both from joy and from fear and from pain, dry…leaving behind a dust that – when it clears – can bring clouded vision, or a paradoxical clarity.

So to create an audience, by publishing, may seem no different than writing for one’s self…in that lying about our experience, or making it sound better (or worse) than it was may feel necessary, to protect ourselves, our reputations, or our egos.

I’d like to hypothesize, however, that telling our stories, via writing, to an audience beyond ourselves, actually encourages us to look at our experiences as objectively as possible…to “write it all down”, per se.  And that even if we stylize it, craft it to make it artistic or creative, paying careful attention to the story line, what we leave in and what we leave out, we keep in mind that if honesty is the entire point of the telling, then we must “tell it like it is”.

Confessional writing earns more than its fair share of criticism.  Memoirs, in the past 20 years or so have moved in that direction…telling one’s story of drug use, alcoholism, sex abuse, illegal behavior…and there are plenty of people who believe that telling such private memories is useless, even grandiose.  They posit that these writers are simply telling their stories to get attention.

The interesting part of confessional writing, in my opinion, is that it is precisely the opposite.  Oh, I don’t doubt that some writers simply seek fame (or infamy).  But the larger portion of confessional writers, in my opinion, do it more for themselves than for anyone else.  And what they do for others is more about sharing their stories so readers can learn from them.  Confessional writers try to document their deepest, most honest beliefs about events, challenging themselves to the sort of truthfulness that makes them vulnerable.

It is a brave act, more than an egotistical one.

To tell the truth to yourself is one thing.  You know whether you are being truthful or not, most of the time – though it is always filtered through your interpretation.  But to tell the truth to others makes you much more vulnerable.  And it forces you to explain things in enough detail, with just enough narration and explanation to keep the story interesting but also clear and coherent.  You have to leave “stream-of-consciousness” diary-style writing behind, and actually think about the words you will use to create the most honest picture of events as you have experienced them – both for your benefit and for your readers’.

“You have to be willing to reveal everything to get outside yourself.” – David Ulin Everyone’s Life Is Interesting:  Defending Confessional Non-Fiction

When I was in graduate school, I took a class from Kim Barnes (a notable confessional writer and poet whose works include Hungry for the World and In the Wilderness).  The class focused on creative non-fiction, especially the type that lays the writer bare, exposing the heart of everything that matters about one’s personal experience in a way that is both artistic and beneficial to the reader.  Not only did we read a hell of a lot of great essays, we also wrote them.  And the goal was to write them without self-pity or self-indulgence.  That, my friends, can be difficult, when writing from the first person and about circumstances that are frightening and emotional.  But, that is also what makes it art and not blubbering narcissism. 

I don’t claim that all of my confessional writing is grand or artistic.  In fact, the majority of what makes it on here is rougher than I would have it if I were truly planning to publish in print/book form.  I ramble, meander, and spend a lot of time just “being” in my daily story, rather than trying to seek a theme within it.  Every once in a great wall, I hit the artistic mark.  By, that’s the point of the blog for me.  To live my life through daily words and introspection.  To document.  After all, this is what I can draw from later when I am ready to sit back and delve into the meaning of all that has happened to me.  This is the content.  This is the experience.  Time – and sometimes a lot of it – is needed before one’s introspection can truly produce revelations.  Being conscious of one’s daily experience is necessary, though, to prepare for such an endeavor.  I consider my life to be just that…constant preparation. 

For a confessional blogger…Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote, “Life is a journey, not a destination” might be rewritten thus, “Our life story is the journey, our understanding of ourselves is the destination…and if others tag along for the epiphany, no matter how subtle or how earth-shattering, so much the better.”

Blogging is a genre unto itself.  But the sub-genres are numerous.  Personally, I think that critics who feel the internet is simply overrun with crappy content from inexperienced writers who have nothing of import to share are being elitist.  Not everyone is a “great writer”.  But there are hoards of terrible, published works on the shelves of book stores.  What is good (or not) is a matter of choice.  And just because I don’t like what someone writes, it doesn’t make their work less valuable in the grand scheme of things.  Art is personal.  It is how we gain understanding and insight about the world around us.  It is how we communicate.  It is how we connect. 

