just bad timing

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  • Book Two, Chapter Four — The Doorway

    October 11th, 2018.

    I went to work full of energy and exhausted all the same. It was a cold, long night-shoot but I powered through. On my way home at 6am, I texted Mystery Man. “I’m just getting home now. So tired, but can’t sleep. Don’t know what to do with myself.” He answered two hours later, while I was asleep, saying: “Damn, I missed my potential morning BJ?”

    I woke up to read those words around 11am, because my body was like “Daytime BITCH!” I sent him a video of me rolling around in bed naked as a response, because I’m classy like that.

    MM: Mmmmmmmmmm

    C: Hehe come help 😉

    MM: I wish.. Running around all day with meetings. I do want to walk in on you… I want no cock play from you.. I want to walk in and lick your pussy while you watch porn. Mmmm

    C: Mmmm.

    Also, WHAT!?!? This is his fantasy?? Have I won the lottery or what??

    After a few more wordy messages pertaining to all kinds of voyeuristic scenarios, he finally sent:

    MM: So…. How would I get in while you’re in bed?”

    Tingles.

    After exchanging some logistical messages, I was already wet as fuck.

    MM: Send me your address… and quite possible around 12.15-12.30pm something may happen.

    ***

    I put on Erika Lust’s XConfessions Vol. 15 and some loud music. I faced away from the door, as instructed. While I was enthralled by a group scene, I moved to get my womanizer more on point and in that swift motion caught a large shadow in my doorway from the corner of my eye. I swear I didn’t hear him come in at all, just as he had hoped. As soon as my brain registered his presence, my heartbeat accelerated to unprecedented speeds. He walked up to me, and knelt at my bedside. His large hands softly caressed my body, from my neck to my toes.

    “By the way, your neighbours can totally hear every noise coming from here. I could hear you while I stood outside, enjoying the anticipation.”

    Shit. I turned up the music, turned down the porn, and couldn’t give less of a fuck about my moans… I buried my head in a pillow, and propped up my ass. He dove in head first. I couldn’t quite decipher what was hands, what was tongue, what was vibrator… He played as a child given the keys to the castle. I have used the expression worshipping sexually before, but I think this, this was my first real worship. I wanted to explode. My body was entirely convulsing, while his hands kept my thighs from choking him. His fingers went in and around, while his mouth danced around my vulva.

    When I eventually signalled that I couldn’t take it anymore, lying there in a puddle of myself, he licked his lips, and stroked my ass and thighs for a few minutes, before getting off his knees, and turning for the door. I hesitated, unsure of my ability to follow his rules and even more unsure of my legs’ ability to function. Nevertheless, I caught up just before he opened the front door to French kiss the shit out of his face. I wanted so badly to give back, I wanted so badly to suck his dick and make him cum the way I just had. He quickly picked me up off of my knees, kissed my face holding it with both his hands, and said, “No, I told you. I want this to be about you.” And so I let him go.

    ***

    I was laying in bed for 40 minutes when I finally gave up on attempting to sleep. I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but high on adrenaline. High on him. It was a sunny day outside, so I decided to get off my butt and go for ice cream. I strolled down to a local parlour, picked two flavours, and set off to sit in my bliss by a log. The wind was blowing. It was chilly for early October, but the sun hit my leather jacket in that delightful way. I sat there, feeling the air and listening to music, enjoying the incredible simplicity of rippling orgasms followed by fior di latte. I had a cigarette sneakily, praying the cops wouldn’t see me, but kinda not giving a fuck either.

    My phone buzzed.

    FF: Hey gorgeous. What are you up to?

    It was the firefighter. I hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks.

    C: Not much, just having ice-cream at the beach.

    FF: I’m just coming back into town after being away on the coast. Wanna come over and take a shower with me?

    My phone had 4% of battery left when I received that message. I had to make an instant decision. I mean I didn’t get to play with the penis in my bed this morning. Firefighter was a close second when it comes to having been gifted a beautiful package.

    C: I’ll be there in 10.

    FF: Yes! The door will be unlocked as per usual.

