The Call of Distant Shores (29 page)

She had stimulated his mind, but she held him on a leash of the physical – gripped him by the endings of nerves that could distract thought and dissipate the very answers she'd sent him in search of.
 
She was like a witch, or a siren, dragging him ashore with her body, by the beautiful, tinkling lilt of her laughter, which became the tearing, searing heat of her passion when he drew too close.
 
He knew that once her hands were on him, once their limbs were intertwined, everything he did or thought was attributable, in some way, to her influence.

Were his thoughts hers as well?
 
Did she want him to write about what turned him on, or about what turned
her
on?
 
Did she know the answers, or was she seeking them through him?
 
Maybe his answer lay in her eyes, or in her heart?
 
Maybe she
was
that answer.

If so, could he write that down?
 
Could he bring the essence of her to his fingertips, controlling her as she controlled him, and divert that essence into the firmament of words?
 
If he did, would she be trapped, revealed to the world, or would he?
 
What would come loose if he opened up the gates of his mind?
 
What turned him on?

If he set it all free, would it even be he who was writing, or would she control that too?
 
If he attempted to grab and hold her, blending her reality with his words, would he pour himself out instead?
 
Would she take that as easily as she took his body, sucking it down and leaving him a dried out, empty husk?
 
Would it matter?

He was brought back to his senses by the haunting music of her cries, back into a sweltering inferno of flesh and sweat, twisting hair and animal groans.
 
He saw her eyes for just an instant as they flashed past his own, and he grasped at that vision.
 
As they climaxed together, their hearts pounding as one and their flesh as nearly fused as the physical world would allow, he held that image.

He held her for long, sweet moments, letting his thoughts settle, holding the image of her eyes.
 
He felt her damp hair brush across his face, felt the scent and taste of her sweet, intoxicating breath insinuating itself into his own.
 
He could not see, not with his eyes, but he had visions, clear visions.
 
He drew them from the image he now cherished, the clear depths of her eyes.

He found answers there, too, or at least he believed that he did.
 
Already his fingers itched, aching for the keyboard.
 
The gates in his mind were bowed from the weight of words that must be released or drive him mad.

"What turns you on?" she whispered once more, pulling back slightly and slipping to his side.
 
They lay there, skin pressed to skin, his eyes on the ceiling and his mind far away, her eyes studying his profile and her fingers dancing idly over his body.
 
He ignored those fingers as best he could.
 
He was after her mind.

He did not see her for days.
 
Her class schedule and his own were so disparate that they seldom crossed paths.
 
Too seldom, he thought, at times – at others far too often.
 
He had not studied since she'd left him, had only been to one class – half a class, to be honest.

What turns you on?

His dreams were surreal, fevered landscapes that drew him in and sent him back to his own world writhing in frustrated fear and bathed in sweat.
 
What was he afraid of?
 
The answers he sought wove themselves into tapestries he could never bring to life before their threads unraveled.
 
Secrets whispered from the darkness into his ears and slipped back out, leaving him clutching at their trailing edges – biting his lips in frustration.

He had not eaten.
 
He was not fasting, nor was he suffering for art's sake.
 
The concept of food was lost to him.
 
Coffee cups littered the floor at his feet.
 
His chin was a small forest of grimy stubble.
 
His eyes stared with fevered intensity, burning from too much use – the smoke from too many half-burned cigarettes, hunger.

Trying too hard,
he told himself.
 
He was seated once more before the glowing green eye of his word processor, mesmerized and mocked by the blinking cursor, strobing like a solitary sentinel in neon garb.

The caffeine was replacing his blood.
 
The CRT was leaking it's mucous green glow out to engulf his world.
 
It was slipping away – everything was slipping away.
 
He did not feel as though he were in the same place at all.

Trying
way
too hard.

When she entered the room, he hardly noticed.
 
Her perfume wisped past his face, imbedded itself into the patterns of his thoughts, wound around and through him.
 
Her arms twined across his shoulders, which were trembling with denied fatigue.
 
Her hair dangled, tickling his skin and caressing him with an electric field of sensual intrusion.
 
He fought it.
 
He saw her presence in that moment for what it was – an interruption – a distraction.

Damn her, it was her fault.
 
He was creating.
 
He was writing what was important.
 
He was doing nothing.

"Interesting plot," she observed, gazing at the screen over his shoulder and nipping playfully at his earlobe.
 
"I foresee laurels; your fame will spread far and wide.
 
You need a shower."

All true.
 
He let her drag him to his feet, leaving the screen and the cursor to keep one another company as he dragged his sweat-drenched shirt and grubby jeans off in a daze.
 
He staggered down the hallway in her wake, following the distant, jarring hiss of water steaming through pipes.
 
She was waiting, naked in the steam, smiling at him with everything but her eyes.

He did not want this.
 
His head was swimming with visions – the threads were weaving themselves together once more, taunting him.
 
Once his keyboard was beyond his reach, he ached for it – yearned for it.
 