Anything that allows us to do that is valuable beyond measure.

 
Everyone has a story.

 
 

 

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post.  Click HERE to see who else is being wicked.

 

 

A (Porn) Star is Born?

Well…not really.  But Daddy did film us having sex last night – which was a first (I know, I know…we’re behind the times – but it isn’t for lack of his trying…I just have an aversion to being filmed).  And, since I was blindfolded, I had no idea he was doing it (he says it was so I would act naturally and not be self-conscious about the camera – good call, Daddy).

And I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised.  It’s not that I don’t think I’m attractive, but the camera can be so unkind – and really…sexual positions are not always that flattering.

When we were done, and rudely interrupted by the sound of pattering feet across the kitchen floor (yes, I came flying off of Daddy’s cock to make sure the door was locked and prayed that the child hadn’t heard my oh-so-motherly words “I love it when you fuck my ass, Daddy!” – there’s a therapist’s wet dream – thankfully he was “sleep-walking” and was easily redirected back to his room), we watched our film debut while enjoying libations on the couch.

Watching Daddy fuck me – from a completely different vantage point – was quite delicious – his ass contracting as he plunged into me.  And seeing myself, riding his cock – my back curved, ass round and full of him…well – let’s just say I needed a cigarette when it was over.  I don’t smoke often…but a clove here and there is nice – so we headed out to the porch, looked up at the sky and were mesmerized by the black bowl of twinkling lights above.

Daddy grabbed our chairs and moved us to the driveway – away from the trees.  With no obstructions to our view, we simply tipped our heads back and soaked in the night, enjoying our afterglow.

There are benefits to living in the woods.  The night sky is darker.  The stars are brighter.  The world is quieter.  And the neighbors don’t call the authorities when I scream.  They live far enough away they don’t hear.  At least I hope they don’t.

The Lustful Literate

And the Mass Exodus Begins

Sifting and skimming through my “Voyeuristic Tendencies” tonight…I found 3 posts relating to bloggers who are setting up their own domains and leaving the confines of Blogger/Wordpress behind.

Good on ’em.

I don’t have ads on my site, but like another blogger wrote, it’s more the principle of the matter.  What if I wanted to?  I don’t really take to being told no.  In fact, it pisses me off.

I’m sure I’m not far behind in the move.  I’m a little slower to change than most.  But, I’ll get there.  You’re getting plenty of warning here.

But, I have to say, with all the news and hullabaloo about Blogger (especially) and WordPress (to a lesser degree) cracking down on Adult Content sites, it really makes me wonder:  what are people so afraid of?

It seems to me, the more truth we have available to people, the better.  And sex bloggers are pretty damn big on truth.  We all do it for our own reasons, but regardless of our reasons, people read us to learn, gain insight, and find validation and connection.

For some reason, I feel like I’m back in high school, on the newspaper staff, fighting with the administration over a controversial story that the editors feel MUST run, but the principal is afraid it will enrage parents.  All the concern over what SOMEONE (no one in particular) MIGHT (no promises they’ll even notice) be offended by, rather than the concern over the freedom of speech…the freedom of expression…and the respect for art – even when it isn’t your cup of tea.

It smacks of censorship.  Which is unfair, judgmental, and well…wrong.

Too bad I’m too lazy to be in charge of the world.  I might do something about it.  Instead…I’ll blog about it, and prepare for my silent “fuck you” to the powers that be by continuing to figure out how to move out on my own.

Time to fly the nest.  And it’s such a warm, comfy little nest I’ve made.

Make Your Move

Key Word = Stratagem
Word Length = 700
Forbidden Words = Spy, Tuxedo
Bonus Points – Quote your favorite line (and link to the source in case we don’t know it) 


Okay, so I just want to open with a disclaimer.  I went WAY over the limit here.  But, as usual, I just take the prompt and run with it…then I go back and eliminate whatever I can.  For this story, I just couldn’t cut anything, without damaging the plot or the characters.  So….it is what it is.  Once again…spank me if you see fit.  I’m cool with that.


