Hunger Ch 01 2

The wonderful thing about long lasting friendships is that they often create strange, but very interesting combinations of people.

Meet Sarah, a warm and caring woman who's not afraid to love and love deeply.

And Susan, a cold-looking woman who never lets anyone into her life, because it's just safer that way.

And Rose, well-dressed, polished, seemingly happy, living what appears to be the perfect life.

And Mary, laughing, protective, all-seeing Mary, who keeps people away with her sarcasm and wit.

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I used to think that my relationship problems had started when I had fallen in love that first time at the age of eighteen. In reality it was probably many years before that, from my early years of childhood, but if I had to name one critical moment it would be that one first love.

It was a crazy, wild love that made me skip school, stay out late and generally not care what my mother said. She couldn't possibly know how much Seth loved me and I loved him. She was just jealous because she was a lonely old woman. But of course my mother was right about the "he's just using you"-part and the "he's a teenager boy, just one thought on his mind", because after finally saying yes to his heated "I need you" and "I want you" pleas, he laughed at me and made sure the whole school knew that I was a cold fish. He'd then gone on to ruin several other lives as well, whilst I cried myself to sleep not really helped by my mother's repeated, cold "I told you so"s.

I had given the relationship and human closeness-thing a few more tries as I grew older, but ended up hurt every time; hurt by the same comments about being cold, frigid, just lying there, stiff as a plank. And I was stiff and uncomfortable, because I was not even used to hugs and kisses – my upbringing was not exactly a loving one – and I was afraid that I'd do something wrong, say something wrong. In the end, I think it became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And now words couldn't hurt me anymore, or rather I would never let it show on the outside. I could hear the whispers at work; I knew I was called "Ice woman", "Stone maid" and many other things describing my personality; at least the parts of my personality I ever let anyone know.

Along with the ice- and stone-descriptions I was also called something of a financial genius. I made beautiful piles of money for the already rich and sometimes famous, and I was respected and sometimes feared. After a successful investment or deal I would still always be referred to as a hard and cold woman. And in business I wasn't afraid to be just that, hard, dedicated, eyes on the target, in it to win it all the way through. And I didn't make any decisions based on emotions or intuition; it took hard work, calculations and hard core statistical analysis to become successful in my line of work.

The people that hated and feared the "ice princess" didn't know how much fire I had inside, how hard I sometimes had to work to keep my cold outer mask intact. Small things could set me off, like an unusually beautiful song on the radio, a bright and colorful painting or the scent of a man passing me on the street.

The money I made, for most people a small fortune, I spent on beautiful things that made me feel alive; the music that made me cry, the paintings that made me sigh and the books that made me think and laugh. My large, luxurious apartment in the posh parts of town was filled with – for me – unbelievable treasures. Some of the things were really expensive, but most were just small, cheap things, things that all held a special meaning for me. I was lucky that if I really wanted something badly enough, I could usually afford it. Sometimes it made me feel like a child, really needing something, absolutely having to have it; instant gratification supposedly not being good for you and so on. But it made me happy, and it didn't after all hurt anyone else.

As I came home from a long day of hard work, just entering my home made me feel as if my outer shell melted and after stripping away my strict business clothes and pulling on something old and comfortable, I could finally feel like the real me, soft and sensitive, no need for protection.

It would have been a lonely life if I didn't have my old friends to talk to once a week. Even my friends didn't know the real me from the block of ice I presented to everyone, but I really enjoyed meeting up with them on Thursday evenings, hearing them talk about everyday things, sometimes joining in, but mostly staying quiet, listening.

- - - - -

Mary called me one Monday evening after having talked to a heart-broken Sarah. She told me to meet her and the others at our regular bar the day after. We needed to talk to and comfort Sarah, because the guy she'd been dating had turned out to be a lying, cheating SOB – Mary's words, not mine.

It took some rescheduling for me to be able to join "the girls" that day and time, and my head was still filled with numbers and my last angry discussion with a lazy co-worker, trying to take credit for the work of others, when I walked into the bar.

