Previously on The Awkwardly Erotic Tale of Virgina Something Something Class, our heroine (I guess? Are we calling her that?) met and had short erotic interactions with the mysterious D. and you bloody well loved it, you perverts. This week, Virgina goes to a hotel, which is obviously no place for a teenager.
“More champagne, room 354,” D growled into the phone, wiping vagina off his face. I lay on the sheets, breathing heavily, roughly; as heavy and rough as a large, untreated stone wall. The last few hours had been a blur. Grabbing my hand just after Class D had murmured that we had to leave right then and there, and I went with him, because my academic future is unimportant. He might not have been able to tell me what was wrong; what deep, narrative-tension-building torment followed him day and night as well as all the fiddly dawn and dusk bits that no-one can quite get a handle on, but I sure as hell was going to do exactly what he told me to do, all the time, probably until I was dead.
“Why, D? Why now?” I had asked breathily, literally not giving a shit about the answer. He had grabbed me urgently and whispered into my ear because of whispering efficiency, “They know about you. We have to go.” With my heart pounding, my crotch pounding and the words “alright then” pounding out of my mouth we ran, through the school gates with D’s haunted gaze the only thing guiding us. After getting quite lost for a bit and then using a map to guide us, we arrived at the sumptuous Cavot & Ragon – the fanciest hotel in town. I gazed up at the golden sign, the golden steps and the sensitively multi-coloured staff and bit my lip. “D, are you sure about-“
“Of course I’m sure, Virgina, don’t be such a racist.”
“No, I mean, can we afford this place?”
He looked up at the sign as it glinted in the post-Class sun.
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
I nodded my girl head atop my girlish, financially hilarious shoulders. He was right.
Once in the hotel room (the staff seemed to know D well, which wasn’t in any way worrying) there was no time for words. “I’m paying by the hour, Virgina”, D murmured, “you can tell me about your mum’s knee or that funny thing you thought of in the bath later” and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, his mouth on mine. I flung my hair back breathlessly, transported by joy and also trying to dislodge the complimentary mints caught in my hair, “Oh D,” I moaned, “It feels like it’s been forever”. “Yes,” he whispered back. “When actually…” he paused, “…it hasn’t.”
“Yes, exactly,” I cried. At first it had always scared me that D always seemed to know just what I was thinking; like how many fingers to use, or what number was in my head as long as it was between one and ten and I didn’t choose one or ten because that was cheating. At first it had scared me, but now, it filled me with an angry, feverish longing. He knew me, and I knew him. The fact that we knew each-other was all we knew, and I knew that we both knew that.
“You can never know me,” said D loudly, his eyes boring right into mine like tiny, sexy drills drilling away sexily into my pupil holes. “I’m sorry, Virgina, but I’ve already put you in too much danger.” I attempted to sit up on the bed, but I didn’t really, so fell back down pathetically and alluringly. “D, why do you talk like this? I’m fine! We’re both fine! We’re together, and that’s the most important, sexually descriptive thing.”
“Let’s not talk about this anymore,” he muttered, his lips hot on my neck. I sighed gently, and allowed myself to drift into a haze of-
“YOU CAN NEVER KNOW ME” he shouted, and his hands went to my hair, strands melted together with what I now realised was complimentary chocolates. Thoughtfully sucking on my matted tendrils he stroked my cheek, already covered in tears as a result of him displaying any emotion whatsoever. “Shhh,” he said softly. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, again.”
The next hour was spent in what felt like a rustic fiesta of orgasmic delight, as D’s hands, face and feet expertly guided my tourist body through a friendly, gratis tour of the local sexing. He grabbed my torso firmly, gently, as you would a full shopping basket with eggs at the bottom and did things to it that you probably wouldn’t do to a full shopping basket, unless you wanted to properly make out with a full shopping basket that was actually a vagina. “D,” I gasped, aware that I was getting a seriously sweet deal out of this so far. His face broke the surface of my steaming sex pond, and he moved to the phone like a panther moving towards a phone. That’s when he ordered the champagne.
Lying there, it struck me not for the first time that D never let me undress him, touch him on his happy bits or otherwise do anything except sort of moan about and cry and be naked for a while. I knew it had something to do with his tormented secret, but I had never dared ask why. I cared too much to try to ask about his personality. For now, at least. At least until the author had run out of similes about vaginas. “D,” I whispered, “please, you have to let me…” I traced my hand along his perfectly ironed Motorhead T-shirt, and he flinched, electric at my touch.
“you can’t ask me, Virgina.” he growled. Or muttered. Or both. “You can’t, you know I can’t. I… I can’t lose control.”
“Why not?” I cried, almost as dramatically as when I cried this exact question in the first instalment. And in order to avoid the character having to answer, and almost as if to reassure readers that this wasn’t going to be same old shit over and over again, the windows suddenly burst open with an almighty crash.
“THEY’RE HERE” D cried, his back against the walls of the suite and his hands quite near his back, to keep things tidy. “They’ve found us!”
“Who? WHO?” I cried, nudely.
“No, no, they, they-“ He broke off and ran to the window, the curtains dancing tastefully and probably expensively in the sudden bloody dramatic winds
“WHERE ARE YOU?” He bellowed, somewhere negating his previous statement, “COME OUT, SO I CAN SEE YOU OR LEAVE ME ALONE FOREVER OR SOMETHING”
“D,” I wept “We’re on the fifteenth floor, there’s no way anyone could,”
“you don’t understand,” he muttered or growled or both again, “you can never understand, you must leave, it’s not safe.”
“Is this about your arm? That very memorable burn on your arm? Did someone, did they-“
“Be quiet, for God’s sake, they’ll hear us.” He pointed his face to the darkening sky, “THEY’LL HEAR US IF YOU’RE NOT CAREFUL,” he screamed, “THEY’LL HEAR US”.
“You’re scaring me, D, you’re so emotional and tortured and could go for ages, I expect” I wept, “how am I supposed to find you attractive when everything you’re doing is so mysterious?”
“It’s not safe here.” He closed the windows with a bang, and scanned the skyline as though looking for dangers that will only be revealed later on when the book deal is in place, “we have to leave.”
“Anything, D,” I sobbed, “anything. But you have to let me in. You have to tell me what’s going on. If we’re in danger, I have to know why. I don’t know anything about you, like, how, how did you get us this place? How does everyone here know more about you than I do?”
He paused, steading himself on the tiny hairdryer you get sometimes in hotels, “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, his eyes still on the midnight curtain-fest. “Family connection, is all”
“Family connection? Who? Who is this family? Who are you, D? And can I get pregnant from your face?”
He looked into my eyes, drank them in like a thirsty elephant drinks in water joyfully in those clips they use to advertise elephants. “I’m sorry, Virgina.” He said, softly. “I have to go.”
“Again?” I lowered my empty, drunk face. “Will all of our encounters end with me sitting alone, naked, foaming gently? D?” I looked up. Alone again. Alone, naked and foaming violently.
Posted by Natasha Hodgson