The Story Guy (Novella) (7 page)

“I think you should look next to you, because if I was the BRFCA in question, that’s where you’d find me.” His tone is unmistakable, low and soft.

Every hair from my neck, right down my spine, all the way to the downy fuzz over my hips is standing on end. I was hoping, and his voice is perfect. Exactly perfect. “If I found you next to me, Brian, what would you do?” I whisper this, so he knows
exactly what it is I want him to do.

His sigh is all breath. “Touch you.”

God
. I love this. This little script everyone recites at the beginning of phone sex, because you don’t know if it will work or not, for sure, so you start somewhere safe. Just a few wishes, recited in the sweetest tones you can manage. So, “Touch me
where
?” I ask, on cue.

“Oh Carrie,” he breathes in my ear, “there are so many places I want to touch you.”

“Above the shoulder?”

“No. Though I love your neck, and it’s worth exploring more. So if I were there, I would
start
at your nape right where those small dark curls point into the hollow, where I can feel your goose bumps against my tongue when I bite into you.”

I am already breathing hard. And this is going to work, because if it’s not, my next line is so corny but so unmistakable: “What are you wearing?” I need to see him.

“I told you I was thinking about going for a long ride, so I had stripped down to change into bike gear, but I called you instead.”

“Brian—”

“So I’m not wearing anything, except my briefs, which I promise you, right now, are not doing any good. In fact …” I hear a rustle.
Fuck
. “There. I’m next to you, Carrie, my mouth already on your soft nape, and when you feel me against you, behind you, kissing you there, all you can feel—”

“—is your skin.” I don’t even recognize my voice. I reach back and turn off the floor lamp behind the sofa, and I close my eyes. “I feel all your skin against me. I can feel you, in the small of my back, pressed up against me.”

“I like the idea, Carrie, I
so
like the idea that I’m against you like that, with nothing on except you’re still wearing one of those pretty tops you like that would look so proper if only I couldn’t almost see your lacy bra—not quite see-through, though, no matter how much I squint. And the top is a little wrinkled now, and has come untucked from your skirt.”

Holy shit
. “
Brian
. You have done this before.”

He laughs. But it’s all roughed up and whispery. “Once or twice. But mostly, I’ve
been thinking about you for hours and hours, just like this. Contract attorneys have very good imaginations.”

“Is that so?”

“I would answer, but my mouth is full of your neck.”

I drag my fingers over the back of my neck, almost expecting to encounter his lips. “Be careful. My blouse today buttons down the back.
All the way
down the back.”

“So if I was right there, behind you, kissing your neck and shoulders and playing with your hair, I could slip my fingers down into your blouse and—”

“Undo my blouse.” I can feel it. His long, square-tipped fingers sliding under the slinky collar——maybe the silk snags on a callus—working the buttonholes over the slippery pearl buttons. The top of my blouse would start to part and sag, and finally—

“I would slide my hands around to your front, once it came apart, and at first, I would just hold your breasts in my hands, barely touching with my fingertips where the fullness of them spills over your bra.”

I laugh, but the laugh is broken. “ ‘Spilling’ cleavage is very optimistic.”

“Believe me, they’re full enough.” He goes quiet. I just barely hear his breath. “Touch them for me. Tell me what they’re like. Tell me everything you’re feeling.”

Oh boy
. I slowly pull my blouse up out of my waistband, skipping the buttons down my back and instead, sliding my free hand up and under.

I feel strangely hesitant and shy, as if he’s really watching me. Every nerve ending in my body starts to switch on, one by one, field lights prepping for a night game.
Thud. Thud. Thud
.

I slide my index finger under my bra and sweep it over my erect nipple. My shudder is full on and the sting goes deep. It’s amazing. Like my own body is a shiny new toy. I do it again, and the sting bleeds liquid warmth over my breast.

“I can hear you shake,” he whispers. “What are you doing?”

“My hand’s under my blouse, my bra. Very softly, I am brushing my finger over my nipple. It’s—so hard. So tight it almost hurts. I am barely touching it and I’m getting hot all over.”

He groans, and I get inspired. I tell him, “Touch your nipples, too. Like I did for you at the picnic table in the park.”