“Are you sure you  want to do that?”  He raised his eyebrow as she moved her bishop forward.
“Why?  Do you see something I don’t?”  she asked.
“Not necessarily.  But, once you make your move, you’re committed.  I just want you to be sure.”
She smiled at him from across the mahogany table, so polished she could see her naked reflection in the surface.  “Oh, I’m sure.  And I’m very committed to my decision.”
“Good girl.”  He took a long sip from his martini, swirled the olive, and set the glass back on the coaster.  “You know, it wasn’t so long ago I taught you how to play this game.  You’ve become very skilled and quite sure of yourself.  I like to see that in you.  Self-confidence becomes you.”
“I should get dressed.  We’ve been talking too long, and our guests are waiting.”  She moved to leave her chair, but his quiet ‘tsk tsk’ made her stop dead.
“May I get dressed, Sir?”  She almost rolled her eyes, but thought better of it and lowered them instead.
“You may….”
She put out one leg and touched her bare toes to the black tile floor before he continued.
“….After you ask to leave your chair, like the good little whore that you know how to be.  You seem to have forgotten your place, my little minx.”
She pulled her leg back in, and glanced up at him, seeing his lips pursed in disappointment at her forgetfulness.
“But, Sir, I’m just a bit outside of myself today…”
“Shhhh…for someone who believes we’ve been talking too much, you should be the first to refrain.  According to Harold Pinter, ‘One way of looking at speech is to say it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness.’.  You wouldn’t want to do that would you, pet?”
“Of course not, Sir.”
He stood up and came to her side of the table, offering her his hand.  She took it, and he pulled her to a standing position, so close to him her nipples rubbed up against the stiff wool of his black suit.  He took both her wrists in one hand, holding them above her head to the point she was forced to stand on tip toe.  He placed his other hand between her legs, running his fingers along her slit to check her wetness.
“That’s lovely.”  He fingers to his nose, inhaled, and then licked them seductively.
“You’re very ready, my dear.  Run along now, and dress in haste.  Just the gown, and nothing else.”  He let her arms free and smacked her bottom hard as she hurried away to the dressing room.
A few minutes later, she returned, in nothing but a simple, white satin, form-fitting gown that dipped below her waist in the back.  He was sitting in a large, high-backed leather chair, still nursing his cocktail.
“Shall I put my hair up, Sir?”
“No.  Leave it down.  I like it that way.”
Pulling up her gown in the front so she could make her way forward and kneel between his legs, she looked up at him, adoration in her light gray eyes.
“This is everything I’ve ever wanted, Sir.  I want you to know that before we go down.”
“I know, pet.  I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Precisely, Sir.  That’s why this is happening.”
“No…this is happening because I need you as much as you need me.”  She leaned her face into his palm, where he cradled it.
“There’s a present for you on the bed.”  Her eyes lit up with his words, and she nearly leapt to her feet in excitement before she caught herself and requested permission to rush across the room to open it.
“Please…open it.  I hope you like it.”
She raced to the bed, taking the package in her shaking hands, undid the ribbon and ripped the white paper from the box.  Inside, she found a pair of the most decadent shoes.  Turning to him, her face lit up like a child on Christmas day, her eyes welled up with tears.
“They’re perfect!”
“I know,” he smiled provocatively, “Put them on.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, and put the shoes on as quickly as she could.
“Now, lean back on the bed and put your legs up, ankles together.”
She did as she was commanded, legs up, exposing her bareness under the gown.
He walked over to the bed and began to tie a white ribbon around her ankles, knotting it tightly and securely in a way that would only allow her the most petite strides without tripping.
“Now stand, pet.  Take my arm.  They’re waiting.”
She looked up at him, as she took her tiny steps quickly to keep up with him, struggling not to falter or seem anything but graceful at his side.  She took the stairs with careful attention.  And as she met the eyes of the people below, gazing up at her, the music began.  Her mother, at the front of the room beside the officiant, was already in tears.
She leaned on him, relying on him for balance.  But that was the point, wasn’t it?  As long as she let him guide her, she would never fall.

The Sky Is Indeed Falling (thanks for the heads up, Molly!)

Well…I was sent into a panic today.  Thanks to Molly, I’m breaking my “drinking before 5 p.m. rule”.  No, really – Molly, thanks ever so much for letting me know just how important getting my own domain and a host might be in the near future.