    The last time I had seen him, I was blindfolded for the first hour… I hadn’t seen him in a year. It could have been anyone if it wasn’t for his voice. It was kinky and hot, and I mean he is a fucking beautiful human. When he eventually took the blindfold off, I was like, remind again why my eyes were closed at all??? A little shower could be a good time, especially considering I was still bathing in my own juices…

    I walked in and he pulled me in by my little waist. He was 6’7. It was the season of tall men it seems. He waddled still tangled in me to the shower, turned the water on, and started to undress me. No talk needed, just physical attraction. We had the perfect height differential for shower sex. His long, shiny and rock hard cock would hit me deep, as he pulled at my hair, and the hot water glided all over my back.  He eventually turned the water off and carried me to bed. The want in his eyes and his perfect physique were too much for my tired body to bear. We came at the same time.

    ***

    I walked home with my hair wet… As I started walking, I almost taped an Instagram story because it was still a beautiful day but then, why would my hair be wet? What if Mystery Man sees it? I know now that he would have probably high-fived me for the unlikely two-a-day on three hours of sleep. But let’s not rely on hindsight here.

    I strutted in the sunshine through my new neighborhood and let my head be full and vacant all at once. Maybe it wasn’t Antibes after all.

    Maybe I carry the magic with me now. 

     

     

  • Christine In Twenty Eighteen

    On becoming Christine.

    It has been an interesting time, coming into 2018. Just Bad Timing is becoming a physical thing in less than a month and I think I’m going to have postpartum after it does.

    As you might know, Christine is my pen name. Except that some people now know that I am Christine. I’m having a hard time coming to grips with that. A lot of people have asked me if it’s changed people’s behaviour towards me, the facts they’ve learned here. Of course it has! Mostly in a good way. I get to have deep and meaningful conversations with more people than ever! Yet sexually, it’s done something a little odd.

    I did this insidious thing: I connected my personal Tinder to Christine’s Instagram. Talk about a way to get views and warp your gender stats! So now, on top of five super strategically angled pictures, Tinder dudes have access to justbadtiming. “Maybe I can be your next chapter?” I never thought this would be a recurrent pickup line!

    To be honest, I’m a little over the whole Tinder, ONS craze. I will never really be over it as long as I don’t pick a place to settle down, because you know, a girl’s gotta eat. I do however really feel tired of the whole game. I know I can pick up, I know the sex can be surprisingly good (or bad). It’s feeling like the same night over and over again, with slight variations. This is the problem with the game. Once you have enough market research under your belt, you spend your nights waiting for someone to surprise you.

    After trying so hard to be calculated, to be smart, to market myself over the past couple of months, I sit in front of this blank page again, drinking cold coffee, deeply unsatisfied.

    I don’t even know what to think anymore. Throughout the editing process for the book, I have had to go over my life, my decisions, my mistakes, over and over again. The rollercoasters, I’m told make for great story-telling. “Tell us more about that fight”, I’m asked. What is it about human misery, or about someone’s ability to take shit, that is so relatable?

    I have also had to prepare real people for some of the content in my book. No one prepares you for these conversations, especially when you didn’t expect to have to have them. In these conversations, I have had to defend myself, defend my choice to tell the story, defend my plea for vulnerability. How do you do that when you are presently uncomfortable with your own weakness? You push through it. You have to, no one else will.

    So you go home after a long night of explaining why you don’t have a house, why everything you own fits in your suitcase, why you have no money in your bank account, why you want the world to know your secrets… You go home and you sit there in front of a screen, ready to further the cycle.

    And all you can think about, while looking into your reflection, is how you wish someone was there to stroke your hair, to kiss your shoulder or the top of your head, and whisper: “you can do this.”

    It’s a stupid thought really. It’s not like I have anyone in particular in mind. And even if I did, what would I really do about it? Stay, go, leap? I’m craving those instant perfect connections which don’t really exist. The ones that do, they take a long time and building skills. I’m not that girl yet. I’m the girl with the suitcase, waiting to be swept of her feet in some hidden corner of her brain. Yuk, why?

    Why can’t I wish the rollercoasters away? I am trying really hard to be grateful for the glimpses of happiness, for the moments of connection. I am trying to take them as signs of hope, that it’s not so hard to find someone to connect with, that these people who get me, exist. But I’m failing. I’m failing, because I’m tired. I’m tired of having to go the hard way around. I’m tired of being one of those people who will have to go through hell to deserve what some people just stumble upon.