They were all sitting there, at our usual table, Sarah looking absolutely devastated. I hurried over to the bar, got myself a glass of wine and then joined them. Poor Sarah, she looked so sad. The fact that I didn't show any emotions did not make me less able to feel them or to feel for other people's pain. I awkwardly pressed Sarah's shoulder and then sat down, mask intact, ready to hear her story.

The stories my friends told me usually made me feel like I was somewhat missing out on life, but what Sarah told us that evening made me feel two things, bitterly aware that my protective shell was absolutely necessary and sad, because I couldn't be a better, more comforting friend when Sarah really needed one. I could tell that both Mary and Rose were able to give her some of that well-needed comfort, but still at that moment, I didn't feel like a very good friend.

I'm embarrassed to say that the picture that Sarah painted with her quick words about the three-men-one-woman session she'd seen sent an excited throb through my genitals. "Thank you, over-active mind and sex-starved body, for that very fitting reaction" I thought to myself, glad that my inner turmoil was in no way showing on the outside.

- - - - -

Days passed by, with long workdays and lots of money-making activities. I didn't have or give myself time to stop and think about the feelings that Sarah's sadness had stirred in me, but that Saturday – the day in the week I forced myself not to work – all thoughts came crashing down on me.

My outer shell – my cold personality – that worked so well in my professional life and to protect me from potentially hurtful relationships, was hindering and could possibly destroy my friendship with the only three people I could actually call my friends. I didn't like the idea of, perhaps not long from now, being completely alone and having no one. Well actually, perhaps not being completely alone, my mother was still alive after all, but it would be difficult to call our relationship "friendly".

As always, thoughts of my mother made me depressed and had me absolutely dying for some ice cream – those sentiments usually went hand-in-hand after all. Keeping a strict, non-sugar diet on weekdays along with a steady, once-a-day workout schedule helped balance the intake of ice-cream on the weekends; an intake that I'd noticed had increased lately. Of course I took that as another sign that everything wasn't right in my world, I did after all analyze patterns and make decisions based on structured conclusions for a living, didn't I?

My increasingly depressed thoughts were interrupted by my phone signaling that Mary was calling. And yes, they all had their own separate ring tones, music chosen based on the feelings they brought me; in Mary's case an extremely well-written and complex piece with a lot of laughter in it. The music made me smile as I picked up and answered "Hello Mary".

"Hello there Sarah" she answered right back "I just thought I'd call and see how you were."

Already shaken by the thoughts that were running through my head, her well-timed call and her question made me feel naked and vulnerable; it also made me answer quite truthfully that actually I wasn't feeling very well.

"I could tell there was something wrong when met on Monday" Mary told me with a serious voice. "What can I do to help?"

Everything that I had on my mind sort of poured out of me in long, confused sentences. Mary kept quiet or said short things like "Continue" or "Go on" and when I was done talking she was quiet for a short while and then started talking.

"Being always in control is the easiest way of keeping yourself safe, but it could also be one of the most harmful ways." she said, voice still serious "Constantly masking your true feelings could eventually make you unable to feel anything, and that is a sorry way to live your life."

After a long breath she continued "Based on what you've told me, it seems like you've still got plenty of feelings left and that's a good thing. The hard part for you will be to start letting your feelings out through the mask. There are several ways to go about it though, and you'll have to find some way that works for you."

She was silent for a short while and then she said with a slightly shaky voice "I used a visualization technique where I imagined my mask getting thinner and then making it look like a sieve, lots of tiny holes in it."

I was surprised, both at the wisdom of her words, and her last confession on having had to deal with something similar to what I was going through. I didn't know what to say except thank you and after Mary telling me that I could call her anytime, we said goodbye. I put the phone away and sat down in my sofa, my head even more full of thoughts, trying to sort everything out and to put things in neat, organized stacks of information.

