I'm jordan from america and this blog tracks the progress of and serves as storage for my creative writing III self-study project, a 20-chapter novel called Beautiful Things. It's been suggested by my teacher that I write a page a day and so I will; I usually write by hand so after I type up my page on the word processor I'll post it here as well. You can also find me at my personal blag, stephenfriedrice. Questions, comments and constructive criticism are awesome. Enjoy!
The second coming of Peter's lips to mine was white pain and drowning clarity. There was nothing else but the petal softness of his palm, and my head felt like the earth as he brushed back my hair as a boy would draw tall grass against his fingertips. I breathed him in, filtered his cologne and impressed upon myself his essence, and as my lungs expanded my heart followed suit, and I thought they both might burst until he kissed me again and stole back what I had taken.
“Ulysses,” I corrected, wiping my eyes of what I just then found to be the unfulfilled beginnings of tears.
“May I stay?”
I told him to stay with my hand on his neck, with the tips of my fingers on his perfect collarbone, with the a turn of my hand that he'd pinned to hold instead of being held. With what little physical exaltation of him I was capable of through devoted admiration, I told him to stay.
Every touch was a genesis, every breath an exodus, and all culminated in a revelation from which I awoke that morning to a new, whole, pure me, me at my pinnacle, me cleansed of sniveling falsehood and stammering doubt, me as I was always created to be. My body was still large, awkward and essentially doomed to eternal uselessness. But my soul... my soul felt as beautiful as the boy lying human on my faithless arm. I smiled gently at him and enjoyed my newfound right to touch his golden hair whenever I pleased.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“If I didn't know how to take my own advice I'd never have left on Thursday.” Those were not the words I wanted. I grimaced.
He drew himself magnetically closer; I couldn't see the distance but God could I feel it. My breath quickened. The situation was spinning wildly out of my control.
My eyes grew wide to their core as I felt his knee press the edge of the cushion; I held my palm our, like that feeble shield had ever done me any good, and I gave a startled bark as he wiped out of his way and pinned it to the sofa's arm.
“I need you, you know,” he huffed.
Slowly I defied myself – oh hell, I allowed myself to look him in his eyes, and even though their hot Aegean triumph was over me, I let them light my cheeks on fire and scorch my jaw into hardness. My terror and my rapture surged in every muscle as I found myself for the second time at the mercy of Peter Braithwaite. The surface of our symbiotic radiance was a hush.
“I swore you could be a god once, Peter.”
“Were you wrong?”
“No.”
For the first time since I was six years old in a museum being moved by marble boys with faces like white lilies sprung from the seed before they ever had to be resurrected from a winter's sleep, my mind was quiet.
Later?! I realized in a swift moment that I'd completely forgotten myself. There was to be no later; no matter the dominant speaker, this intimate conversation should not even be occurring. Some bloody line I was drawing. The thick residue of shame came back up and swelled my throat, and I looked away.
“Anyway, I'm not interested in prying.”
“At least I shouldn't be,” I conceded with a weary sigh.
“No, I know. You asked me here to discuss Thursday evening.”
I stiffened and frowned. “To be honest, Peter, I'm interested in discussing anything at all. My expectation tonight is that you listen, nothing else. Am I understood?”
He shifted to the edge of his seat and set his tea down, cupping his hands over his knees
and attending me with his eyes freshly lit under the thin golden canopy of his brow. “I'm all ears, Professor.”
I set my jaw and took in some extra air. “What happened Thursday evening was entirely inappropriate. Believe me, I have no illusions regarding your accountability, but being the adult party beyond the legal definition, I will bear the brunt of the responsibility for it.” I arched my back against the sofa, taking reassurance from its familiar cratered texture. I licked my lips. “I see you, Peter; I see that you are a magnificent canvas with a great deal more than half a brain, so I won't offend you by trying to push denial on you. There is an attraction, which I at first believed to be one-sided; obviously it has revealed itself to be otherwise. I ask you never to exploit it again. Hopefully the whole debacle will eventually become nothing more than one of those... awkward homoerotic memories one has of University, and later recalls humorously in his tell-all autobiography.” I offered a faint smile which contained a twinge of apology for quite the wrong thing entirely.