From what I can tell, after stressing and researching, most all hosting services have a fairly vague policy which explains that they will lot accept obscene or unlawful content.  It’s a tough call, really.  Because I don’t find my site to be obscene, and while some of my characters might engage in unlawful behavior, my site is not “unlawful”, as far as I can tell.

Blogger is indeed cracking down on “adult content” blogs that display advertising banners.  But, as I have none of those, I think I’m safe…for now.

However, Molly has a point that this policy could change at any moment, leaving Blogger’s sex-bloggers high and dry.

WTF, right?  Can we all just scream “CENSORSHIP SUCKS” at the tops of our lungs?

Anyhow…I will most likely be in the process of cocooning myself so I can re-emerge as a sexy dot com butterfly.  Really, it was on my list of things to do, anyway…I just wasn’t ready for all the work this is going to entail.  With the switch over, I’m expecting I’ll have to re-do all of my links – which will be a huge pain in the ass…and of course, there’s the issue of losing readership when they can’t find me.  But, I suppose I have outgrown my little Blogger world.  I guess I have to admit that my biggest problem is change – I don’t do it well or easily.  I tried using WordPress blogging tools and hated the whole atmosphere.  It is so much more complicated than Blogger.  But it looks like most hosting services use it – so I may just have to suck it up and move on.  

Of course I have the added struggle of trying to remain anonymous through this whole thing, as well.  Even though many of these hosting companies have privacy policies, I’m paranoid.  I know, I know…I post nekkid pics of myself on here all the time – how could I possibly have privacy issues?  Well…I do.  And that’s that.  I write under a pseudonym, I cover my face, my tattoos, I never give details about work or too much about where I live.  I’m sure a dedicated individual with the right knowledge could find me out…but, the world at large has no idea.  And that’s how I like it.

With that…here’s a photo – which is probably “pornographic” and “obscene” to someone.

The Lustful Literate

Anyhow, I’ll let you know when the time comes.  For now…I’ll keep posting and researching and planning.

Why am I somehow reminded of HHH on Pump Up the Volume?  (I know…I’m dating myself here…)

Lights Out (part 2)

Lora’s mind was swirling.  She wasn’t even sure if her body would remember what to do, especially being guided by her brain, which was muddled by anxiety.  She wondered what spirit had invaded her, moving her limbs for her, guiding her lips and her tongue.  But whatever it was, it knew what it was doing.

And so did he.

She gave herself up to it.  It was a little late to pull out of it now.  What would they talk about?  How would they manage to be cooped up in this space drenched in sexual tension.  No…it was best to just go with the flow, something Lora was not at all good at.

He put his hands in her hair, and cradled the base of her skull, pulling her into him so he could reach her ears, her neck.  The intensity built, and they began reaching for each others clothes, undoing buttons, fumbling with zippers and hooks.  Literally blind, they exploring each other in a way that few lovers do.  Having no sense of what the other looked like, their minds were free to just luxuriate in the other senses.

Lora could have determined his physical features in her mind, but she preferred the dark…the not knowing.  He didn’t have to be anyone.  There was no fantasy man to conjure up in her brain…because – hell – this was more of a fantasy than she’d even come up with in her own dreams.

Alex untucked her blouse from her skirt and unhooked her bra.  He slipped his hand underneath the edge of it, and held one of her breasts, squeezing it gently, running a finger over the nipple a few times, as if to test its sensitivity.  She squirmed a bit under his touch, her skin hot to the touch.

“Where’s that condom, Lora?  I think it’s time to find it.”

“Oh, yes….yes…let me find it.”  Nothing like breaking the mood for safety in a situation that in any other circumstance would be anything but.  In fact, though she’d turned her mind off to it, Lora knew what she was doing was crazy…and stupid.

She dug around in her purse, found the confounded thing and pulled it out.  Honestly, she wasn’t sure if it was even still good.  It’d been in there for some time.  But, at this point, she figured there was no reason to become level-headed now.

“Here it is…a bit embarrassing, though…I think it glows in the dark.”  She giggled nervously under her breath, somehow a bit self-conscious now.  She  wondered why she cared what this stranger thought of her condom choice.  In all actuality, it had been from a gift of naughty bits and pieces a friend had given her for her birthday, in jest.

