I Have an Idea

They were at the make or break point of their relationship. Would they stay together or would they split? He felt sick. Another failure. He wanted to blame her; he did blame her. She never said what she meant. She couldn't tell him what she wanted, needed, and he suspected it was because she, herself, did not know, but unfairly expected him to guess and get it right.

They'd agreed to take a week off from each other, to think. Her idea, obviously.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Her smile, when she was happy, but she hadn't been happy lately. The wild auburn curls of her fly-away hair, though it had been subdued by scarves lately. Her milky skin, peppered with freckles across her nose, across her shoulders and arms, but so clean and perfect and white everywhere else. She was beautiful, he couldn't deny it, but she was also sad. She was putting on weight and using it as an excuse to cover up all her creamy skin. She was like a fading flower in a way, withering under the cold skies of their relationship.

They each worked full time. They each had to make time for each other, and lately they just hadn't.

He'd call her on Saturday and end it. Why postpone it any longer?

Instead, Saturday morning, awoken from a brutal hangover, his phone buzzed. She'd texted him.

***

'I have an idea.'

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, splashed cold water on his face, collapsed on the couch and fat fingered his response.

'For wht?'

When her reply didn't come right away, he repaired myself with some coffee and toast. He'd lost his appetite for the most part. How long would he let this thing between them shrivel and die before he put it out of its misery?

His phone vibrated on the counter. Another text.

'For us.'

He accidentally smeared butter on his phone as he replied.

'What idea?'

It took another minute or so. He crunched the last of his toast, brushing the crumbs from his hands until his phone vibrated again.

'Call me.'

He sagged in the chair. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

* * *

Her hair was loose again, wild and seductive. If she had gained weight since they'd been together, he'd gained more. She still had her perfect legs and perfect little white belly, it just had a little roll when she sat down that she hated. Her breasts weren't the taut perky things they'd once been, but he made do.

But there was something about her, a new life, a new spark in her eyes, and he could've sworn he saw a smirk on her lips. He saw a hint of fear, too, though. She wasn't certain about what she was doing.

There they sat. On the patio of their favorite restaurant. Ella and Jim. Jim and Ella. Failed lovers.

"We haven't been good lately," she said.

He nodded, sick to his stomach. "I know."

"Are we going to break up?" she asked. Her hands trembled as she spoke. She sniffled and he saw tears in her eyes.

"I don't know."

"Well," she swallowed, choked off her sentence and reached for the water, "before we do, I have an idea."

He nodded and sighed. "I know. You said."

She waited, looked idly away. "So . . . do you want to know what it is?"

He laughed and nodded. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She smiled. It lightened their moods. "Yes, you are. That's good, I guess. You know . . . makes me think there's still some hope."

He took a big long breath. "I hope there is, Ella. I really do, but I know you haven't been happy lately."

"Neither have you."

He made sure her green eyes were on him."Only because you've been so unhappy."

She blanched. "So, it's my fault."

He winced. "I didn't say that. I didn't mean that. Shit, I don't know, but I do know I want you to be happy. I just don't know how to make that happen."

She nodded, made a path through the condensation on the side of her glass with a finger. "I know, I know. Sorry."

They sat quietly and the moment seemed to stretch on forever.

"So," he tapped the table idly, "what's this big idea of yours?"

She sat back and crossed her arms. "I'm not sure. I mean . . . you're probably not gonna go for it."

He chuckled. "Well, I can't unless I know what it is."

"Okay," she said, and her eyes had that hopeful look again, "there's something we could try. I found this website."

"O-kay," he replied, "what thing? What website?"

"It's, um, called–" She licked her lips, dropped her eyes, whispered, "It's called 'Divine Tantra'."

He tried to replay her words, but they didn't make sense. He needed a dictionary. "Divine Tantra? Like a cult or something?"

She laughed. "No, but maybe a philosophy."

"Isn't tantra like a religion or yoga or something?"

"Well, it's a lot of breathing and chakras and all that, but that's not what this really is."

"Yeah," he frowned, "you know I'm not a big believer–"

"I know," she said quickly. "It's not like that. I thought you could read the website and tell me what you thought."

He thought about it. They were just postponing the end, but he didn't want it to end just yet. "Okay." How long would he let this go on?