Once the screen no longer faced off with him, holding him at a creative impasse – blocking the stream of his thoughts – he could picture it filling, letters dribbling from the top down to cover its green surface with words and phrases and syntax of literary perfection.

She dragged him into the tub, sliding the shower curtain closed behind him and drawing him close.
 
Her skin was coated with a slick sheen of soap, and her lips were parted.
 
She appeared hungry, needy – empty.
 
He pulled away, trying to re-orient his whirling thoughts.
 
Failed.

She opened her eyes to him then, just for a second, just long enough.
 
He met them head on, forced his knees not to buckle and ignored the pull of her flesh on his own, on his soul.
 
He caught a glimpse of something in that instant, something that ran and hid, scurrying to the back of her mind and twisting from the assault of his eyes – fear.
 
He was sure of it.
 
Fear, and something more.
 
Then it was gone, scurrying deeper into her mind.
 
She knelt down, diverting her gaze, and drew him down beside her.

The water washed over them.
 
He could feel it streaming down, washing away his resolve, melting the tapestry.
 
It was like rain across a sun-soaked beach, unable to quench the heat, misting to steam as it streamed across their joined flesh.
 
He fought it.
 
He reached back – only seconds, seconds that stretched like years – reached for that glimpse into her eyes.

What turns you on?

Not this,
he thought.
 
"Not this," he murmured.
 
She did not hear him.
 
She did not listen.
 
His thoughts swam, whirled.
 
He grasped at them, struggled to free himself – failed.
 
They broke free, sloughing off and slipping away, joining the soapy water as it swirled on downward and passed through the drain.

This time he clawed at her.
 
This time it was
his
nails that bit,
his
teeth that found purchase in soft skin.
 
It was her blood that flowed, her pain.
 
He had no focus.
 
He could not remember what he wanted – what was important.
 
She sucked at him, drew him in, mocked him with the memory of her words – of her eyes.

It ended in a flash.
 
He was there – joined with her – yet he was not.
 
His mind floated, pleasure shimmering through and over him, and the heat that passed between them was incredible – blinding.
 
He tried to speak her name, tried to call out to her to pull her closer – to push her away.
 
He heard her voice – laughter?
 
Tears?
 
Then nothing.
 
Nothing.

He woke with a start.
 
She was there – beside him.
 
He was still in the tub, but now it was filled with warm, bubbling water.
 
Her hands splashed idly, running over his flesh with the soap, twisting in the hairs on his chest.
 
She watched him as if from far away, watched him with deep, hollow eyes, eyes that begged to be filled, eyes that snatched hungrily at his innermost being.

He closed his own eyes, freeing them for a moment.

"What turns you on?" she asked.
 
He did not answer, only laid back against the cool porcelain and the warm water, drooping, letting himself slip down until he was all but immersed.
 
He did not open his eyes.

What turns you on?

Nights came and went, and finally he slept.
 
It was not good sleep.
 
He tossed and turned in the throes of dreams that would dance out of his grasp, fleeing the confines of his memory each time he shook himself to groggy wakefulness, only to return if he let his mind slip back into the darkness.
 
At last he gave it up, returning to his vigil in front of the monitor screen.

What turns you on?

He began:

"There is pleasure, there is pain, and there is more.
 
There are doorways within us that fade and reappear, windows that show glimpses of things that their panes, clearer and stronger than glass, prevent us from touching.
 
There are veils, and there are barriers; none are permanent.

What is necessary is to divert your mind from its purpose – your protection.
 
If you want to know what is beyond the veil, you have to rip it aside.
 
Man's most powerful instinct is survival; your body will not allow you to pass the veil.
 
You need a key.

Pain will work.
 
Pleasure will work as well.
 
In combination, they are more effective.
 
There is another key, a truer key.
 
That key is total release.
 
Your mind protects you, your soul shies away from the truth.
 
You must let it go, if you want to see...if you want to know."

Toby stared at the screen for a long time.
 
He had no idea where the words had come from, nor where they were heading.
 
He had no urge to write more, not yet.
 
It would come.
 
He feared that it would come in an avalanche, burying him so deeply that he'd never claw his way free.
 
He did not erase any of what he'd written; he also did not save it.
 
He watched, and he waited.

She came after six, small cartons of Chinese food she knew they'd never get to in a brown paper bag and an innocent smile with no depth painted across her lips.
 
The scent of the food wafted across the room, itching at his starved body.
 
He shut it out.
 
He did not rise.

She came to him then, sensing the difference, feeling the subtle changes in the air – in the ether.
 
Kneeling, she read over his shoulder as he continued to stare at the screen, ignoring her.

"What turns
you
on?" he asked.
 
He didn't turn to her, nor did he move, just the words announcing his acknowledgement of her presence.

She didn't answer.
 
She moved in closer, sliding her arms around him from behind and letting her hands roam across the emaciated skin of his chest.
 
She did not speak, not to question, not to answer.
 
Her answer was her silence.