“That’s very serendipitous,”  he laughed.  She caught the humor of it as well, and was relieved by his response.

“Let’s find out if it works.”  He ripped open the package, and they were met by a moderate green glow.

“Well, at least neither one of us will have trouble finding my cock.”

“I suppose that’s helpful,” Lora laughed.  “May I do the honors?”

“Absolutely.”  He handed her the glowing ring and she kicked off her heels and bent slowly to her knees.  Once she was in place, reaching up his thigh to find his cock, she found herself licking her lips, remembering this position and realizing what was in front of her face.  She took him in her loose fist, leaned forward, and wrapped her mouth around him.  He let out a sigh, and she could tell he had reached out to the bars to stabilize himself.  His sigh encouraged her, so she continued follow her mouth’s desire, taking all of him into her mouth and slowly sliding her lips back to the head.

He leaned back against the wall, and Lora scooted forward just a bit for comfort, placing one hand under his balls to support his cock, and the other, still holding the condom between two fingers, on his thigh to balance herself.

Within minutes, Alex was groaning and sighing more quickly, his orgasm building and pulsing in his cock…Lora could feel it between her lips and in her hand.

“Okay, you’d better stop…I think it’s time to put that condom on.”

Lora pulled her mouth from him, and rolled the condom down to the base of his cock.  The glow was too weak to light up anything else, but the disembodied dick looked a bit ridiculous bobbing in the air by itself.  They both looked at it and laughed until Alex reached out to her, pulling her towards him.

“Let me lay out my jacket…I wouldn’t want your lovely ass to have to touch the elevator floor.  And I wouldn’t want your knees scraped up or bruised.  Let me take the brunt of injury.”

“How chivalrous of you,” Lora laughed, but found the offer rather sweet, and welcomed.

He shuffled around a bit, laying down his jacket, finding hers and adding it to the equation, and Lora just stood back smiling to herself as she watched the glow of his cock bouncing around in the dark.

At this point, she also began to wonder when help would show up.  Would they hear them coming?  Would they get caught, literally, with their pants down?

From his knees, he reached up to her pulling her towards him, reaching his hands up her skirt, pulling down her nylons and helping her step out of them.  Setting them aside, he kissed from her knee up her right thigh, and then pulled her panties off and over her feet, adding them to the pile of clothes, careful to put them all in one place for quick retrieval.

He kissed back up the left thigh, and then flicked his tongue over her swollen clit, causing her to cry out slightly.

He pulled her down to him, and helped her find a suitable place on the jackets.  He spread her blouse open, pushed her bra up and over her tits, placing his hand on one, and the other in his mouth, his tongue caressing her nipple to the point she though it might burst.  Her little whimpers and sighs encouraged him, and he bit her just enough make her squirm, a sharp intake of breath a beautiful sign of her surprise.

He kissed her then, his hot mouth taking hers captive with authority, his tongue exploring hers deeply, with intention.   She could tell he was near to entering her, and it was all she could do not to arch her back and push up on her feet to meet him.  Her body was crying out for him to…

“What was that?”

They both stopped, holding their breath.

“Fuck.  I think there’s someone out there.”  The disappointment in Alex’s voice was audible.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me?  Could their timing be any more fucking impeccable?”  Lora was so furious she nearly began to cry on the spot.  So fucking close to doing the most impulsive and exciting thing she had ever done in her life, and now the fucking fire department shows up.

They both began to fumble quickly around for their clothes.  Lora crammed her things into her bag, buttoned up her blouse and threw on her jacket.  She fiddled with her hair, hoping the French twist wasn’t too damaged and that her makeup wasn’t so completely smudged that everyone outside that door would instantly know what they’d been up to.

She heard the zip of Alex’s pants.  He’d never actually taken them off.  Both of them had wisely and instinctively left as much clothing in tact as possible in case of a situation just like this.

“This is just bloody perfect, ain’t it?”  Alex said into the dark.

“Yah…perfect.  A perfect disappointment,”  Lora replied.

“You know, we could go back and do this the normal way.  Hot dogs at the cart down the street?  A slushee at 7-11?  And then head to the nearest 1 hour motel to do the dirty in bug-infested sheets.”