"Promise me," she said, and made sure his eyes met hers. "Promise me you'll keep an open mind."

He smiled and lied. "I promise."

* * *

His phone buzzed. He expected a text, but she was calling. He smiled. She hadn't really been calling him recently. He thought, in a way, they'd both been avoiding each other in order to delay the breakup. It was easier to be too busy to talk right now than it was to finally fight it out.

"Hey." He smiled. It really was nice; she seemed interested in him again.

"Hey." She could hear his smile. It was almost too good to be true. "Did you look at the site?"

He collapsed on to the couch. "Yep. Last night. I couldn't read it on his phone, so I looked it up on the computer."

"Oh, did I send it to your phone? I thought–"

"Well, email, but I can only look at that email address on my phone."

"I can never keep all your email addresses straight."

He chuckled. "That's okay."

"So . . . what did you think?"

He was reluctant to tell her what he really thought. "Well . . . it was interesting."

"Wasn't it? I know it sounded a little strange, but it's all about refocusing love and attention on each other. You know, increasing the anticipation and the intimacy."

"Hmm, yeah."

"You didn't like it?" He could already hear the suspicion and disappointment in her voice.

"No, I didn't say that. I mean, it does sound good, us being close like that again. I'm up for that, but–"

"But what?" More suspicion. The disappointment was making her voice heavy and broken like an old smoker.

"Well between all the fancy concepts and idea, there seems to be a whole lot of me not having orgasms basically."

There was a pause, a long one. "Well, maybe less of them. And the ones you have would be with me."

"Yes, and only with you or didn't I read that right?"

He was no chronic masturbator, no porn addict, but he was a typical guy, and asking a typical guy to flat out not touch himself . . . ever . . . was a biological impossibility. Guys have needs.

"Yes," she finally said with a heartbroken tone. "I suppose that's a real tragedy for you."

He felt her utter sadness in the pit of his stomach. "I don't want to lose you. I'd do anything for us to stay together–"

"Well, not anything."

"Anything within reason."

"And us directing our sexual pleasure at each other is so amazingly unreasonable?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying?"

He thought about it: what was he saying? He was saying, 'I don't want to do this, but I will if you make me feel obligated.' That's not something she wanted to hear, and he couldn't actually say that, but then he didn't have to; she already knew.

He thought about it some more, the silence between them deafening.

"Fuck it." The words left his lips before he could stop them.

"What does that mean?" The anger was creeping into her voice.

"It means . . . it means. . . . Ella, it means that I'm tired of losing people. I love you. I know we haven't been getting along. I know you haven't been happy. I want you to be happy. I don't know how to make that happen. So . . . fuck it. Whatever this is that you want to try, fuck it. I'll do it."

Another long silence. "You're doing it because I'm making you do it?"

He was about ready to crawl in a hole somewhere and stay there. "I'm doing it because I want you to be happy. And there is no 'but'. I'll do anything. So, I'm ready to do it, whatever it is."

"It might not be a bad thing you know. You're making it sound like the end of the world."

He laughed. "Well, maybe the world you and he are living in right now needs to end so they can build a new one."

She giggled. He would never get enough of that; the sound of her happiness. "Okay. I'll be honest; I didn't think you'd even try it. Thank you."

"So," he gulped nervously, "what do he have to do?"

"I have a plan," she said, and in the tone of her voice was the biggest grin he could imagine.

* * *

He had seven days. It was Sunday. He was not to touch myself for seven days. No masturbation, no orgasms. he was free to look at porn or fantasize about anything he wanted, but he was not to touch himself. That was rule number one.

Rule number two was that he had to be honest. If he fell off the wagon, got himself off, even if he masturbated but didn't cum, he was to tell her the truth.

Rule number three was for her. She was not to get mad if he fell off the wagon. But his seven day period would start all over again until he completed it.

Rule number four was that he was to call her during the week and ask her out for Saturday. It was to be a formal date. "Formal" meant he was to treat it like a first date.

Rule number five was that she could ask for daily updates, and he was to give them as promptly as possible.

Five rules. That was it. Pretty simple. He wasn't sure if it was something she'd come up with on her own or read about somewhere. He hadn't seen her "plan" on the Divine Tantra site anywhere. Maybe she'd contacted someone. Maybe they were giving her ideas, a map for getting their relationship back on track.

