Wordmongers' Masque
Waking Up.
My eyes flicker back and forth. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. I’m exausted. No, more then that, I’m burnt out. My head feels like it’s splitting in two and I’m not sure if I can handle moving.
It looks like it’s going to be one of those mornings. You know the ones. Where you wake up and you can just tell everything is going to be wrong. Where you think, “I may as well stay in bed, because it’s going downhill from this”. Yes. Today was definitely going to be one of those and I’d barely opened my eyes.
“Morning babe,” a voice crept into my ears and it took a moment to register. Who the hell was in my room? I gave myself a few seconds to think about it. And it came to me rather suddenly. This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t even my house. Things last night… must not have gone entirely according to my expectations.
Lips touched my cheek and I allowed myself that instant of blissful ignorance, before finally allowing my eyes a look around to determine where I was.
As it turns out, the answer wasn’t terribly shocking. Jennifer Michaels. A sweet girl who, despite my protests against, decided that I am the man for her. For the curious, I highly doubt I am that man. But, I guess, a leap of faith and a bit too much rum turned me around on the idea. Or she had knocked me out and dragged me back to her place. While appealing to my moral side, I doubted it was the latter.
“Morning,” a groggy well-planed response to her cheery demeanor if I ever heard one. Then again, I doubt anyone expects charm and wit at this hour of the day. Hell, I doubt people expect charm and wit from me at all. That’s how I like it.
“I was thinking of making some coffee, but since you’re already awake…” She let it hang there, as she crawled back into bed and rubbed up against me. “We can just… stay here for a while longer.” Christ. She’s a sweet girl. A sweet girl with a heart. Maybe her head’s in the wrong place, but it’s all about heart. That isn’t going to convince me that last night… whatever happened last night… was a good idea.
“Jen…” I try and think of something to say. Anything at all. Except, I don’t have a clue what I could possibly to make this right. Or not even right. Make this okay. Because she doesn’t know that this feels wrong. That what I did last night and what happened when I was drunk really don’t mean that I want to be with her. Christ. I sound like a complete asshole. A complete fucking asshole.
She just smiles at hearing me saying her name and kisses me on the chest. It feels nice to have someone snuggle up and be with me. It feels nice to be with someone. Even if I don’t want to be with them.
I tilt her head up and kiss her. She doesn’t seem to mind my morning breath and pushes her lips harder against mine. This still isn’t a good idea, but I’m not sure what else to do. Obviously, I screwed up somewhere down the line last night. Likely at the point where I agreed to come back to her place. But I can’t just drop her now. Certainly not like this. Not only would I be breaking her heart, but I’d also be destroying a friendship.
Jennifer Michaels. Seventeen years old. She’s still in high school. Not that high school means anything. College is the same game, with different people. More than a few people date high school girls. That’s not why I feel guilty.
It isn’t until our lips unlock that I realize I’ve been kissing her mechanically. I lay back down, trying to hide against her pillows. Trying to smile leaves me nothing but a crooked look on my face. I close my eyes again, hoping that something will change when I open them again.
I feel her hands sliding along my chest and I can hardly complain. It feels good to be with someone. She moves them further down playing with the elastic in my boxers. It’s not hard to guess where she moved next.
Let me explain something here. I’m not a total bastard. I don’t mean to be, anyway. But after a long enough time, you don’t really care who is doing it. Just that it’s being done. And hell, she’s not hideous. She’s rather beautiful.
Justifying is a wonderful thing.
Society is a masked ball, where every one hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding.
Ralph Waldo Emerson