“Disgusting!”  But she laughed at his crass humor.

“Or better yet…a nice dinner and then head back to my place for a good vintage and a good fuck overlooking the city – I have a pretty damned decent view, though I don’t like to brag.”

“Oh, really?  Something tells me you do.”  She found herself laughing again, oddly comfortable in this stranger’s company.

Both of them smoothed and pressed themselves into the most normal state possible, and as the doors were pried open by the intruding crowbar, Lora found herself growing nervous about seeing his face.  There was a part of her that just wanted to walk away, and never look back.  But there was a bigger part that wanted to turn to him, look into his eyes, and own her spontaneity…her impetuousness.  She thought to herself, ‘What if this is good for me?’

The light flooded in, blinding her before she could begin to over-think her rhetorical question.

“Are you two okay?”  The gruff voice invaded the small space and busted all thoughts of their intimate moment to hell.

“Yes, we’re fine…Good thing you guys showed up before anything inappropriate happened in there.  Boredom can really get to people you know?”  Alex laughed out loud, and the rescue workers laughed back.

As Lora’s eyes adjusted, she was forced to return to her choices.  Quickly, now that she was back in the real world, she made the sensible one…to turn from him and walk forward.

“Hey, Alex, she called back…it was lovely meeting you.”

He started to laugh…hard.

She stopped.  Without looking back, she called out – “What’s so fucking funny?”

“You might want these…Lora…”

With the recognition that he’d just used her real name, she whipped around to look Carl right in the eyes.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”  It was the third time she’d said it tonight.  But seeing Carl, holding up her black lace panties in his hand, framed by the open elevator doors, surrounded by rescue workers, red and white lights swirling from the door behind her and windows beside her, she could only hang her head and laugh.

“Guess you aren’t as frigid as I thought you were.”

She turned to walk away, her insides burning with anger, fear, and humiliation.  But, she stopped.  No, tonight she’d found something in herself that she hadn’t known existed.  She wasn’t going to run from it.  Both of them had lied.  For whatever reason.  And hadn’t been an ass in that elevator.  Quite the contrary.

“No.  I’m not.  And I’m starving after that ordeal.  Chinese take-out sound alright?”

He ran up beside her, swinging her panties around his index finger.

“Sounds scrumptious.”

Lora rolled her eyes.

“I cannot believe I am doing this.”

“Really, I had no idea it was you, Lora.  I’m just as surprised as you…maybe more so – who knew you were such a vixen?”

“Yah, who knew?  And who knew you weren’t a dick?”

“Well, I am, actually.  But, at least I’m a glowing dick, right?”

As they walked down the city sidewalk, Lora tried to control her instinct to just flag down and cab and drive off to another city, far, far away and forget this had ever happened.  But, she’d just about fucked some guy who was a complete stranger to her…and she was a little curious to find out just how wrong she had been about him.

“Another cliche…the office rivals falling for each other?  Or we could just have hate-sex if you’d prefer.”  His dimples showed when he smiled, and it aggravated her how they made her thighs sweat.

“Let’s just take this one step at a time, Carl.  And give me my fucking panties.”

She reached out to swipe them, but he held them above her head, swinging them like a lasso on his finger, laughing and looking down at her as she stood on her toes, wrestling with him to pull his arm down.

He was strong, and juvenile, and smelled incredible.  Lora closed her eyes and stopped fighting.  Carl put his arms around her and kissed her hard.

“I might be good for you, Lora.  I might be just what you need.”

“You are full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Yah…and I’d like you to be full of myself, too.”

(So, I could have gone several ways with the ending here.  I chose to go this way, but having her walk away, never look back, and never realize it was Carl, nor he realize it was her – would’ve been fun, too.  I welcome anyone to re-write the ending – sometimes a different perspective can be exciting.)

And I will be back tonight for a little HNT…stay tuned…

Lights Out (part one)

“Well, that’s the last file, closed up and put away for the night, Sir. Is there anything else I can do for you before I head home?” She spoke with an air of professionalism, tinged with familiarity.

“No, Lora, that’ll be all. See you in the morning. The Smiths tend to be early, so I’ll need you here a bit before the usual time, just to make sure the conference room is ready. This is a big case…we don’t want to blow it.”