He knew he could do it. He'd quit smoking by myself. No patches. No therapy. Just him and a whole lot of willpower. If he stumbled and had a drag, he started over. He didn't let it get him down.

Would this be any different? It was just him and his willy. How hard could it be? No pun intended.

On the first day, he got an email from her. They wouldn't be seeing each other until Saturday and he hadn't formally asked her out yet. He was thinking about how to do that. He thought she'd want it to be special, but he wasn't sure how to make it special yet. Her email was pretty straightforward.

'Day one, having fun?'

He emailed back. 'Fine. No worries.'

It was true. He usually masturbated either in the mornings when he first got up or more often after work. It was stress relief, going through countless Tumblr images, blogs, porn videos. He didn't even always like the images or videos. There were nights where he couldn't find "anything good on", but he still got off.

On the second day, she texted him.

'Day two. How did you do?'

He smiled, and texted back. 'Good, a little antsy but good.'

The fact was he didn't feel much difference. He was starting to wonder if all this Divine Tantra business wasn't a bunch of malarkey. He did feel a little antsy and his balls felt a little . . . "tight", a little full, like he'd forgotten to empty them. Every once in awhile he would notice they felt a little warmer and they ached a little. Well, not ached exactly, not burned exactly, but he was feeling something.

'Day three. How we be?'

He laughed. He texted back. 'I miss you. When should I call about Saturday, forgot to say?'

She texted back. ':) anytime. Not my choice.'

He dialed her number. When he heard her voice, he felt a little thrill. He hadn't felt that since they'd first met. "So . . . Saturday?"

He heard the smile in her voice. "Hm? What about it?"

He grinned. She was playing a little game with him. A little game inside of a big one. "Are you busy?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'd have to check my calendar."

He laughed. "Okay, you do that. If you're not busy, I'd like to take you out."

"Yes?" He could practically feel her blush emanating through the phone. "Hm, where to?"

That struck him. He hadn't exactly planned it out. Time for some tap-dancing. "I can't tell you. Some place nice though."

"Well, I need to know what to wear though."

"Uh . . . well, not shorts or anything. Something nice, but it's not like formal or anything."

She giggled. "I'm intrigued. I suppose I could make time on Saturday."

He had to make plans. He was already thinking he needed to find a nice restaurant, some place they hadn't been, some place nice.

"So, um–" she asked, "how are things going?"

"Good," he told her.

"Have you been following all the rules?"

He chuckled. "Yes. I haven't broken any of them yet."

"Oh, don't say 'yet'. But I mean, you're not having any problems or anything?"

He didn't hear that smile in her voice anymore. She was concerned, about what he wasn't sure.

"Well," he admitted, grinning from ear to ear, "I did wake up with a raging hard on this morning."

She giggled. "Oh, really?"

"Yes," he laughed, enjoying the sound of her voice - it was penetrating him in a way he hadn't expected, in a way that it hadn't for a long time. "And all the way to work this morning. I was fine when I got to work, busy and all, but then all the way home. In fact, I'm glad you texted because I was tempted to sit down at the computer."

He could hear her moving the phone to the other ear. "To look up porn?"

"I never start looking up porn, but I always seem to end up there, so probably that's a yes."

"Is it too tough for you? You know, not looking at it?"

He thought about it. In his head, he knew it was a bad idea; it wouldn't be long before his hand was on his dick, but his body was being very sneaky and persuasive. "It's not tough exactly. It just sort of creeps up on me. There's a whole rationalization that goes along with it."

"Like what?" she wondered. She was genuinely interested and true to her word, she wasn't acting angry or petty or jealous.

"Like, 'well, I won't look up porn. I'll just do other things.' Then, 'oh, one picture couldn't hurt', then one video, then I'm in the middle of it and my hand is moving all by itself."

"It sounds like it's too tempting."

He grinned. "It is. Of course if I could see you right now, it wouldn't be. I could take out all his pent up need on your fragile, delicate, luscious body."

She laughed. He was starting to love the sound of her voice, more than he remembered. "I'm luscious? I don't think I've ever heard you use that word."

"You're not just luscious, you're . . . delicious, delectable."

