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wolvzor in phonemenal

Exercise 4 - wolvzor

The first time I heard "Sour Girl" by The Stone Temple Pilots, it was only a lyric or two until the familiar slap of the snooze button muted the wakeup call. If it was any other day, the all-too persistent ring from her cell phone would have coaxed us out of our Saturday slumber. Those days she would groggily wipe the sleep from her eyes and stumble over to the dresser, picking up the call and convincing her husband that "Yes, I am safe," and "Yes, I know I shouldn't sleep so late." That phone call was absent that morning, replaced by the words that echoed through my mind.

What would you do
What would you do if I followed you
What would you do if I followed?

I rolled over to my side, pressing myself against her half-asleep form. My hands ran over her creamy skin, starting at her shoulders and following the curves and crevices of her back until resting on her hips. Our forms were identical, with my breasts pushing up against her back as I pulled her closer into an embrace. My hot breath glided across her neck, to which I was rewarded a sigh of contentment and a murmur of pleasure. Her head rolled towards mine, I became captivated by the glimmer of her necklace and the gleam of her forest green eyes. With a gentle hand, she guided my lips to hers, sharing a sensual morning kiss as the sun's rays started peeking through the shades.

It was always the next moments that would become innate animal behavior, where I could see what truly lies beneath her daily facade. Her instincts would take over, greedily sucking at my lips and tongue as she pushed me on my back. Vulnerability would settle in as her entire weight pinned me down, with nibbles and licks and the occasional brutal bite that would sap my willpower and summon groans hidden deep within. I'd always release myself to this sultry surrender, for it's where I found salvation and the true core to her being. I imagined being drawn into her hidden inner sanctum, one that no one in this universe could see except myself. No one else saw what she tried so hard to hide, but I could lure out so easily. Each lick on my ear and deep bite on my neck proved it, and waves rushed over as she would swirl her initials inside me.

It was always afterwards that was the most painful. Drained, I rested in her arms, beads of sweat resting on the skin. This was really her, but in a moment's time, it would retreat into the shadows, just as it always has. In the heights of passion, I was totally hers, and she was loyally mine. Adrenaline and sweat and the musk of lovemaking would eventually settle, and so would these bonds that held us together, loosening and flying with the wind as her grip would relinquish me. In the outside world, this wasn't her. Out that door, she had a family and a husband and one kid and two dogs and the white picket fence. It was too much built, too much to give up. Out there, I wasn't totally hers, and wasn't loyally mine. We had checked our morals at the threshold, only salvaging them as we salvaged our clothes from the floor.

She told me once that it had never been a decision between him and me based on personality, love or attraction. It had been a practical choice, made in practical times. It was the age of the war machine in Iraq, the sub-prime mortgage crisis, the stock market battering. Americans bunkered behind The Patriot Act and No Child Left Behind and wiretapping as if their very lives depended on it, frightened by the prospect of that one small window of weakening would sunder their perfect little American Dreams apart. I wasn't an American Dream at that point, and we couldn't have been an American Dream in her eyes. I tried to remind her that the Emancipation Proclamation, women's suffrage, and civil rights weren't the American Dream at one point, that it took those that had strong convictions about their idea of the American Dream to stand up and defy the mainstream that so readily defined the societal morality code.

We could have been the new American Dream, I insisted. I eventually found out that it wasn't hers. Blanketed by doubt and showered by tears, she wouldn't have told me unless her decisions were rushed. Other American Dreams tend to do that. She wanted to cut me loose, set me free into the mystical land where I could have found someone that I could have built my American Dream with, but I stayed right next to the severed leash, refusing to depart. She implored me to leave, to search for that which I needed, since she couldn't provide it here. I had found it though. I found it in her wandering eyes, in secret smiles and casual touches. I found it in inside jokes and frequent messages and the national forests that reflected her eyes. I found it in my dreams upon awaking, and in my desires each night. I finally found it in our flings, the ones that she didn't want our relationship to dissolve into, but I'd rather have her once every couple months than to have another person every night.

I watched her as she checked her purse for all of its contents before flashing me that smile, that smirk that's reserved only for me. I leaned on the door frame as I gazed out into the morning air, with her getting into her dew-drenched car. It was always in those moments that I wondered what she would have done if only I had followed her.


"She told me once that it had never been a decision between him and me based on personality, love or attraction. It had been a practical choice, made in practical times."

Oh, this makes my heart hurt. <3<3<3
This part actually has some real-life threads attached to it, it's a pretty powerful shocker to overcome. But hell, I survived it once, I can survive it again. :)
maybe consider hunkered instead of bunkered
Bunkered seemed to be more militaristic to me, which is why I made that word choice. Hunkered seemed too soft, I guess. /shrug
I always had hoped by this age what was "practical" wouldn't matter so much. You've really brought home what has changed and what hasn't with a pang and a sigh.
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