Bunny Ch. 17

If you haven't read part 16, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 It is Brandon, whether wittingly or unwittingly, who pushes my life from strained static and dooms me to climax and release. We have been spending my work hour together for months now; I am sure that the only reason that the head librarian resists interrupting is because she pities me. With Brandon I have a cheerful enough disposition to be grateful for my obvious social awkwardness.

I am laughing under my breath and shushing Brandon as he follows me around the library, reading aloud passages from an abhorrently bad romance novel. It's the kind whose covers feature bared chests, spilling cleavage, and embossed titles such as, "The Noble Bandit," or "His Secret Baby." He's supposed to be reading from the book Mr. Hale picked out, L'Étranger, but was distracted by the paperbacks I re-shelved earlier. Brandon is torturing me with a poorly written paragraph about itchy palms, perky breasts, and instant erections. To shut him up I hiss, "I am convinced that you like this stuff."

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Bunny Ch. 16

If you haven't read part 15, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

Climax: the tension that pulls and pulls until one feels so stretched that a dénouement must be over the horizon, one begs for release from traction with every breath and thought—is it any wonder that we apply the word to the moment of sexual release? The terrible difference between the climax of my private life and the one to which Mr. Hale approaches as he twists and pummels and thrusts, is that the sexual climax is one towards which we strive. It is a goal to reach that ultimate dizzying height; we may prolong and tease and create tension, but never do we intend altogether to deny ourselves orgasm's consuming ecstasy

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Bunny Ch. 15

If you haven't read part 14, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 Rebuilding a relationship after a stumbling block like the one placed in Brandon's and my path (my mind rejects everything but cryptic phrases such as "what happened," or "the incident") is, I find, a slow process. I want to go back to our old camaraderie immediately, to be able to laugh without caution or the need for a quick glance to ensure Brandon's shared mirth.

Going home to Mr. Hale helps nothing.

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Bunny Ch. 14

If you haven't read part 13, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I revel in my quiet rebellion. It had begun inadvertently; my morning tutor had recently moved to Ohio, and Mr. Hale had indulgently asked me what I wanted to study next. Ordinarily I would have continued with English literature, but what I told him was, "I would like to resume French, please, in order to read L'Histoire d'O in its original form."

A student from the local university, a French girl from the Loire Valley, was hired to teach me to read, speak, and write in French. Though my reading and writing skills progressed rather slowly, my speaking ability is, as Elodie claims, "almost adequate." I learned that she was rather homesick, and was eager to converse with anyone in her native tongue. On my way to the new coffee shop I practice on my own: "Salut, mon ami. Ça va? Tu me manques."

Hey, friend. How's it going? I miss you.

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Lance Oliver Jordan 2

"I don't think I'm gay, sir" says my chickenshit secretary as he places coffee on my desk.

Watching Him Back Ch. 4.1

I honestly thought I was finished with this bit, but when I went to post it on Lit I realized that there were a lot of major flaws in the story. So I'm posting as I rewrite.

"You know," Crispin muses, "I think maybe Jay has a crush on LeAndre."

"Quit talking shit." Someone stuck gum on the underside of this desk.

"No, I'm serious," he insists, rummaging in a drawer. "I'm not saying he's gay, just maybe that he has a crush. Like, elementary school style."

I grab the trash can and the scraper from my bag of detention tools. "Come on. Being a homophobe doesn't automatically make him closeted."

"Duh, but look at their relationship. Let's call it a friend crush, or a bro crush. I think Jay really, really wants LeAndre to like him."

"Everybody really wants LeAndre to like them," I reply. "He's the kind of guy who's popular because he's smart and nice to people."

"And hot and good at everything," Crispin adds.

"Right." I stand to stretch my back. "Ugh, I hate this so much."

Crispin comes around the desk. "Sorry, pumpkin," he says cajolingly.

"Don't you 'sorry, pumpkin,' me," I fake growl. "This was your fault."

"Heeeey, queer burger." Jay's voice startles me as he pops around the corner.

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Sandalwood Ch. 3

The last time I'd seen that expression I had put my hands on the sides of his ribcage and pressed him against the wall. I remembered how I'd kissed him until we were breathless. I remember he had sighed with resignation and how his arms crept around my back to pull me close. Moreover, I remembered how much I had liked it.

My right hand moved before I could order it otherwise. I felt Gary’s shocked inhale through his stomach. We stared at each other for a moment—it was the first time that I had really looked at Gary, studied him, noticed how dark his brown eyes were in comparison to his pale lashes and strawberry brows. His narrow shoulders made him look scrawnier than he felt through his sweater. He must have grown into his looks; he had a fierce chin and sharp nose that would have been awkward on a boy.

Gary broke the charged silence. “What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I responded just as quietly. “I’m trying not to analyze it.”

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