His mind was filled with images of her soft, white thighs, her little belly. He wanted to lick circles around her navel. He imagined her in bed, everything white, soft and feminine about her revealed.

"Thank you, but we have a date on Saturday, don't we?"

He groaned. "I have to wait until then?"

"Yes," she laughed, "and until then you promised you'd be good."

"I did. I know. I'll try. It's starting to get a little harder now."

She got serious. "This is for us, you know?"

He nodded. "I know."

* * *

'Day four, want some more?'

He responded. 'See email.'

He'd emailed her long passages about he missed her, about his dreams of her. He was getting horny. There was something missing. A big whole where he used to touch himself and get himself off. The forbiddenness of his own cock was starting to work on him. He hadn't touched it except to take a piss and he missed it. He hadn't looked at porn because he didn't think he could manage it without breaking her rules. He was feeling antsy. He was feeling restless. He went to sleep thinking about her and certain pornographic images that haunted him. Images he thought he'd forgotten came rushing back into his head. Videos where the girl had moaned a certain way, had a certain expression, where she'd been utterly pleasured, used, overwhelmed by her partner's needs.

It hadn't been a week yet and he was starting to go a little crazy.

He went to bed with an erection and woke up the same way, rolling around in bed thinking about Ella.

He drove to work and felt his dick stiff in his pants. Thank god for work, for being busy. It took his mind off things.

He stopped going home right away. Home was where the computer was, where the porn was, where it was only him and his dick and his dick was persona non grata at the moment. He wanted it. He wanted her. He didn't know what he wanted, but he was starting to need her, to need to see her, to need to hear her voice. They had a date on Saturday.

He went to the gym for the first time in months. He ran until he couldn't run anymore, tried to burn off his sexual energy. He found books, technical manuals he'd been meaning to read. He tried to get lost in them. It wasn't easy. In the middle of a passage, he'd lose all track of it and realized he'd been staring blankly at the page thinking about Ella's perfect round ass.

He used his phone to look for a restaurant. He was scared to turn on the computer. He looked at emails on his phone. The screen was too small to really do anything too naughty, but even then he caught himself on a site, looking at a pretty naked girl bent over a couch, her long lean legs slightly askew in a pose only a woman could manage.

The girls of advertising began to plague him. He avoided magazines. In the grocery checkout, he marveled at how beautiful the women on the glamor covers were with their perfect breasts in their perfect swimsuits, their perfect smiles, pretty eyes, blushing cheeks–

By Saturday, he realized he was more than a little crazy.

When he made it to Ella's door, she opened it and hurried away to the bathroom. He just caught a glimpse of her red dress.

'Oh, god . . . not the little red dress.'

It was low cut. It was thigh high, loose and flowing around her legs, but tight on her hips. He groaned quietly. He couldn't stand if it she wore that dress. She was chatting with him while she put on her makeup. He wandered restlessly around her apartment, knowing if he saw her cleavage, he was a goner.

She presented herself before him like a pretty wrapped Christmas gift.

For a whole minute he just stood there staring at her, blushing, salivating. He felt like a wolf eyeing a deer. He wanted her. He wanted to do things to her, with her. He wanted to wrap her around him, to split her in two.

She looked at him, worried. "What? You don't like it? I thought you liked this dress."

He nodded, finally tearing his eyes away from her hips. He'd always been a breast man, but now her hips had him hypnotized. He took a deep breath and made eye contact. "You're killing me. You're too beautiful."

She blushed deeply.

* * *

It had been a week and he hadn't had an orgasm. He hadn't even touched his own cock. He was in a desperate state. He couldn't do anything wrong. He had to be on his best behavior. He had no snide comments, no sarcasm. He thought about everything he said, twice, before he said it. He couldn't let this night go by without getting between her legs.

She spoke about work. He was a sponge, soaking up every word in awe of every smile, every twinkle of her eye. Every facial expression was like the super bowl. He analyzed her, studied her. His focus was complete. Her and only her.

She told him he was acting unusually attentive. He blew it off, but she was right.

After dinner, they went for a stroll on the romantic river walk. When the path turned, where a lamplight flickered like a candle, he pulled her in close and kissed her and kept kissing her. He sank his teeth into her neck, filled himself up with her perfume, gorged himself on the smell of her hair. He wanted to fling himself deep into her until he was swallowed whole.