In Between Rainbows. [Excerpt]

Laura sees her lover at a party and expresses the feelings she has on him, on their sexual relationship, and everything else in between while the world rages on outside.

I see him across the room and I want to tear through the crowd, I want to hold him in front of all these people and let them stare and wonder, ask themselves "is she the one for him? Can he make her as happy as she deserves to be?"  

The crowd surges as the party purrs onward like a well oiled machine, everyone grinding their hot, hormonal twenty-something bodies against each other and all I can see is him, through the throng of voices and colors and faces al blended together he stands against the wall a solitary gray, eyes downcast, red cup clutched in his hand like a rosary. 

I want to scream out but I'm quiet, I want to raise my voice and let everyone know, because I've got something to say, I've got something for them to hear and gossip about.

"I'm sleeping with that boy-that boy right there, with the dark tee on," I want to say, with a pointing motion.

"Yes, I'm having sex with that glorious young man over there. " 

They would look at me, a reflective sea of gawking faces and questioning eyes, all wondering where my shame is, asking themselves why a nice girl like me would say something like that.  

I want everyone to know- I want the whole f*****g world to stop and realize that we two touch each other and it's filled with something more- something almost magical and definitely frightening. 

"Laura, hey!" 

It's a voice that doesn't match the smiling face looming over me; a boy in a red tee with some obscure band on it that I probably wouldn't like. I would call this boy Clarence if I knew for sure that was his name, but there are so many boys at this party promoting the obscurity of their musical taste, each one vying to be the most obscure, the most meaningful. 

His voice has no obscure tones, through the nasally undercurrents I can sense only the desire to procreate and a cheap brand of vodka. 

"Oh, you; I wasn't aware you went to parties like this?" I use my most aloof voice, trying to desperately to be someone this boy would approve of. Maybe if he approves of me he'll leave me alone quicker, leave me to my fantasies of sexual freedom.

He shrugs those abnormally small, feminine shoulders and takes another sip of his heinous alcohol, his eyes removing my blouse from behind their drunken haze. This Clarence isn't a threat, he's barely even a real person. 

"I go wherever Lydia takes me, you know?" he smiles; big, stupid.

I would assume Lydia is a girlfriend, the casual tone in which he uses her name implies that we're acquainted; these days all the faces melt away into nothingness, names soon forgotten. There's just he and I but mostly him, staring intently at me, through my layers and down to the heart of my cold little soul, seeing me for how I am-a miserable, sardonic c**t; and wanting me in spite of it, all the more for it. 

"Oh, well, it's.. to be expected. I can't imagine trying to say no to her."

I picture this  Lydia with large imposing breasts and  an occasional camel-toe; someone I, too, would not be able to say no to. 

He laughs at this- both my comment, and, I would assume, the image I've conjured of this girl who may be sleeping with him. 

I wonder if he feels strongly enough about it to shout it out- if I asked him would he get embarrassed, or would his eyes light up, a spark of passion ignited in his hippocampus or some other part of the brain, would he tell me that when their bodies make contact something goes off, something feels so right that he knows, he knows deep inside where the terrible secrets and fears and childhood love is, that she's the only her for him.

Or do they only sleep together, is it simply f*****g? Thrusting and moaning and cumming and the coiled limbs and empty, bitter words that don't mean much, that don't mean anything. Does it end with a cigarette and hurriedly getting dressed-"wouldn't want to miss my early class"-  I want to ask him these things, I want to punch his screwed up pretentious little face with my inquisitive truth- I want his answer to somehow be less substantial than the feeling inside of me, false and cheap. 

I keep my mouth shut in case it's not, in case he tells me everything I already know, everything I feel when I look at him, when I look at Eddie. 

It's a form of narcissism, I suppose. I can only love myself through him, and in those moments what I feel is magnified ten-fold, stronger than any self love I could ever feel.  I talk to people about their sex, gloating when they mention how mediocre it is, how mediocre they are.

It isn't as though Eddie was especially talented with his tongue or had well-trained hips; strictly sexually speaking he's just alright.  It would be a problem if I really actually cared about our sex, if I really  wanted it to be good or wanted to tell people how he made me curl my toes and scream his name out, fists clenching silk sheets and hair splayed wildly- I don't. 

I want to tell people about him and I. About the complete freedom and comfort he brings when we touch, the feelings no one has ever brought about before.  I want their full attention so they know just how much it is that we share; it isn't just some primal mating ritual we practice to pass the time- it was at first, but now, over time, it's become so much more. We've become so much more. 

Looking up from my stupor,  obscure tee boy has vanished; perhaps he noticed my daze and went to ogle someone else, perhaps the elusive Lydia appeared and, flaunting the outline of her less-than-perfect vaginal lips, took him away into some bedroom to perform their less-than-special f*****g. 

I set my diet cola on the beer pong table, muttering something to the jocks throwing their ping-pong balls back and forth, and make my way across the 'dance floor' through the thrusting, pulsing, sweaty mass of boys and girls, all looking for someone to cure their lonesomeness, all trying like mad to not go back to their empty apartments alone.

Through the masses, through the shouting and the various "Heeyy, Laura!" shouts that I receive, across the room to him, to my beloved Eddie,  plastic rosary still gripped hard in his left hand, eyes looking at me intently, those faded brown locks of hair refusing to commit to any one stereotype.

He takes me by the hand- his large and calloused but ever so warm, my own so womanly in every aspect, a by-product of the lush bank job my father set me up with. 

His dark eyes, always seeming to be full of rain pierce my being and without having to say a word I know he feels it too- the longing, the levels of something else we can't even name, that intense togetherness that we've somehow achieved, that we manage to unlock when our bodies intertwine. 

I see it in his eyes and the crooked smile he wears, I know he wants to shout out, tell everyone in the party and let them stand their with their mouths open, too shocked to react. 

"I love this girl; my Laura. I have sex with her and it's something else- something  unnamable and untouchable," he would say, he would shout.

But he stays quiet, sipping his gin and tonic. 

I squeeze his hand tightly. 

Author's Note

This is an unedited first draft. Rip it to shreds!

Reviews

[Tori]

great job! :D

[laura hope]

Beautiful! There are lots of areas for improvement, but like you said this is the first draft. Im very interested to see this revised. Good job love!