She smiled at him, nodded, and assured him everything would be taken care of as expected. He had nothing to worry about. She gathered her things and headed down the long corridor to the elevator.

“Hey, Lora, wait up!” From behind her, a young woman appeared, breathless and a little disheveled, her hair in frayed wisps around her face, framing her reddened cheeks. 

Lora turned toward her, “What’s wrong, Georgia? You look a mess.”

“Well, I just…I seem to have misplaced the Smith file…the one you gave to me to take down to the conference room earlier. I can’t for the life of me recall where I might have left it….”

“Oh, shit, Georgia!  That’s a classified file; what the hell did you do? We’ve got to find it. Where have you been since I handed it to you? Let’s back track…”

“I’ve been all over, Lora. You know Mr. Jensen; he has me running all over the place all day. I think he does it just to prove he can. So much of what I’m asked to do seems senseless.”

“Never mind that. We’ve got to find that file. Where did you go first?”

“The break room, to grab Mr. Jensen a cup of coffee.”

“Well, then let’s go there.” She adjusted the heavy leather bag on her shoulder and motioned for Georgia to walk ahead of her quickly, shooing her forward as if she were a bothersome child. As Mr. Jensen’s head office supervisor and personal assistant, she knew this would come down on her head if she didn’t find that file.

The two women walked purposefully back down the hall, passing Mr. Jensen’s office door, and turned the corner toward the break room. From inside, Lora could hear the loud banter of some of the employees, “Lora? That bitch? Who the hell does she think she…”

As they walked into the room, Lora bold and defiant, having little time to deal with petty office drama, she met the eyes of a young man in an expensive suit. She scowled openly, “Good evening, gentlemen…” she nodded to both of them and bumped into the good looking one in the Armani with the spotless, too-trendy shoes. “Carl…hope things are going well with Mr. Giovanni.” She smiled sourly, and rolled her eyes. She’d wanted that job at one point, but Carl had turned out to have better ass-kissing skills, and just played dirtier…which was obviously what Mr. Giovanni had wanted. So much for professionalism, cleavage, and a devilishly dangerous glare. It wasn’t what all lawyers were looking for. Mr. Jensen, however, appreciated all she had to offer and used her skills (and looks) to his advantage. Having her in the room beside him made him feel in control, and he very much needed that. She was an expert at making him look like a hungry lion in the board room. Nothing was ever out of place.

Which is why she had to find that file.

Carl and his friend took their coffee cups and left the break room with exaggerated apologies about being in the way and hoping she found what she was looking for. On their way down the hall, Lora could hear them laughing…”I bet she’s fucking him. that’s the only reason Jensen could ever have hired a frigid hag like her.”

“Wow, Carl doesn’t have much love for you, does he?” Georgia inquired.

“No…no he doesn’t.”

“Does it bother you that he talks that way about you?”

“No, he’s just jealous. It’s what little boys do when they know they’ve been outdone by a girl. It goes all the way back to college. There’s a long history of competition and well…let’s be honest – I usually won. But, who cares…we’re here to find a file. A very important file. And Carl can go fuck himself.”

Georgia left it that and began to dig through piles of papers and boxes of files. Lora looked behind things, under things, in the wastebasket. And there, under several manila envelopes and file folders, was a red file labeled SMITH. Lora grabbed it and began thumbing through it to be sure nothing was missing or damaged.

“You found it! Oh, God…I’m so glad you found it – he’d have had my head.”

“No…he’d have had mine. I would have had yours.”

“And rightfully so….I will never lose another thing as long as I work here.”

“Oh, shit…quit lying and take this directly to the conference room. Lock up, and I will see you here at 7 tomorrow morning. Everything has to be perfect. These are big potential clients.

Lora grabbed her bag and slung it back over her shoulder, making her way back down the corridor and back to the elevator.

She let out a sigh of exhaustion and relief as she pressed the down arrow and watched the numbers light up above the door, letting out a an annoying little chime with each one. The doors opened, she rubbed her hand over her eyes, and stepped on, turning to face the number panel as the doors closed. She selected the lobby, and glanced behind her to make eye contact with the other passenger, when suddenly the lights flickered and went out with a groan.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

The other passenger, a tall younger man from what she could tell of the few seconds she had seen him, reached across her and felt around on the panel for a panic button or an emergency call.

