I know what you're thinking: "Oh my God! She's posting a new story without having finished the last one!" I know, I know, I'm horrible. But here's the thing with that other story: I'm stuck. Big time.
Every time I write you guys something I need to get that feeling like things are flowing nicely, like "This is what I want these characters to make people feel". Unfortunately, with that other story, I'm not getting that. I'm sure you wouldn't want to read something written without any real feeling.
So I present to you something new I wrote while listening me to some K-Pop (TOTALLY NOT ASHAMED ABOUT IT). I had 35 pages of scattered ideas for this, so it REALLY needed to be written before I lost the vibe.
In my country, such a thing as "interracial dating" is not even an existing term and maybe that's why I feel a shortage of representation for some ethnicities out there. That's why I figured I'd make this hero a very hot non-white man.
I hope you like it because I get a feeling this one's going to be fun to write.
Enjoy it.
XOXO,
Nana.
P.S.: I will try my very best to finish that other story and to post the next chapter for this one as soon as I can. Graduating is my top priority, though (and I'm almost there!)
*****
1
SOME
days I wake up and I'm just
on
.
I jolt out of bed at two in the morning, energy overflowing into my body, and I have to put my sneakers on to go out for a run if only to shake those ants in my pants. I don't stop until I'm coated in sweat, the muscles on my thighs burning, and I'm riddled of that electrifying impulse to move.
Other days I take up on cleaning the loft. I pour all of that stamina in scrubbing, polishing, dusting, and even bathing our cat, Mallory. My roommates love it. We probably have the cleanest kitchen -and cat- on our side of town.
When my brain is swarmed with a surge of chemicals that lit a fire inside me, I do whatever I can to extinguish it. My job, though, is probably the best therapy for my crazy outbursts. Being an elementary school teacher is what I was crafted for. I love my job. Children are natural powerhouses, like me. Not to mention they are siphons for grown-ups' energy.
When the weekend comes along, however, I get particularly frenzied. There's no escaping the heat, there's no work, no daily dose of energy sucking six-year-olds, and I don't have the legs to run all that energy out of my system. But on the plus side, I've no obligations but to throw on a flimsy dress, go out, and unleash myself upon a dancefloor.
Which is how, on my last Sunday of Summer break, I find myself being yanked out of sleep by that palpitating anxiety only to realize I'm not in my bed. The heat on my back is the kind only another body can produce.
Slowly, and already dreading what I'll find, I turn my head on the pillow and there it is; Last night's leftover. A heap of tanned skin and muscles lying next to me. With a quietness and agility gained by experience in sneaking out of unknown rooms, I find my clothes, and tiptoe out of his apartment at the break of dawn.
In my defense, I don't usually sneak out on guys. I only ever do it when they're not very skilled in making me come and then drop the line
"Was it good for you too?"
meaning they can't even tell I faked it. I'm not proud of myself for faking it either. I consider it polite to let a man know he needs to work harder, both for my sake and for the sake of the woman who comes -or doesn't- after me. Come to think of it, I sneak out a lot. More than I'd like.
Mr. Last Night was a disappointment. A big one. He fell asleep on me. Literally
on me
, when I could've gone another round or two. Nothing new, though. I've had more than one guy say
Enough!
on me. It wasn't the worst sex ever while it lasted. I've had worst experiences even if taking into consideration the fact he dry-humped me for longer than it would've been considered acceptable.
After walking twenty blocks back to the loft, only to trade my party dress for my workout clothes, I run until I make myself wetter than Mr. Last Night had. My feet return me home when the sun is already up and shining.
Home is almost like a real life sitcom. I share a loft with three other girls and a cat. According to Cami, the place oldest inhabitant, we'd be a sitcom around the lines of The Golden Girls, but suggestively called
Four girls and a cat
instead.
Limbs exhausted, I climb the stairs to our floor and I'm suddenly assaulted by the scent of freshly brewed coffee. That's a smell that tells me Lil is already up. She's the only one, out of the four of us girls, who knows how to make decently good coffee.
Liliane, Lil, is my favorite person ever. My closest friend and a hopeless romantic. She's a botanist, the reason why our loft looks like a mini indoor jungle. I met her four years ago, the day we both showed up at the loft's front door to see about the vacant rooms Cami was renting. We were both newly graduated young women searching for work and a room in the city. We bonded over Mallory and moved into the loft that same day. We have been friends ever since. Lil is like my soul mate. She's the complete opposite of me, calm and level-headed, and yet she just gets me. Even when I fuck up royally she doesn't judge me; she listens and helps me put my shit together.
"Lil, light of my life! I love you so much," I say, as I enter our home, removing my earphones and sweatband. She is perched on the kitchen counter, sipping coffee from her favorite blue mug that reads
I'm a bad bitch
in bold white letters.
I make for her, spreading my arms, threatening her with a sweaty, smelly hug. "Don't you dare touch me. You're disgusting," she says, scrunching up her freckled nose.
"Don't disdain the love, Liliane." I pour more coffee than I should drink on my own mug. I can feel Lil's disapproval weighing on me.
