A Breakneck Bind

Well i can't really afford to collect books for the moment, but i still write :) This is a follow up short story to - The Left is Sinister - that was in my collection - Everyone Loves Clowns And Other Tales.

What is the human joy that has been christened intimacy? Truly! Aid me, do you know, do you?

Dear reader, I’m bewildered, baffled and befuddled about these barmy, bonkers and berserk beliefs that bang around my brain with such blunt brutality, as to banish the beauty of battling brainwaves to the bottom burrow of the backward. I beg for your brilliance, because my brother, best buddy, I believe my very being is in a breakneck bind.

But enough of this absurd alliteration. Because this is not alike I who is above all, always assure. So to the point I must aim, and to arrive there I must first actualize the birth of such absurdity.

The day previous, at my place of employment where I endeavour with enterprising expertise, a character with a cunning cleverness who I had never had a craving to converse with before came cascading down the cluttered corridor only to conclude his course outside of my cell.

I glanced up. This individual had ignited my interest, incited my imagination; never before had he been inclined to impose himself on my inscape.

“You’ve been around a few years, haven’t you? Know the rest of the staff pretty well?” My mouth stayed motionless but the evidence manifests a man of many moons. “Heather from the other office said yes! We’re going for dinner tomorrow, but… she said to expect nothing intimate. What do you think? Does it mean no physical contact, or… I don’t know.”

My mind was deserted, desolate, devoid of any decent deduction; and it disturbed my daily dispassionate demeanour. But despite that distress I stayed dumb and after a dodgy duration, duped, he departed.

Only the crazy converse when there is nothing to convey.

But I admit it. After his inquiry on intimacy, it was all I can imagine. You see, I consider myself an intellectual, one who is inventive, imaginative and always inclined to ingest new information. Though how to gain such illumination of the intellect?

Could Chloe offer comfort and co-operation? No; charming, crazy, cute, callous Chloe who was consumed by my charm, checked out and is now, crudely conversing, not a choice. I know you know this. You discovered her disrobed derriere in the disused Derby department store, didn’t you, you dastardly Detective?

So I detected another dame to deliver me to discovery. At first I didn’t detect her to be the decipher to my dumbfoundment, which decidedly disappointed my distressed and drained demeanour. So straightforward! The sophisticated and sultry siren was steered (seduced) to my sanctuary so simply, only the suggestion of spirits and silver was required to shoulder a slave to my sofa.

“Intimacy, how to interpret it?” I inquired. “Boundaries? Beliefs?” With big blank blinkers she bored into my brain, brushed back her blue blouse skyward, beamed, but blushingly bottled up each belief.

I continued, turned tighter to her tight torso, tickled her thigh with the tip of a thumb. “Is it skin shaving skin, or a squeeze, a smooch with slippery saliva, sweaty sensual sex or a sickeningly swift screw? Or is it something entirely enormous, esoteric, that extends to the edge of energy, to the… soul? A slicing of skin, to spawn a spring of shining blood, the suffering, the satisfaction, the…”

I gazed at my guest. She, so sweet like sugar was snoozing, sleeping and snoring on my settee. I could’ve been resentful, but remembering the Rohypnol in her rum, roared with ridicule and removed the relaxed rebel to her room.

Today, during the daily toil typing tallies while toasting a tumbler of tea, my taxing teammate trundled over for another tour of talk. “I’m worried,” he whispered. “It’s Heather, she’s not here, not answering her phone, email, nothing; and she’s never ill.”

I smiled, stayed shtum, rose and strolled away swaying my skirt.

“Don’t you care!” he howled down the hallway.

There was no sense is stressing, the sweetheart was safe and sound in my shelter. Because I need salvation, the suffering, my skull is set to shatter with speculation, scrutiny, suspicion and spirits screeching, screaming, stabbing with sarcasm; what is intimacy? Well I’ve apprehended the aggressor, and with the aid of my acute and artful apparatus, she will abandon her answers.

So, dear reader, do not worry about Heather, she will be well looked after. I only hope you do not suffer as I do; find the truth, find it, before it’s too late.