We were silent for awhile.
Suddenly, he broke, his eyes slitting and his lip curling in disbelief. “Listen to yourself, Exeter.”
“Peter I asked...”
“You've been 'honest' with me because you're literally incapable of doing otherwise; d'you really think this is just gonna dissolve?”
I looked at my knees and flexed my jaw, feeling in deep frustration with my tongue for words which came infinitely too slow.
“You're such a brilliant man. So perceptive. I know you see me, and I see you too; I see you fighting the urge to tell me my life because the moment you do, you'll be a part of it, and there you do me a disservice, because...” His face contorted briefly as he swallowed an emotion whole. “Because I need to hear it.”
He stood, and I arched away, raising a sharp eye to him.
“I can tell you your life, too. You're enlightened. All of life's answers live on your tongue and you are so generous with them...” I didn't even blink as he made his way around my coffee table and stood, bold as you like, over me. “But you don't know how to swallow them.”
“Yes,” he laughed, diving for a cracker and shoveling up a thick slice of cheese like an urchin before composing himself into an easy bite. “The food at the banquet was absolute horseshite; I'm starved.”
“Why should I?” he said, covering his mouth halfheartedly and taking up his tea.
“ I always thought one was 'supposed to,'” I shrugged.
“One is...” He examined my china pattern, suddenly absent. “But I never do what I'm supposed to and that's why they don't like me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and tilted my head, combing over the shallow valleys and sprawling fields of his indefinably expressive face as he did the gold and lavender tiers of my teacup. “Why do you let people think you're useless?”
His glance was sincerely startles, but only for a moment before he turned with a deep breath back to the cup. “I suppose because I am.”
“Oh stop it.”
“No, really, I essentially am.” He still refused to look at me. “My talents are few and the ones I have are unproductive. I'm clever and pretty like a bird but I don't like cages so I bite.”
I pursed my lips. “And whose words are those, Peter?”
He wrinkled his nose and eyed me petulantly. “What d'you mean, 'whose words'; min of course, they're all mine.”
“A song from a different instrument plays the same melody.”
“Thank you, Professor Fortune Cookie.”
I snorted, noting his displeasure at the turning of tables and putting it in my arsenal for later.
Three minutes 'til eight. I sat cross-legged on my sofa and folded my hands on my knee, a picture of authoritative piety.
The casual zap of my doorbell struck me into consciousness.
With a deep breath and a lurching stomach – God damn my stomach – I opened the door for my guest.
“Hello,” I said stiffly.
“Evening, Professor. Sorry I'm overdressed.” He certainly was not sorry. “Came directly from a function.”
“Function?” I raised a brow, taking a step back so he could enter.
“You know. With wealth and breeding comes great obligation.” He glided into my parlor effortlessly. I wasn't sure what was stronger, my resentment or my enamorment.
“I do,” I sighed, closing the door behind him and moving back to the couch with far less grace. He did not immediately follow; instead he stood and touched my everything with his eyes, and I couldn't help but feel violated now I knew what he was interested in, and what he was capable of. Suddenly he took a deep inhale, closing his eyes in some sort of mild ecstasy. I watched his chest press his mauve silk shirt as if it had been his skin. “Mm,” he exhaled. “Old books. I adore that smell.”
Shit. I thought I'd masked it with pears.
“Sit down, Peter.” I offered him the armchair across the table from me, and he took it, if only to humor me. “Tea's for you, help yourself to snacks.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Drink! I had to offer him a drink. I had some nice wine on the rack; it'd been a gift... “Are you stupid?” I boxed my own temples. “Wine?!” May as well greet him in a bloody dressing gown, if I was going to serve him wine. Coffee then? No, too evocative, too noir.
