Glory Box

IV:     “When you answer the door

           Pick up the phone

You won’t find me ‘cause I’m not coming home…” ~Maroon 5 “Not Coming

Home”

          I’ve been making myself as scarce as possible for the past few days, ratcheting up my pursuit of the life raft that is Leslie Rains and trying to continue on that path of self-preservation.

          Jesus. I can’t believe I fucking mouth raped Micki like that. I had been doing so well, too. Then I had a brain fart and decided to head to the can to brush my teeth, forgetting that she was already in there, and bumped into her as she was making her way out. I put my arms around her to keep her upright, and that delicious smell of her arousal swept over me and insanity wasn’t far behind. I went at her like a junky getting his fix.

          I’m honestly surprised that she hasn’t pressed charges. I was way out of line. *Way* out of line.

          It would be easier, I suppose, if she wasn’t the arbiter of the most decadent flavor I’ve ever experienced. My mouth waters just thinking about it. And my lord, she was insanely wet and extra fucking tasty during my bout of mouth rape insanity. Christ.

          I’ve lost every single marble that I’ve ever had. Loonsville: Party of me.

          It’s been pretty strained between us too, when I am around the storefront and at home, that is. I can tell she’s trying to be normal, and keep going with our unspoken agreement to deny anything ever happened between us, but when I can power up the ability to glance her way, she seems colder. Distant. I mean, it’s understandable. I did violate her eight ways from Sunday, so I deserve every ounce of cool thrown my way.

          It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

          So I’ve been out of the store for massive spans of time, doing my due diligence on Leslie Rains and figuring out all of her haunts, cornering her and putting on all the charm I can muster. I’ve been a pretty constant figure around the orchestra hall. Normally, I would be embarrassed by how strong I am coming on; but I am desperate to shed this chest compressing love and desire for Miss too-good-for-me Micki Foster that’s crawled under my skin and left my body aching.

          Leslie seems like she’s the perfect remedy for my affliction. Interested, but not throwing herself at me. She’s making me work for it, and I like that. It seems like she’s got some demons haunting her, too, so I feel a weird sort of sympatico with her on that.

          I’ve got my own mouth raping demons to deal with. Fuck.

          I am the biggest jackass alive.

          I’ve just come back from “bumping” into Leslie at the record store with a stack of classical albums, and Jack made the suggestion for the three of us to have a little listening party so he can give me a tutorial on the best of the best in classical violin.

          I couldn’t just say no. Jack would think that something was up and I can’t have that. He would string me up by my balls if he knew what I had done to Micki.

          But Tiny Tim on a crutch, is it painful to look at her. Always a vision in white, her beauty just slays me. We’re all situated around the record player, and as per usual, she’s far too near. I’m sitting next to her, but my back is turned as I face away from her. Feeling and smelling her is more than enough for me at the moment, thank you. Her side is sort of pressed against my back, her leg grazing me and folded against her body on the sofa we’re sitting on. I’m finding it incredibly hard to keep my cool. And God-fucking-Damn, does she *have* to be so aromatic? I’m overwhelmed with another urge to just plant my head between her legs and never leave. Just live there for the rest of eternity.

          Shake it the fuck off, Dallion.

          I’m really hoping that Jack doesn’t notice the very painful erection I’ve been sporting from that first whiff of her. Most likely not, he’s too busy talking about this Korda cat and his endless supply of new releases, even though he’s been dead for a hot second.

          I can barely concentrate. Her scent. Her intoxicating, maddening, unattainable essence has me steps from batshit. I’m responding appropriately to our conversation, but I’m not really here. I’m in some glorious dream place where I can indulge in that magic between her legs and in this place, she is more than happy to have me there.

          Oh, if only that were actually true.

          I mean, there was a surprising lack of resistance when I went down on her the other night, and she did come a couple of times as well, so it seemed like she enjoyed what happened in the moment, but I was too cowardly to stick around for the aftermath. Spat out an apology and ran like hell. I slept on the couch in the storefront that night. And have been Joe Scarce ever since. I’m certain Micki’s been better off for it. There’s no way she could actually have anywhere near the depth of feeling that consumes me when it comes to her. It might be painful, but I know that her being in a mutual, fulfilling relationship with someone she actually wants is the best thing for her.

          I love her far too much to have to see her sell herself short. She deserves everything good and then some.

          She definitely doesn’t need a distant cousin mouth rapist tainting her sphere of existence.

          So the pursuit of Leslie Rains persists. Our listening party finally breaks up after what felt like an eternity of jaw clenching, body tensing agony. I beat feet upstairs to immerse myself in some reading up on the classical greats for my date with Leslie tomorrow night. Maybe if I sleep with her, it will help me get over this crawling want that I have for Micki. Something’s gotta give. Because I’ve been dreaming about the night of our indiscretion since it happened, and it clings to me. It’s also made me consistently, permanently erect. I’ve definitely been tucking up into the ol’ waistband to keep it less noticeable, anyway.

          Another reason why keeping away from Curious Goods as much as possible has been a good thing. At least I can calm down this agony in my pants when I’m away from her.

          But of course, it’s now back in full fury as I see her titian ponytail coming up the stairs into the kitchenette. I’m lounging on my cot in an old Level 42 T and buffalo boxers, trying to pore through this pretty dry tome. Beethoven. Joy.

          “Light reading?” She kids me, an angel in white at the top of the stairs.

          “Just boning up for my date tomorrow night.” I answer, “I like to try to knock ‘em dead with a little witty repartee.”

          Micki rolls her eyes at me and leaves to her bedroom without another word. See what I said about cold? She does yell at me from the other side of her doors, “Don’t forget that we’re doing props for that William Pratt movie next week. Try not to get too caught up with your new girlfriend.”

          “Thanks for the reminder.” I holler back. I get back to my book and grab a pen and paper to start jotting down quotes.

          I’m going to have to play this just right.