“Must be the storm,” he said.

“Yah, well…I don’t have time for storms. I have to be back here at 7 for a meeting, and the only thing standing between me and a nice big glass of wine and a hot tub are these fucking metal doors.”

“Sounds like you had a lovely evening planned…a lot more relaxing than mine.”

“Yah? Who the hell are you? Maybe I should be more concerned about being stuck in a dark elevator with a psychopath.”

“Name’s Alex. Working for Carter & Row, across town. How ’bout you?”

“Ummm…Sandra. I’m a legal assistant for Mr. Perry.” Why she’d done it, she didn’t know, but giving him her real name seemed like a dumb idea, so she’d just thrown out the first thing that came to her.

“Perry? Hmmm…I’m not familiar with him.”

“Different firm. I was just here dropping off some paperwork.”

“Ohh….well – this shouldn’t take long. Once the fire department gets the signal, we should be outta here in no time.”

The problem was, the signal never went out. He hadn’t even pressed the button.

“So, Sandra, what should be talk about while we’re stuck here in the dark?”

Lora, digging in her purse for her cell phone – which was dead…as ensured by Murphy’s Law, had little patience for small talk in the best of circumstances. This was
hell for her. Stuck alone in a 6 X 6 space with a talkative stranger. What kind of shit could she make up to keep him entertained? The dead silence would have been more uncomfortable, so she began to fill it with lies. And for whatever reason, they seemed to flow easily and smoothly from her mouth.

Sandra was 26 and had just moved to San Francisco from Portland. She was going to Law School at Stanford, travelling the long commute several times a week, and living with family in Palo Alto, since she couldn’t afford to live on her own.

They talked about the sky-high cost of real-estate and the cut-throat world of Law and Order.

“You know…this seems like a bad movie. A man and a woman stuck on a dark elevator, chatting and getting to know one another. Seems like the most natural thing to come next in the script is for them to engage in a torrid sex scene, and then leave the elevator, never to cross paths again.” He laughed. But his comment made her shiver. Who was this creep and what the fuck was he up to?

“Bit cliche, don’t you think?” she responded, adding in her own nervous laugh.

“‘Spose we could change it up however we wanted.” His words hung in the air for what seemed an eternity while Lora breathed silently and tried to keep her heart from beating too loudly.

The rational part of her brain said, ‘find a way to turn your purse into a weapon in case this guy tries anything stupid.’ But her unintentionally celibate body begged her to just say, “Fuck it…he works across town…you’ll never see him again….And you’ve got those hopeful little condoms sitting at the bottom of your bag just screaming to be used…finally…”

She took a deep breath in and exhaled, “I’m not much for suspense. I like it when I know how a movie is going to end. It’s comforting.”

“Really? So you’re good with the cliche?”

“Ummm…well…are you?” she bit her lip, stunned by her own behavior and poor decision-making skills.

She heard him shuffling around a bit and felt the elevator move as he shifted his weight towards her.

“Don’t be scared. Really…I’m just a normal guy in a really abnormal circumstance. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“This seems so dangerous and stupid,” she said.

“Well, it might be stupid. I’ll grant you that. But, there’s no danger. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Why not?”

“Well, there a million reasons…none of which sound better to me than just doing something completely hair-brained – something I’d never actually do in real-life. But with the lights out, somehow…this seems like a dream. It doesn’t feel real.”

“If it were a dream…what would you do?”

“I’d probably be braver and more forward than I am in real life. Like this…”

She reached out into the darkness and found his body, patting her hands upward to find his face. She pulled him down toward her and kissed him, her pulse pounding in her chest, so heavily she was sure he could hear it. She hadn’t had sex in over a year, and everything in her was crying out for release with this stranger. For some reason…the fact that she had no idea who he was, couldn’t see him, wouldn’t ever see him again, made it possible for her to relent to her own fears.

To be continued….in the morning – cause I’m exhausted and cannot continue tonight. Forgive me.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post. Click HERE to find out who else is being wicked.