Jasmine? “Too Arabian Nights.”
Oolong? “Eastern mystique, no good.”
Ginseng? “Too invigorating.”
Irish Breakfast? “Too robust...”
Orange Spice? “Too cozy!”
Earl Gray...? Earl Gray. Hearty, professional.
What floated around in my head and eventually made it to my coffee table was the least sexy snack ensemble on planet Earth.
I stepped back and surveyed the parlor. It was still an absolute mess, and suddenly its scent seemed not charming, but musty. I hustled over to my linen closet and surveyed my candles. Sea Island Cotton was fresh, but it smelled like a bed. I gave a wary side-eye to all of the succulent fruit scents. No fruit. Except maybe pears? “I don't suppose pears are very sexy,” I mused, and I took it from the shelf.
I paced about my home that Saturday night in February, shaking my head neurotically at all my clutter. I had never thought of it as clutter before. It had been my things.
“The word of the night is friendly,” I mumbled to myself as I wandered into the kitchen, rubbing my neck anxiously as I had been all day. 'Friendly,' of course, was only a neutral synonym for 'chaste,' necessary because chastity itself is not a pure concept. Chastity is instinct's ordained son, or incontinence's repressed brother; either way, it's all in the family, and none of them were welcome to my flat in the company of Peter Braithwaite.
He was due in an hour. My fingertips danced on the cool dark countertops like electric spiders dangling from the web of my spastic nerves. I had to put out some hors d'ouvres... Cheese and grapes would do, fairly standard. I went to the fridge.
“Grapes? Grapes!? What kind of debauched Saturnalia am I plotting here?!” I turned away from the sensuous fruit. “In fact, no fruit.” I paused to contemplate the lustiness of raisins but continued my frenzy quickly after realizing I had no raisins, considering I didn't like them.
“Crackers,” I sparked, throwing open my top cabinets. “Water crackers. Neutral. Formal.” I always though they were rather dry to be called water crackers-
How it had changed since then! Once I started making a bit more money, I made some necessary changes. The landlady was a little old widow from Bosnia named Mrs. Bukvic, and she'd taken quite a strong liking to me – probably because I was the only tenant who would keep her company between her daily prayers aside from her boss-eyed cat. I invited her for tea a few Sundays, and suddenly I could get away with renovation murder.
I lived at Flat 15, 8 Pennistone Close, Geafalming, Geafalming for fifteen years. For the first few after I got the job at the school, they put me up in their own sort of professor's quarters. It was very much appreciated, of course; for a young man who could no longer afford his put-up in London on his own and would prefer any venue than to return to his parents in Norfolk, this was an absolute blessing. However, I soon learned that no professor was really respected if he or she continued to live off the Uni's goodwill. Eventually, a particular young colleague of mine who had been smart enough to put away enough money to buy a flat in Geafalming from the start pressured my passive self into getting out of the quarters by making snide remarks at me every single day until I invited her to house-hunt with me. That was Rosie Herriot.
“I don't think this is the right fit,” Rosalind had said.
“Why not?”
“Lyss, you literally cannot fit in it.”
We'd agreed to stop at the Lotus for drinks before we went our separate ways that evening; in the car I found the words to explain to her my feelings about the place – it was a blank canvas, waiting to be made beautiful, waiting to be given a voice and a face and a soul. It fit along perfectly with the whole of Geafalming. I felt it needed me, and I needed it. I bought thing the very next day.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Within a minute of feeling the first February afternoon air of the year on my face as I blew out one of Geafalming's side doors, I was in front of a campus courier mailbox, stuffing a letter in to go to Peter Braithwaite's suite. It was written in a hasty sort of calligraphy, and there was a polite and formal desperation to the whole of it that certainly didn't help me feel less criminal.