“Jesus Christ, Carrie. I’m sweating, hot. That feels good, but my cock is harder, please—”

“Touch it, something,
Brian
.”

“I am—there’s—pre-cum. I’m slippery. Carrie,
God
, Carrie, are you wet? Tell me.”

I lay myself down on the couch, awkwardly pull both cups of my bra down, and press a palm into my nipple, hard. My hips are wiggling under their own power, and it is a relief when I hike my skirt up one-handed, the air cool against my soaking pantie gusset. I need him to tell me how, though. What to do, exactly. “I’ve pulled my skirt up, and I can tell I am so wet because the air over my wet panties is making me shiver. I want—”

“If I were there, Carrie, I would need to feel how soft the skin on the inside of your thighs is, first, how hot it is at that place where your thigh curves into your pussy. I love that place. I would kiss it first, but then lick it, inhale you.”

My hand is just at that place. His words are so surprisingly explicit and knowing, as if he really has been thinking about exactly this, over and over.

I can smell myself, rich and warm. I mean to tell him, but his voice is so labored, it’s making my hips pump up against the shape of his voice in my imagination—round, warm, silky like fur. “How would you touch me, Brian?”

“I’d stay over your panties, first, use them to tease you, back and forth, up and down. Are you touching yourself?” I am, just like he tells me he would. I can only make a noise of affirmation.

“Then, I’d slip one finger under, see how ready you are for me, how soft you feel, how tiny the ringlets must be there.”

He’s taken some kind of master class for phone sex. Or has the most beautiful imagination in the Midwest. Or self-denial hones the edge of desire like a leather strap. “Brian, I’m sliding off my underwear. I feel close, and I can’t tease myself much longer.”

This is an understatement. I like phone sex, always thought it was a fun part of the repertoire with a boyfriend, but there is something about doing this with Brian, not knowing where he’ll go with it, not really knowing him, actually.

And Jesus, he’s so good at it. This whole picture he’s painted where I’m half
clothed with just my good parts exposed, being touched and petted by a completely naked man.
Yes
, I’m close.

“Yeah, take them off, slide your whole hand over yourself, because that’s what I would do, opening you up so I can see you—” His voice breaks, and ohmyGod, I can
hear
his slick cock rubbing through his hand. I spread myself open and groan, dipping around my opening and dragging my wetness over a clit as tight as my nipples, sharp and buzzing.

“I’m so wet, Brian, I can’t stop, I want you to—”

“If I were there, I’d be holding your knees over my shoulders, Carrie. My mouth would be over you and I’d lick you and taste you and suck you until you were so wet and swollen. And I’d move up to kiss you, so you would taste yourself, but I wouldn’t leave you, my fingers high inside you, rubbing up and out until—”

I am two fingers deep, bucking against my hand. “Fuck me, Brian, oh please, fuck me and touch me, help me.” I can’t breathe. I can smell his phantom—sun and toothpaste and the cotton of his shirt.

“I’m fucking you. I’m inside you, so deep inside you—God, Carrie, I’m fucking you, fucking you.”

And we say something like each other’s names. The orgasm closes my walls over my fingers, but I push back deep, needing to pulse around something inside me. It catches me from around my sharp-feeling clit to the small of my back, which is dripping sweat.

As I hitch back down, breathing hard, smelling like sex, I can hear him again, breathing harder. “Are you okay?” The phone is burning hot against my cheek.

His laugh is choked. “I’m so okay. That—well. I’m glad I called.”

It’s easy to laugh now. Everything feels easy. We breathe, fast, in tandem, until the shared rhythm of our breaths slowly moves apart and we settle into mutual quiet, our own cadence.

“Your call made my evening.” I laugh a little at the understatement. My voice feels strange in my throat. “Question, though.”

“What’s that?” His voice is all rumbly and soft—imagining him replete and glowing and naked makes me feel very smug. And cuddly, despite still being alone, my blouse a wreck around my shoulders, my bra stretched around my waist, and my skirt
sticking to my thighs.

