[Emily]: 252.IS.I Want To Be Him

Title pending. I need feedback. It sucks, but I want it to go somewhere.

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I’m just dying to be him.

In the afternoon sun, I saw her walking down the street again, in her short shorts and her little shirt that squeezed her curves. She wore ankle socks and white tennis shoes. Long legs held up her delicate frame, sunshine hair piled on top of her head and wide, green eyes gazing fearlessly out into the world.

I followed her to the ice cream truck and to the small house on the corner. White, with dark blue shudders and a red door. She knocked and a young man opened; he had brown hair and light grey eyes, a kind smile and a sharp face. They walked hand in hand down the street, the trees shadowing areas and giving them a luxurious glow that I couldn’t understand. Majestic, yet incredibly plain like a professionally taken photo. There was a large Victorian house a few blocks down. As she licked away at her ice cream cone, sometimes allowing him a taste of the sophisticated vanilla from her lips, he tickled her to distract her.

I took a shortcut. The Victorian house belonged to her, with the wide Iron Gate that didn’t provide as much security as originally promised. I easily slide through the bars and in the back way of the house. I didn’t need to guess which room was hers.

I climbed up the spiraling stairs, being careful not to touch anything. Entering the second door on the right, I was suddenly overwhelmed with her scent; lilacs and some wild, musky scent hidden within it. The latter scent was more or less due to memories; it came from the area between her legs that screamed what every man wanted. That was the scent that I had often found on my lips, lingering on my fingers, and further down below my body, that would often at times rise to my nose in loving memory. It was the scent she wafted when she was ready.

Downstairs, with careful hearing, I could hear the front door open, along with some giggling and as I imagined, touching. She would have finished that ice cream cone by now, fingers sticky with the sweet confection, lips smeared with it, his lips on hers, sharing the taste.

I slid into her closet, not really understanding that I was doing at the time. I just needed to see her, to see him, to know what I lost. What she lost.

I wanted to teach her a lesson for keeping secrets from me.

I held my breath as they crashed into the door, knocking it open and moving their bodies to the bed in a very young, passionate way. They stumbled to the bed and the man she was with – boy, I should really say – fumbled with her shirt, sliding it up her stomach and over her right breast, hand groping. I almost chuckled at the amateur behavior. I would not treat a woman like that, with such brute force.

Somehow, it only made her giggle. A man who knew what he was doing would understand that that giggle was not passionate, was not wild, and was not one of lust or love. It was a cute, puppy dog giggle, a sound of affectionate sympathy, closely related to how one would react to a newborn pup in play.

I saw him press himself against her, could feel myself reacting to the sight of her body arching and her moan, however fake it was. His hand left her breast and moved to stroke her stomach, before sliding into her shorts. I nearly sighed, but caught myself. This boy did not understand what he was doing, and she was not teaching him properly. How could she have traded him for me? I’m the better lover.

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Unfinished. And unedited.