Virgin’s dance

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Red hot embarrassment settles in high cheek bones

While this debonair young man twirls her

Around and around, by the river

Underneath the bridge with the striking stones

 

Her friends, or are they?, sit and watch the pair

She worries quickly, does she look alright?

Her steps are awkward and unpolished, while

His speak of a dedication to the art of seduction

 

She isn’t sure why her friends sit and stare

Do they enjoy watching this slow but steady

Dance, this partnership between two unwilling

But all two willing to their emotions

 

She knows with each twirl of her skirt

And careful clack of the low heeled shoes

He steps closer, is closer to pressing into her

Pressing into her

 

She hopes they’ll disappear, the people

She could care less about, so that they

Can be alone.  Alone underneath the bridge

To consummate their little dance

642 Things to Write About: 9

Prompt: Where do you go to escape?

Unlike her younger sister Britney, who disappeared into the pages of an old paper novel when she needed space, Ashley fell into the internet.  Se would pull up the New York Times, Glamour, Huffington Post, WordPress, everything.  There would be five to twelve tabs on her browser while she scoped out the damage for the day.  She’d find the latest trends and latest issues.  She’d devour sources and articles, ripping through pages quickly.  If there was one trait both she and her sister shared, it was a need to reading.  They simply had different tastes.  Britney liked her books, where everything stayed the same.   No matter how many times she read her books, the outcome was always the same.

That was why Ashley liked the news, she loved the ever constant flux of change.  She liked to live her entire life in that flux of change and insanity.  It made her feel right at home to see her world changing, being crafted by events.  She worshiped changed, bowed down to it like she did to the discounted merchandise at outlet stores.  It made her feel right at home.

That morning, after the stressful all nighter, she couldn’t believe her first all nighter was only two weeks into the semester.  Junior year was kicking her ass already.  Ashley sighed, and settled down with her laptop, watching as the lights came streaming on in wonder.  She loved her laptop with the pale blue case.  It was her perfect baby, her favorite thing, the best accessory.  She had spent too much time and money on this laptop to have it run anything other than smoothly.

While she pulled up er tabs, her email alerted her that she had a new follower on her blog.  smiling, she quickly recounted in her head.  76 followers to date.  That made her smile, that made her happy.  She pulled up this new blog and decided to give it a once over, to see if it was worth following or not.

“Holy hell,” she swore.  The blog was flawless.  More so than her own even.  Whomever made this blog either knew how to work it, or spent hours upon hours on it like she did with her own.  The blog blended artistry and the news flawlessly.  It was gorgeous.

Ashley spent the next few hours on the blog, rereading, searching for some sign of flaw.  Nothing, there was nothing amiss.  His writing was both compact and creative and compelling, the stories he chose were perfectly fitting.  The desire to track this man down was rising in her blood stream.  Could she?  Should she was the real question.

Netbook, laptop fixable, muse

Good evening ladies and gentlemen,

I am in a very good mood.  I have a netbook.  A netbook I can take back to school with me and use in all of it’s teeny tine glory.  It works, it’s fast, and I adore it.  I need to put my music on here, but other wise, I have everything backed up on an external hard drive.

My laptop simply needs a new hard drive.  The lovely people at Geek Squad are replacing my hard drive and making back up disks and it cost less than an arm.  Considering the damage I thought was done, this is a beautiful statement.

Finally, my muses are up and running that story that my writing prompts seem to be inspiring.  I am very excited about that.  Excited indeed.  I will try to post a few more things tonight since I finally have a laptop and that makes me so unbearably happy!!!!!!!

642 Things to write about: 4

Prompt: describe a professor coming on to one of his students. (For the sake of my writing, I will be using a teacher’s assistant.)

Britney sat at the desk in the back corner of the library. While she knew she was supposed to be on duty at the research desk, her head was just too far away for her to be there. Pulling at her long gold curls, she tried valiantly to rearrange them in a more flattering fashion. Desperately, Britney begged for the improbable help of a more skillful set of hands, like her roommate Meredith for example.  Her fingers tried to shove the bobby pins back into her hair when a noise made her drop a few of them.  Spinning, she found that her peace had been interrupted by her poetry professor’s TA Johnathon Darcy.

“Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed, while smoothing down her pencil skirt. In her futile attempts to fix her hair, the skirt had risen to an indecent level around her thighs.

“Call me Johnathon, please. We aren’t in class.”