I had a mask because I was afraid of getting hurt. I wanted to be able to let certain people in, but not everyone. How would I be able to do that?

In the end, when thinking about it had only given me a slight head ache, I gave up and went straight to the kitchen for my favorite brand of ice cream, cold and deliciously gooey with chocolates and cherries, everything a girl needed for some artificial happiness.

- - - - -

Meeting up at the bar again one Thursday evening some weeks later I had consciously decided to try to take my mask off and to let my friends meet the real me, but it seemed it wasn't as easily done as I had thought.

As Mary told us about her week, about the poor kid and his dad, I felt all of these feelings but I just couldn't communicate them, they were all stuck inside. I could tell that Mary kept her eyes on me, a slight worried frown popping up very shortly before she started cracking jokes and making smart comments about Sarah's situation.

The thought hit me again – about me being just like a child – feeling insecure, being afraid of getting hurt. Perhaps what I needed was someone that could make me feel safe? I shook that silly thought off quickly, a self-reliant woman didn't need anyone but herself.

- - - - -

The agitation I had been feeling continued and even when I was walking around in my beautiful home I wasn't feeling as calm and satisfied as I used to. To get out of my funk, I decided to make some alterations in my living room and the master bedroom. Mary had recently had something fixed by a local firm and she'd given them high recommendations, so I googled their contact information and made a call.

An unusually deep male voice answered and as I described what I wanted to do he asked knowledgeable questions and made some very nice suggestions making me feel comfortable in the knowledge that my precious home would be taken care of by a professional. We decided to meet at my apartment later that week so I could show him in detail what I wanted.

- - - - -

At the designated time, I walked up to my home, looked outside of the building but couldn't see any obvious builder/handyman-dressed person standing around so I walked in and pressed the elevator button.

"Ms. Carlton?" a dark, strong voice asked.

I turned around and saw a nicely dressed man approaching me.

"I'm Ben, from Sanderson & Sons."

I shook his hand and answered "Very nice to meet you" and then added "Call me Susan!"

The elevators in my building aren't small, but Ben – who wasn't either extremely wide or very much taller than I am – seemed to fill the space with his presence to the point that I almost couldn't breathe. Or maybe I just had to stop breathing to prevent myself from sniffing the air, his clean, natural man-smell spreading heat waves through my body like a wildfire. "Oh no" I thought to myself "not now, not this man". I could not possibly be attracted to this man, a man that would have access to my home, my safe haven.

How I got through the discussion with Ben about my need for extra storage space and changes in the color schemes in both bedroom and living room, I don't know. No man had ever put his foot inside my apartment, and having an attractive man walk around my two most important rooms made me feel uncomfortable and jumpy, with the added complication that all of my senses told me I wanted him.

He looked at the rooms, measured walls and windows, made notes about what needed to be done and took his time going through everything in detail. I kept my distance by standing in the doorway, answering his questions and telling him what I wanted.

I didn't tell him all of the things I wanted of course, because frankly, I didn't think he'd like my tacky suggestions about sexual favors. And "handy man helps woman and ends up in bed" is such a porn film cliché. That last thought almost made me laugh out loud and when he finally left I was completely exhausted, having spent half an hour jumping between almost every emotion known to mankind.

After a quick dinner – a salad that neither had taste, nor calories – I decided to take a bath to try to calm down before going to sleep. There's something about just lying in warm water, letting thoughts come and go without consciously sorting them through, that has always had a very meditative effect on me. Since warm water was the only type of calming medication I ever used, the first thing I did after moving in was to buy a very nice, spacious bathtub, where I could easily fit my entire body.

I was lying in the bathtub letting thoughts pop up and fly away like tiny soap bubbles, just breathing, feeling and being in the moment, when I suddenly realized that most of the thoughts that were spinning in my head were surprisingly exact memory images of Ben stretching, bending, turning around, standing still and walking. I had barely seen what he was doing when he was there, having been stuck in anxious thoughts about someone invading my home, but it seemed that some part of me had been interested enough to store a lot of detailed information.