“Where
is
this mythical bike-riding federal contracts attorney tonight? Ride your bike here, de-lonely my apartment.”
Get in my bed
. My tone is unmistakable. There’s that beat, no,
two
beats of silence again.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I say. I sit up and pull down my shirt, needing armor. “Don’t do that. Not now. I am by no means an expert in meeting strangers for noontime necking, but I do know something about chemistry, or a connection. If there is some impediment …” I take a breath, my cheeks suddenly hot thinking about how easy it would be to substitute “wife” for “sister,” if he were that kind of guy. “If you are the kind of guy that has an
impediment
,” I lace the word with censure in case he deserves it, “then tell me now. We’ve met twice. We were together tonight, no matter that cell towers were between us. We’re not strangers now; we can’t part as such. You have to give me a reason.” I blow out hard, gripping the phone.

He doesn’t answer, but I can almost hear his thoughts, racing toward something to tell me. “I—no, you’re right. It’s—”

“Complicated. Yeah, so you say.” I know I sound hard.

“Yeah, it is, but what I mean is, there
is
no impediment, not the kind you mean. There isn’t anyone, and if there was the space to start something in my life right now, Carrie—you, it would be with you. It would so be you. I mean, you’re a
librarian
, for fuck’s sake.” His half-laugh from his half-joke is strained. “You’re smart, adorable, funny,
sexy
—God. If anyone …” He stops, makes a sound of frustration. “I mean, I can’t stop thinking about your daisies. About why I’d be so lucky to have you answer my ad, but I just can’t be lucky. I can’t ask for anything. For any kind of flower. I don’t know why this was so much more than Wednesday even after the first Wednesday.”

He stops, but the quiet is not silence, not like before. He’s inviting me to respond. And he sounds so—frustrated, but resigned in that frustration. But I’m frustrated, too. I still don’t know why it’s all so hard for him, why he’s doing this to himself. All of us are complicated—debt, underemployment, crazy family, addiction—but even drunk, jobless debtors still
date
, damn it. He’s not telling me anything. And I should just gently tell him goodbye. And maybe I could if I had just brought home a plant or a goldfish at some point.

“Just a date, Brian. Meet me somewhere, not on a Wednesday, and without any rules. And like any date, we can see what it feels like. We can talk, actually eat something during a mealtime instead of trying to fit the whole breadth of human feeling into an hour.”

“Carrie.” His voice is quiet, but his inhale is not. “Okay. You’re right. It’s not fair not to give this a chance, and there are things,” he clears his throat, “that we should talk about if this whole not-Wednesday dating is as good as I probably think it will be.” He stops, but his quiet still hasn’t gotten all silent. “Could we do this, soon? Like, tomorrow soon?”

I laugh, and this laugh is noticeably untethered. “Brian, in case you didn’t notice, I just invited you to come over
tonight
.”

I can hear his grin. “Yeah, but I think that was just using me for booty. I want to do this right, given our less-than-auspicious beginning.”

“Ha! Yeah, I’m free tomorrow. Normally I work Saturdays, but as it happens it’s a library holiday. They always give us the bad news right before a library holiday.”

“Oh Christ, that’s right—you just got bad work news, I’m sorry. If you’d rather—”

“Hell, no. Don’t let me bully you into a date and then back off, Counselor. We’re doing this.”

“Okay. It’s supposed to be nice. Could I take you to brunch, maybe? Around elevenish?”

“Wow. That sounds extremely sweet. Brunch. Very date-y. Also, you really like the middle of the day, huh?”

“Well, if it’s awful, there’s still enough time in the day to enjoy your library holiday.” He sounds as though it not going well might be an actual possibility.

“Oo-kay. Well, do I meet you somewhere, or …?”

“For old time’s sake, let’s meet. You know that Dutch pancake place? Near Lakeside Hospital?”

“Definitely. I haven’t been there in ages—love that place.”

“I’ll meet you out front by those big flower things. Then maybe we can walk around, or something, after.” He’s definitely nervous. I try to feel bad for pushing him to
this point, but then I remember his voice telling me he’s fucking me, and any try for remorse floats away.

“Pancakes, flowers, got it.”

“How will I recognize you, Carrie?”

I smile, back to cord twirling. “I don’t know. After tonight, you may recognize my phone better.”

He laughs, and it’s finally easy. “After tonight, I may not be able to get up out of this chair. You’re amazing.”

“Good night, BRFCA.”

“Good night, Carrie the Lieberrien.”

Good night, moon. Tonight, I sleep.

Saturday, 2:48 p.m.