About This Tale

The short short tale of a man and his weakness.

The Story

Sometimes I listen so much I can feel myself disappearing. The space between the words becomes shorter, the pauses close together and the chances of my words infiltrating the barrage of vocabulary decrease by the second.

She speaks with that shotgun patois, the words falling as shrapnel.  Yet she holds sway over my every movement.

My eyes follow her, latch onto her face, her cheeks moving, tongue swilling around as talk streams from her mouth.

Her eyes have that glint – that je nais se pas.  How do I get myself into these situations?

I was a good kid, I think.  I never did anything bad in school, I was never the bully or the disruption.  I was the quiet but out-spoken kid.  The old-before-his-time kid.  I was the one with the answers, but I didn’t want to give them away.

Back then I’d have given anything for her to pay this much attention to me.  The fleeting glances in the hallway, the softly spoken words at lunch.  The way she would lean over the desk if you asked for help – especially good in a long summer dress, if you could achieve the right angle.

The games kids play, I guess.  Hormones, immaturity, sexual awakening.  Blame whichever one sounds best to you.  I just think we were all perverts.

Her hands are worn but soft to the touch.  Her skin warm, lips thin but welcoming.  The skip of excitement inside that greets me in these moments still thrills me.  I wake in cold sweats thinking of this.

Always her.

There must be others out there.  There must be somebody else willing to give me this affection?  Someone that would make life easier.

But it’s always her.

She has been a constant in my life since the age of thirteen and now, at twenty-four years old, I’m stood in her classroom, her arms snaking around my waist, her face inches from mine.  Thirteen year old me would kick me in the balls right now.  He would have thrown her on the desk and shot his load before his belt buckle was undone.  Full of good intentions, without the means to see it through.

She feels my reluctance.  Her embrace goes from loose to tight, to warm, to firm.


Her words have slowed, the timbre of her voice joining me on my level of trepidation.  She asks things she shouldn’t ask, things I can’t answer.  Her hands are probing as much as her words, as she tries to work out which one will get the response she desires.

She finds her response with ease.  It’s nestled ashamedly at my inner thigh.  She knows she has got me in the midst of her spell, and the slightest wrong movement now could ruin everything.

She knows this game, as she has played it many times before.  Expertly whispering now, sweet words designed to distract and lull.  All the while the hands work at my last resistance – the belt buckle.

If it fails, we both fail.

With a fumble and a jerk, she wins the battle.  The belt falls loose, and the button is easy pickings.  The walls are down and freedom reigns.  Her cool palms against the red hot heat of my skin make my heart skip a beat or four.  The smile comes to her face the way it has so many times before.  The prey is in the nest, time to enjoy it’s many wonders.

My fears disappear.  They always do when her tongue arrives to whisk them away.  Her mouth is a black hole for fear, for doubt, and for honour.

Right now it is the only place on earth.  I can’t think of a better anywhere to be.  I can’t think of any other place at all.  I forget where I am standing right now.  My world has shrunk to the tiniest of spaces, and yet exploded into a million distant galaxies at the same time.

When it’s over, the world resumes.  Except now everything has a new glow, a tinge of deeper regret, of harder pain.  The absolute truth of the matter gnaws it’s way into my head at last; free to think and breath and live again.  This woman is nobody.  Her wiles and ways mean nothing.  I hate myself for succumbing.  I hate myself for regretting.  I want to get away.

I hate myself for knowing that I’ll be back.

the end.