ANGELA 018

ANGELA 018
I SUPPOSE IT’S HYPOCRITICAL TO have had that talk with Parker then lull myself to sleep masturbating in his guest bed. But I can’t help it. I’m wound up — and I don’t think it was my imagination: he was, too.

But we’re adults. Not teenage bags of hormones. Back then, we maybe had excuses. Today, not so much. I remember having no real concept of the future when I was a kid. There was today and maybe tomorrow. But I didn’t try to save money (not that I could), I didn’t worry about my health (or sanity), and I didn’t think about what my life might be like in the future if I made the wrong decisions. It’s shocking that we didn’t detonate our worlds in a ten-megaton estrogen-testosterone bomb. Somehow, we survived … and now that we’re mature enough to consider consequences, it’s important that we do.

I didn’t plan to sleep here, so I have no pajamas. I closed the door a bit ago — which was also hard; I could feel myself wanting to find Parker in his quiet, stunning apartment. Now alone, I slip off my confining jeans. Then the shirt and the bra. He’s set out unisex clothes for me: fancy, fine garments that probably cost more than my rent.

I’m about to put them on when I remember I’ve still not showered. I merely splashed myself at home, before changing clothes and hoping for the best. It’s a miracle he didn’t run screaming.

But I can’t get into those clothes or under the sheets as I am.

So I slip of my panties and, savoring my nudity maybe too much, go into the guest bath attached to my temporary bedroom. The shower is larger than my walk-in closet at home, and there are two shower heads. I take a hot shower then shut the thick glass door behind me and slip into the sleep shorts without anything else.

That’s all it takes: the movement of slippery fabric on skin. The realization that although I’m in the guest bedroom, it’s accurate to say I’m sliding Parker’s clothes over my naked body and climbing into his bed.

I slip the garment back off, let my hand explore the smooth, sensitive skin between my legs, and cum while thinking of Parker.

But it’s okay. It’s not really him. It’s my hand. And it’s my hand the second time, too. Just because I think of him while I do it — just because I wonder if his body is still as sculpted as it looks, just because I picture him climbing under the sheets with me, easing his weight atop me, sliding inside me — that doesn’t make it him for real.

It’s like quitting cigarettes with a nicotine patch. Yes, you’re still getting the drug, but without so many of the negative consequences brought by the real thing.

I wake up in the morning, recalling my dalliances and feeling somehow guilty. As if he’ll see relief on my face and know what I’ve done. But when I come out into the front room, I see that he’s not yet emerged. It’s strange to be in another person’s living room alone, so I decide to take another shower. I’ve never been sprayed with water from two directions at once, so I take my time and indulge. As I’m finishing, again thinking of how I’m naked in Parker’s house after all this time, I realize that one of the shower heads is detachable. I decide that it’s safest to start the day with optimum pressure released, so I pretend the spray is Parker’s tongue and cum while standing.

But I refuse to feel guilty. Fantasy isn’t reality. Fantasy assists reality. If I couldn’t get off on my own, I might be tempted get off with Parker for real. And that’s nothing but trouble.

I leave the bathroom and find Parker. He can’t meet my eye when saying hello, and I find myself strongly suspecting he might have let off some pressure this morning too, thinking of me.

The awkward moment passes. We spend some time discussing my family despite him clearly not wanting to, probably so we can remind each other that we’re legally (if not biologically) related. Parker makes a joke about how Mom and Bill screwed things up for us by getting together. I tell him that if they hadn’t been together, there was no way in hell we ever would have met. I was Miss Perfect, and he was Mr. Wrong. His friends beat up my friends. We had them to blame, not thank.

Then Parker goes too far, pointing out that all the problems would go away if they’d just break up or die. “Then we could rock the bedposts,” he says. It’s such a ludicrously awful thing to say, a truly tasteless joke. We both laugh, too hard, and it’s clear that it’s only made things worse for these two people trying to reacquaint without reacquainting too far.

We talk about a bunch of other boring, platonic things: his business, his standard artist contracts, WinFinity’s expansion plans. I make him show me an organizational chart because it’s the least sexy thing I can possibly think of. And after a while the moment passes, and we really are just two people. A golden hour begins, and I can almost imagine us hanging out, being buddies, maybe acting like siblings joined by marriage.

And at that point, with the cold shower of ordinary reality between us, I realize to my surprise that I like Parker Altman.

He’s smart. He’s interesting. He’s lost his worst habits and gained a few better ones. He still has his arrogance, but that’s okay; the world’s difference makers are all arrogant.

When he suggests that I meet Duncan — who, he assures me, is even more arrogant than he is — the air feels safe enough to accept his offer. I have today off work, and I’ve already made my excuses to Mom like a teenager. I tell her I’ll be late and add that I may stay another night away. That will have to be played by ear. Right now, I’ve found myself comfortable playing with fire.

But I must remember it’s fire, and be ready to run if it blazes.

I tell Parker I need to go home for dinner clothes. We’ll be meeting Duncan and a woman named Samantha. I can’t do it in jeans that probably stink from yesterday’s sweat. What’s more, I intuit that Samantha is Parker’s girlfriend. Him making a point to invite her is probably like me bringing up Mom and Bill. It’s Parker saying, See? I have a girlfriend. How could we NOT be platonic forever and ever? Clearly, it’s not a problem because I’m inviting her to dinner … and no, it doesn’t sound to me like protesting at all.