    Or is there such a thing as stumbling upon happiness? Do we just portray ourselves that way, not to let people glimpse into the hardships? After witnessing two “perfect” marriages this week, in their fifth decades of common living, I started to think it was just a relic of the past. Then, I spent more time talking to them, delving into said “perfect” relationships. Both of these women went through hell and back with their husbands. Liam and I’s relationship looks like a walk in the freaking park next to those. That made me feel even more defeated, a coward crippled by egotism.

    I can feel that “expected disappointment” rearing its ugly head and I don’t like it. I am sick of feeling like I need to reassess my decisions, my choices, my life. Can’t someone just want to fit into it? I know this wishful thinking isn’t helpful; I can’t help myself. Doesn’t everyone go through this?

    What are these glimpses for? What do these hyper-fast connections mean? What am I meant to learn from them? Fuck. Can’t one of them just surprise me, and be at least close to my level of crazy? My life feels like driving an old manual car in traffic: stop, start, stall, stop, start, stop, stall, start, stop, sigh. When’s the highway? When do I get to stick my hand out the window, play with the air, feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, while I grin stupidly, thinking: “how did I ever get this lucky?”

    “Why did I meet you now?!?!”, exclaimed the last perfect crush. He seems so perfect for me, it hurts sometimes. Dude, I don’t fucking know. I ask myself that on a regular basis, about many of you. Of course, I didn’t say that. I just asked when he would have wanted to meet me. “I don’t know. Earlier?” Well, yeah. But that doesn’t help does it?

    Just when I’m okay with being alone, just when I decide I don’t have to have sex all the time, I can take a break, that’s when I make an impulse decision to take a chance and end up on a perfect date with an impossible guy. Or am I the impossible girl?

    I’m sorry, you’re catching me on a bad day. Most of the time lately I’m good. I’m strong and ambitious and convinced I will succeed. The other twenty-five percent, fine, forty percent of the time, I’m pushing through. I’m putting a smile, my reading glasses and my brave face on.

    “Let’s do this, let’s conquer the world,” I say to myself, as though talking in the plural makes me less alone. I have to be mindful of the intention I’m gonna set for myself this year, it might just come true.

     

    “What is it that you want?”

     

     

    ***

     

    Welcome back my darlings, thanks for still reading. Watch out for the upcoming pre-release of Just Bad Timing, and for cool marketing stuff. 2018 Christine is here to get more naked than ever!

    Yours with all my heart,

    C.

     

  • Chapter Twenty – Autumn

    I was sitting across from him at dinner. We had not spoken a word in the last 30 minutes. He was on his phone, looking up cars that he could never buy. I was twirling my fingers, looking out of the window onto the street. It was a quiet night. The wind was moving the leafs around and you could tell it was about to be fall. I gazed onto the street, watching passersby walk their dogs and live their own lives.

    Fingers running through my hair.

    I shiver. I look at him still sitting silently, ever so distant. We are doing well. He looks up and smiles at me, and I can see the love in his eyes. It has just been a while since we have had the occasion to be intimate. Something always comes up. We ate too much, the dishes need to be done, he needs to finish that excel sheet for work. Wait, do I have enough change to do a load of laundry when we get home?

    The humidity of a tongue, gliding on the side of my neck, as fingers run down my chest, past my stomach, nearing my zipper. Long, passionate kisses in the dark, making me wet.

    Why am I thinking about this right now. Look the food is here. It is an ordinary steak, with some mashed potatoes, laid out in an overstated and overpriced plate. His eyes glisten over this and I am only happy that it means I will not have to do any dishes tonight. How is this my life?

    My eyes and hands mapping out his abs, I cannot believe what is happening. I only met him 4 hours ago, and here he is in my bed at 5.30 am. My hands are undressing him, performing the sort of par-court that I was only discovering.

    Don’t get me wrong, this routine makes me very happy most of the time. The way he says “Welcome home!” when I come in through the door, after a rough day. Liam is one of the few people who make me smile nowadays. He holds me and the voices in my head suddenly silence. For some reason however, my insides wonder if his are the last parts that I will get to know.

    The man in my bed is handsome and rugged at the same time. I can feel his passion inside of me, grabbing at my gut and pulling me towards him. He is the most handsome creature I have ever had the pleasure of putting my hands on. His hair is dark and soft, to match those perfect green eyes of his. And there he is naked, in my bed, beside me, intruding my privacy in glorious ways. He picked me. He has been getting to know me for the past four hours, looking into my eyes. The desire he was projecting made me feel like I was the only thing he had ever wanted.

