Last week, our hero (?) Virgina had her first breathy breathtaking encounter with the mysterious D, and everyone at Work in Prowess discovered how good porn is for traffic. This week, the epic romance continues in both a classroom AND a bathroom.
“So, have you ever actually… you know.” asked my best friend in the whole world, Posy. Short for Expositiona, which from the off is quite helpful.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed unattractively, the kind of unattractiveness that marks out a girl as a secondary character in a story and curled her average at best feet impatiently beneath her.
“For goodness sake, Virgina. This guy comes into Class one day, out of nowhere, strides right into Class without so much as a name to his name-“
“his name is D,” I protested, “That’s what he said to me, and that’s all I need to know.”
“Really? Really, is it? You don’t want to know, like, where’s he’s come from? Who his family are? What’s he’s doing here and why he always wears polo necks?”
I turned my eyes away so she couldn’t see the hurt osmosing mercilessly through them. “None of that matters to me.”
“Well, it matters if he’s putting it up you” she said softly. “If he’s putting it right up you, day in and day out, pounding away like house-proud robot flattening a lump in a carpet you’re going to need to make sure he’s not dripping with toxic sex-mites.”
“Posy! You can’t say those sorts of things here, we’re in Class!”
“Welcome to Class, class” said Mrs Keyboard, a character so irrelevant it was almost as if the author just named her after whatever was in front of her at the time. “Today we’ll be focussing Class time on … late again, Mr D?”
D strode into the room with all the force of a high-powered yacht hitting a fairly major bit of a whale. I felt all the breath leave my body, but fairly soon some more breath entered, which meant I didn’t die. “D” I murmured, and gestured to the empty seat next to me. He looked at me with those eyes, those eyes that caused rolls of emotional thunder to course across the meaty clouds that were my breasts, and shook his head gently. He took a seat in the corner of the room, and it was then I saw that his arm was bandaged. Something was wrong. Probably something to do with that bandaged arm, I thought, insightfully and desperately.
The next hour was a torment. Mrs Keyboard’s words floated past me with all the impact of a bubble on a dog’s leg, as I tried desperately to catch D’s eye, to find some way of communicating with him. I watched those shoulders, always so straight, so strong, rise up and down as he attempted to control whatever it was that was causing him such distress. My skin burned for his touch, the hairs on the back of my legs that I would shave later so that he’d continue to find me attractive stood entirely on end. I couldn’t take it. I had to know. Finally, the bell sounded, transforming the fires in my veins from a cheerful garden barbeque to that of a national park hazard.
“Now remember Class,” said Mrs Keyboard, “Chapters three and four of whatever text book we use, like, read it or whatever. Write something about it. Is that what happens?” Her shitballs words faded from my mind as I watched D stand suddenly and step smartly towards the door. Why wouldn’t he look at me? What had changed? My heart pounding, I followed him out, aware that he could definitely run faster than me if this was what was happening now.
“D!” I cried, by voice cracking somewhere between the initial ‘d’ sound and the slightly elongated bit at the end of the ‘ee’. He stopped. He always told me that he could never bring himself to hurt me, and I knew that he wouldn’t leave without explaining himself. The strange power dynamic between us suddenly shimmered dizzyingly, like something corporeal, almost as if I could make a fuck-ton of money out of it by stretching it over three books or so.
He turned, the light from the Gents Toilet sign bouncing off his exquisite cheekbones. “Not here, Virgina.” He muttered. “I can’t talk here. Quickly.” He grabbed my arm and we ran three floors down the fire-escape together, breathing heavily like fat guys running down one floor of a fire-escape. As soon as we were in the sheltered darkness of some appropriate setting for this scene he grabbed the back of my neck and his tongue found mine; greeting one another like people with no arms hugging. I felt his weight sink against mine, and I moaned gratefully. “Oh D, I’ve missed you so much.”
“You too, Virgina. Every moment away from you is like an hour in Sucktown.”
“No more talking”, I begged, “just please, take me in your arms, here, now.”
His arms went to my naked waist (I’d been wearing a crop-top with a cardigan around it, and had lost the cardigan on the run down the stairs. That was what happened to explain how naked my waist was.) “Jesus your waist is brilliant when it’s naked,” D cried, his breath on my ear and his words caressing the inside hearing bits of my ear.
“Oh D!” I almost wept, grabbing him to me like he was Velcro and I was the other, slightly smoother kind of Velcro, “yes, please, now.” I heard his sharp intake of breath, and suddenly he stepped away from me, clutching at his damaged arm. I’d caught it with my various jangling pendants that emphasised my personality, and the bandages were unravelling rapidly. “Oh God,” he muttered, turning away, desperately trying to cover his arm.
“I don’t understand, D. What happened to you? You’re hurt, I can see that. Who hurt you?”
“No-one,” he muttered.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I wept, stunningly. “I thought you could tell me anything. Who hurt you? Tell me, please.”
“Not this, Virgina. I can’t talk to you about this.” His dark eyes flashed from beneath a brow that was nearing the end of a furrow, and trapped my very soul to them like a climbing vine attached to a spade. I loved him too much to let this happen. As though powered by a force that wasn’t totally and utterly pathetic, my arm reached out and grasped at the remainder of the bandages, exposing his forearm to the open air. I gasped aloud, which is the only way to gasp.
An ugly, fiery red burn covered the entirety of D’s arm and hand, plotting a horrible, tiring-looking journey from his elbow to the tips of his middle finger. The welts were raised, painful looking, and would have totally killed my ladyrection, were it not for the fact that literally nothing could.
“D,” I breathed in horror. “What… what happened?”
D snatched his hand back to his washboard abs that didn’t get much of a look in in this instalment, and turned away, a different direction to the first time he turned away, so it was still quite dramatic.
“Virgina, there are things about me you can never understand. Do you understand?”
“No,” I wept.
“Exactly, “ he nodded. He took one last look at my crumpling face, and kissed me softly on whichever bit of me wasn’t covered in some kind of self-produced liquid by now.
“I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be, Virgina.” He whispered.
“But you can, D! You are! Why don’t you trust me?”
He stared at me for what felt like it might be the last time in this particular location for a bit, and then strode away, still clutching his poor, damaged arm proudly, like you might carry a really lovely baguette, or a flag. My eyes and other places streaming, my heart full and my waist very cold, I was determined to find out the truth. I loved him too much to simply do what he’d literally just asked me to do.
Posted by Natasha Hodgson