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Mark McClelland, 23 Feb '13

        The phone rang, and the young blond fellow was called out to speak.

        In robe and jammies, out he comes to speak to this delightfully, painfully physical woman friend of his. They speak, she quite happy to hear his voice, to draw him over, joking that he should come 'cross town in his night clothes to visit her, to lie next to her he thinks. She'll bring her bared leg up again, across his thigh, between, resting where the meaning is clear; and the ante will thus have been upped. Just physical friends of course, but oh how delightfully, painfully physical.
        He's not giving in easily, though—not without his natural charming friction. He's playing at being pulled from amid his rocks, his rocky niche home, out into the daylight to be played with, into the moonlight to be . . . friends. He'll be bringing his toothbrush in the future, and now that there's no form at the window he can she can do as they please, within their ever slackening bounds of honor, of decorum, as closer into one another they are drawn.
        He wants to believe she's seducing him. He wants so to believe, and at the same time hopes she won't bring him out of his stiff prudish suit and mask, for fear he'll betray the friend of his whom she used so to love, whom she may love again, whom she might tell of her regrets, and he'd never look at him in the same light again—that form at the window.
        Oh, he's itching to be off, to stay late and to be asked to stay the night, to give in most willingly this time, and to see how far she's taking him.

Comments · 1

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  • Mark McClelland said...

    Third of the three-part series of freewrites, written about twenty years ago. The surrealism is gone, and the young man wrestles with desire and shame more directly here.

    • Posted 6 years ago