Needless to say, the calm I was trying to reach was hard to come by that evening and after going to bed I tossed and turned for a long time before breaking out one of my favorite vibrators. The choice of being alone doesn't just automatically make a woman's natural urges go away and life had taught me that a self-reliant girl is a happy girl.

Some of the things I had collected through the years were not only very beautiful, but also highly useful, especially when it came to giving pleasure. The fact is that I probably owned the most expensive collection of sex toys in our little corner of the world. Some of the dildos and vibrators were just beautiful to look at, but not very practical to actually use, but still just looking at them also gave a guilty sort of pleasure. Most of the changes I wanted in my bedroom were actually because I was running out of storage space for my secret collection.

The thought of Ben's hands building and touching the shelves where I would keep my beautiful pleasure treasure was enough for me to climax, clamping my lips shut to prevent myself from screaming aloud.

* * * * *

The woman I had spoken to over the phone had had one of the most sensual voices I'd ever heard, a smooth, low voice where you could easily imagine a lush, golden-haired sex goddess, dressed in thin clothes that showed more than they hid, almost certainly lying back on a comfortable bed of jewel-colored pillows, slowly describing what she wanted me to do, whilst pleasuring herself but somehow keeping her orgasm back until I was able to come there and...

I had to pull myself roughly back from that wonderful fantasy to at least try to keep a professional conversation going. Thankfully aided by the fact that I'd had the same type of discussion hundreds of times before, I managed to ask the right questions and even, surprising myself, made some suggestions that she seemed to find interesting. The call ended after we decided when to meet at her apartment and I stood up with annoyed puff, pulling restless fingers through my hair.

Obviously there was such a thing as going without sex for too long and if this was going to start happening every time I talked on the phone with a woman, then I'd better find a way to fix the problem. But it was not that easily fixed after all, was it? I wasn't into casual sex, I would never go to a prostitute and it seemed that dealing with the problem all by my lonesome wasn't quite cutting it anymore. That just meant I had to start dating again, didn't it? Or sign up for a dance class, cooking class or some other standard way of meeting "your true love". I had been with enough wicked witches from both east and west to know that I didn't find any of those ideas particularly interesting.

Sometimes I wished I was a little bit more like my brother, who wasn't very picky, never kept the same girlfriend for very long and seemed entirely happy about the way his life was going. But then again, I suspect he did have quite an active sex life, at least compared to mine.

I sat down, grumbling to myself about uneven distribution of female assets, and finished writing notes on our new building project, be it with golden sex-goddess or not.

- - - - -

The woman that walked up to the apartment building where I was waiting was not a golden sex-goddess, but rather more like a silver fairy creature, thin and almost brittle. As she walked with fast footsteps towards the door and into the building I realized both by the way she was walking and by the way she was dressed that my first impression of her might have been wrong. She didn't seem fragile, but strong, decisive and perhaps a bit cold.

I hurried into the building as she was heading for the elevators and stopped her with a quick "Ms. Carlton?" and when she turned around that strange effect of seeing something delicate being quickly replaced by an impenetrable aura of strength hit me again. This woman was a complex combination of personality traits sending very mixed signals. As I joined her in the elevator two more thoughts hit me, the fact that I wasn't choked by the cloud of strong perfume that usually accompanied basically all women and the fact that she was in all essentials the living, breathing dream woman of my brother's; cold, businesslike, unsmiling, strictly dressed, hair in a tight knot at the back of her head, absolutely perfect. I made a quick decision to keep my brother away from this project, after all – he had enough female attention as it was.

Studying her discretely I could tell that she – Susan – was a slim, tall woman with a narrow waist, small breasts and lovely long legs. I spent some time thinking about long legs wrapped around different parts of my body and when we stopped at the right floor I took some time to adjust myself as she walked towards her door. Ok, so the problem was getting critical if I couldn't go in an elevator with a woman that wasn't even my type.