I'd invited him into my home on Saturday evening for tea, to chat. My intent was to draw a stark, unyielding boundary, and where better to do that than such an intimate place as my apartment? If the line held there, it would hold anywhere. There was no better way to be absolutely clear. This would be it with Peter Braithwaite. I would let him know that such behavior as exhibited on Thursday was not wanted and was not acceptable, and I'd be safe to feel again. It'd be perfect. None of the confusion, all of the high.
My lips were still tingling as I taught my other classes on Friday; my internalized embarrassment kept creeping up when I tried to make eye contact with my poor second-years and I could tell they were beginning to be concerned.
“Think we should say something, get him to lie down?” Moira Greene whispered back to him.
That's the one downside to caring deeply for your students. They grow to care deeply for you, even when you don't want them to – when you least deserve it.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, that's about all I've got today. I'm a bit under the weather, as I'm sure you've noticed.” Their gracious smiles made me sick. “You're welcome to stay and study or chat amongst yourselves, otherwise I'm calling this an early dismissal.”
Against the scuffle of my students making their choices – indiscriminate to me and honestly uninteresting in this dream-state I was in, be it insomnia, preoccupation or shame – I had a single thought.
Something must be done.
I could've tried to fool myself and say there was no reason to be worried, it was a lapse in judgment and I'd realize that and recover soon enough. I could've tried to convince myself that Peter would rebound quickly, I hadn't let him down in any way, he'd come to his own proper conclusions, et cetera. But I knew, I knew so deeply, that this was not something I could allow time to take away on its heels. I needed to take control immediately, for Peter's sake... and for mine.
“What do they say,” he mumbled, splaying his fingers against my cheek. It felt like a hot brand.
“...You're cruel,” I answered in a breath that could've blown smoke. And I kissed him back.
“Go home, Peter.” I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
I whisked away into the hall, into the cold, into my car, like flash scenes when an audience doesn't have the attention span to sit through the minute details; I couldn't comprehend them as I lived them.
I burst through my door around 12:38 ante meridian. It took me about fifteen minutes to crawl into bed with my eyes wide open. I did not sleep except for the kind in which one hears and comprehends everything around him in the night but his body is incapable of motion.
At 4:30 ante meridian, I awoke. I still was not thinking in words, only pictures.
At 4:30 ante meridian, I awoke, and thought of Peter.
He kept his cool entirely. “Well. You obviously have yours about me.”
“Teachers do, about students.”
He took one last step, into my space, and I faltered; I found it harder to breathe, like I was sharing my oxygen unexpectedly. I fought to keep the tingling in my cheeks from blooming hot red buds.
I heard nothing but the blood in my own ears for three eternal seconds. I could've sworn I was breathing too heavily even though I struggled to complete a single in and out without a hitch. I wanted my inertia. I wanted to turn to stone that instant and never move again.
I was absolutely terrified.
“I- I- I need to be going, Peter, that's quite enough.” I put my palms up. “It's late, we're tired, we don't want to bicker, you don't have class again until Tuesday so we'll give it some time. You and yours can thank whatever deity you adhere to that I won't say anything to Delamere, just try not to be stupid again...” I retreated, ducking down and away, gathering up my books even though I could hardly see them anymore. “You know it is true what they say about you, Peter, though I didn't want to believe it-”
Before I could protest, he had ducked down near me; his hand was firm, turning my jaw.
Before I could protest, his beautiful glorious soft rose petal lips were pressed to mine.
My jaw went slack and my brows raised, like a sleepwalker, like the first taste of laudanum; I might've wept on the inside, I might've shouted, but with my face in his hands I was helpless.
“Come on, Professor.” He opened his eyes to me. “I know you know this story.”
How on the planet did he – and possibly even more than that, the absolute nerve. My face grew so hot I was compelled to press a palm hard to my cheek; I frowned at him scornfully and turned a shoulder to him. “You didn't come here to thank me for my lecture, did you, Lord Braithwaite.”