    That night happened what seems like a lifetime ago. He was one of my first real one night stands, whom I would only run into for a split second years later, one memorable Saint Patrick’s day. All I can think about is him kissing me, touching my breasts, feeling his growing self through the denim, on my aubergine leather love-seat. Years later, I would watch him on TV and find fan pages riddled with shirtless screenshots of him. That may be why I am thinking of that night, the night the handsome actor picked me out of all of the girls at the club.

    ***

    I walked into the club with my Serbian friends, ready to sing out loud and dance all night. The last thing I had on my mind was picking someone up. It often works like that, doesn’t it? When you least expect it, there he is, picking up his coat at the end of the night. I was joking with the coat-check lady, and he laughed. After a few quick words, I proceeded to head outside and light a cigarette while I waited for the rest of my entourage. I thought how funny it was that he was taller than I had expected. Granted I had caught him staring at me from across the bar a few times, and since it was a Serbian party, he would have been standing between 6’5 ft guys. Suddenly, there he was again, right in front of me. “I need your number.”

    – Hum, excuse me, I don’t just give away my number to strangers, just like that.
    – Yes, but you see, I have to drop my friends off at home now, I was the DD tonight, but I need to see you again.
    – Well, if fate has it, you just might…
    – I’m not taking that chance, I need to see you again.
    – Is that so?
    Christine! Let’s go!!!!!
    – So, what do you say?
    – Oh fine, here you go. The ball is in your court. Bye, now!

    Luckily I was able to contain my friends’ inquisition rather easily, and soon I was home.

    *1 new text message*

    I need to see you.
    Well, maybe you will. You got home alright?
    Yes, where do you live?

    Okay, I’m curious about this guy but am I really going to tell a stranger where I live?

    On campus, and you? Why do you ask?
    I told you, I need to see you! Downtown, btw. 😉
    Now?!?
    Yes, now, if you’ll have me.

    Ok, ok. That is a bit forward, even for me. What I am going to say? Am I really going to invite this man to come over? It’s 2.30am! By the time he gets here, it will be at least 3, and that is a clear invitation. What if I actually do not like him? What if this is all just the attraction of the unknown? Oh what the hell, let’s see where this goes.

    He knocked at my door and my heart was pounding. He was standing there wearing ripped jeans, a white V-necked T-shirt and black chucks. Now I realize this is cliché after the whole “50 Shades” thing, but I promise you that is what he was wearing that night. He sat on my couch and I offered him a drink, thanking the heavens that my room-mate had not drunk all my wine. He just sat there, and talked. I was so comfortable that I put my legs over his – after all it was a very small love-seat. He stopped talking, and went in for the kill. He leaned in, staring me in the eyes and kissed me softly, but intently. I was never a big fan of dry-humping. Yet that night I felt a passion I had not found since Joe. I remember being extremely aroused, and my knees being very chafed the next day.

    I find it interesting how I also remember clinging to him, like to my other handsome nightly hobbies, as if to cheat intimacy, trick my brain’s chemistry with flesh and proximity. The actor was handsome, sweet, gentle and caring, yet a stranger. I would never know where his intentions came from. He would never know that I did not orgasm. We were just strangers, passing time, faking it all, most likely because loneliness is terrifying on a summer night. I remember this feeling, the addiction to the thrill of getting that penis to enter me. I know that feeling all too well, convincing myself that I was getting to know others, creating connections, when in fact it was all just pretend.

    Liam may not jump me in dark alleys (yet). He may not make my knees chafed with desire. I have not had sex in two weeks, and though I may be slightly worried about it for the sake of our relationship not even being old yet, I do not feel that unstoppable need to mount and be mounted. I know that what we have is true intimacy. I know that he picked me and not for a night. I know that we have and will share countless nights of passion, whatever shape passion takes these days. It is an interesting transition for me, and I wonder where the thrill comes from. I wonder what the future has in store for us. That uncertainty is somehow more terrifying than the one I had been used to in my single years. Back then, it was only uncertain who would be the next stranger. That, I could deal with. Now, anything can happen. There is a certain magic to knowing someone is ready for anything, with you.