“I’m sorry Mr Da- … Johnathon,” she corrected herself before finishing his surname. Flustered, her face turned an attractive shade of pink while he cracked a joke about how students calling him that made him feel extraordinarily old. Britney noted with a quick glance, he looked anything but old.

Johnathon looked to be in his mid to late twenties, with slightly tanned skin and dark brown hair that fell rougeishly around his lean face. There was a bit of stubble around his chin, a result of carelessness or perhaps it was intended?  Britney adjusted her glasses before taking a look at his warm coffee colored eyes. He’d been staring at her as well; Britney looked away while her face and the tips of her ears turned red. The TA chuckled before asking her a question. She was too embarrassed and ended up mumbling for him to repeat it.

“I asked why you weren’t at the front desk,” he said, his voice full of charming concern.

“Everyone kept asking me questions. I know it’s part of my job to get asked plenty of questions, but I just couldn’t deal with them all today.  And to top it off, I feel over dressed and my hair refuses to stay up!”

It was only after she finished her rant that she realized she had just let out all of her frustrations out on her professor’s assistant. She felt like a fol and quickly started apologizing for her lack of decorum. The more she rambled, the wider Johnathon’s smile grew until he stopped her with a wave of his hand. Smile still in place, he took the chair next to Britney’s and sat so that he was facing her.

“Personally, I think your hair looks lovelier down than it does up.”

Britney looked up at him again before she pulled the last three remaining pins out of her hair. It tumbled to the middle of her shoulder blades in all of its golden glory. Cautiously,  Johnathon wrapped a curl around his forefinger then let it go, watching it spring back into place.

“Much better,” he said.

Britney’s wide green eyes looked down at her outfit, staring awkwardly at the white button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the sweater vest with the argyle print in blue, black, and purple and her black pencil skirt and suitable pumps. She still felt far overdressed for the third day back to classes for the spring semester.  Johnathon spoke again.

“You know, I like a girl who makes herself look professional, especially in the work place. It gives off a certain air of confidence and credibility and dominance. I really like it.”

Her whole face flushed at the comment was she nodded. She didn’t feel dominant, but the compliment put her a little more at ease. The college freshman thanked him and gave him a rare, pure smile.

“Now, about all that stress, let me see if I can help get it off your mind,” he said while his hand slunk up from her knee, where it had come to rest after he had played with her hair, to under her skirt. It still rested on the outside of her thigh,  but the warmth and sudden contact made her breath catch in her throat.  He looked confident as his eyes gazed into her’s.  Britney felt hunted, but she liked it.  She really enjoyed the feeling of Johnathon’s hand on her.  His other hand came to rest on her cheek. Her glasses fogged up from the heavy breathing she was experiencing.  What would he do, what would he do?

He leaned forward and kissed her neck softly. The feeling of his lips over her pulse sent it skyrocketing as she gasped. He smiled at her and the innocence she held. His hands left her and he pulled away. She whimpered, unsure of her body’s reactions.

“Go back to work my dear Britney. I’ll collect you when your shift is done. We’ll work out the rest of your stress later.”  With that he left, leaving Britney realing.

642 Things to Write About: 2

Making Soup:

While she was no culinary genius, Tabby did her best to cook with the simple instructions that he mother had given in the recipe.  The broth spilled into the large pot with a careful hand as she smelled the aroma that permeated the room.  A splash of the broth caught the edge of her shirt, making her swear.  It wasn’t hot, but she did not want to go find another top.

“Son of a bitch!”  her voice, while like bells, sounding rough.  One of her roommates popped out to see if she had burned herself.  Tabby had a tendency to injure herself.

“Calm down, I’m fine.  I just an apron.”  She debated between the three that rested neatly on the hook on the outlying wall of the kitchen.  Tugging out the black apron with the words ‘spooning leads to forking’, she tied it to herself to avoid anymore spills.  Back to the pot, she watched as everything came to boil, the whole apartment filling with warmth.  It felt so good to be cooking for people, her roommates and one of her friends.  She wasn’t the best cook, her abilities limited to breakfast foods and a few other odds and ends.  However, this recipe was warm and very healthy, so she thought it would be appropriate for the gathering of friends.

diligently, she dropped in ditalini, lemon juice, herbs, and watched as the whole pot came to a boil.  she turned up the catchy Taylor Swift tune as she danced in the kitchen, listening for the door.  When the knocks came, she slid on her fuzzy socks to the door and opened it.  Her friend walked in, commenting on the warmth.  As her roommates filtered out of their rooms, they too made noises of appreciation for the food.

Sitting down, she felt like she was home.

Maybe she was.