He flinched, put his fingertips to his lips and sobered almost instantly; this apparently was not what he wanted, and he hurried up to me and took my arm, turning me to face him. My chin remained high, but my eyes softened at his face. The corner of my lip twitched. Even from under my sleeve I knew his hands were soft. “Look, I'm sorry.” I watched as his eyes and jaw worked to regain their cool. “I just...” He frowned. “My friends and I are Dionysian arseholes of the worst kind. We thought it would be great fun to romp around school property after hours in our skivvies and see how many consecutive nights we could go without getting caught.” The irony. “We lasted about two weeks, two and a half maybe; we never got caught but it started getting damn cold...” He offered me a pitiful smile that waned as I waited for his explanation. “I would always see your light on. I peeked in your window once or twice and you were always with that book.” He jabbed a finger at Human Beauty in Art.
I tilted my head and licked my lips. “So you want to know what I was doing with it? That doesn't make much sense, does it; not to a sharp lad like you.”
He looked back at me. He raised his chin. He didn't speak for awhile.
“You're right. I've got my theories.”
“What do you know of theories. You command your world.” I couldn't bite the bile back in time.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“Augh, I love when gods make flowers out of dead people. He was a pretty thing, Hyacinth...” I began to lose myself in the familiar form of the beautiful boy on the page. I brought my fingertip close to his face. “Come to think of it,” I mumbled absently, “looks a bit like...” I lowered the book from my face to see nearly the same image in front of me, as if someone had pranked the sculpture and put it in some trendy clothes. My throat went dry again; I shut the book quickly, pursed my lips and gave him a tight smile. “Mm.” I dropped Human Beauty in Art to my desk like a hot plate.
He gave a breathy laugh; he ran a hand through his hair. I could've sworn there was a glare like sunlight on marble. “Can I be honest with you, Professor Exeter?”
“Always,” I said, attempting my teacher voice, but I had become more and more aware of what a terrible actor – a terrible liar – I was. I meant it differently, so differently it was said.
“I just wanted to hear you talk. You joked about your voice at the beginning of your lecture but it's true, you've got a great one. It's gentle and invigorating but it rumbles...” He turned his face to the lamp and closed his eyes slowly. I took the opportunity to watch him intently, dig out the sallow contours of his crafted face with my eyes half in rapture and half in an attempt to understand what the hell he was doing, what the hell he was playing at here.
I started when his brows sharply furrowed.
“What were you doing here at night in the fall?”
I nearly choked on my own spit. “I- I beg your pardon?!”
“Unfortunately?” Peter took the corner of the desk – for a better look, of course.
“Oh come on Peter,” I chastised lightly, eying him. “I know you know this story.”
Fine, replied mine with a roll. “I know, I've read three different versions at least. But my preferred one would tell you that Zephyr and Apollo had both openly vied for Hyacinth's favor, and Apollo had won over. Not at all surprising, of course; Apollo was rich and radiant in his charisma and Hyacinth was an athlete who lived to bathe his every muscle in the Mediterranean sun. A light breeze like Zephyr, mm, wasn't made to glorify. Athletes can complain all they want about being hot or thirsty, they don't really ever want relief, they want to be lauded for their resilience. No one ever got a laurel on his head for fanning himself.”
We both laughed.
“Anyway, as you know, Apollo won out. Zephyr obviously wasn't as laid back as everyone thought he was because this threw him into an absolute jealous snit for quite some time until one day-”
“Apollo thought it'd be fun to toss the discus around,” Peter finished with a grin.
“Mmmmhm,” I nodded wryly. “Apollo for the pitch, he tosses, Hyacinth looks to catch it... Zephyr says, 'if I can't have him, no one can'.” I tapped my temple. “Clock. Out cold. Hyacinth is on the ground with a gash in his head. Apollo blames himself, no doubt; he cradles the lovely youth in his arms and creates with his life's blood the first...” I glanced over at him expectantly.
