This is another story that has been swirling around my brain for months.
Perhaps I will write it in tandem with Echoes of Mercy – one for when I am feeling sweet, idealistic, funny, and romantic,
the other when I’m feeling tense, angsty, and umm, raunchy!
This snippet has been added to the W.I.Ps Menu.
SUMMARY: College Lecturer, Noah Jackson, feels disillusioned by life, so when he is offered the opportunity to swap his teaching duties for one semester with those of, David Carstairs, the Professor of a “sister” college in England, he takes it. The men exchange, not only their jobs, but also their homes, and it is what Noah stumbles upon in David’s house that has him questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.
Nursing my bourbon, my ass parked on my favorite barstool, in my favorite bar—The Redhead Piano Bar on Ontario—I silently ask myself the usual questions. Well, actually, it is really only the one question phrased a hundred different ways. That’s what happens when you go the route of academia—you learn how to complicate the shit out of things and use fancy shmancy words. Really, if you think about it, it’s a bit ridiculous to be using three-plus syllable words to ask a question, when most of us are usually seeking a simple one or two syllable word answer. Yes. No. And, if we’ve really lucked out; maybe.
I snort into my drink, remembering the words of my favorite college lecturer, Noah, an academic will always take a whole paragraph for what could have been said in one sentence. Fuck, even my thoughts are getting long-winded.
What’s my question again?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I mean, really, what the hell is wrong with me? She’s gorgeous. Tall, willowy, long flowing mahogany hair, big brown eyes, clear skin, an impressive rack, and now that she’s walking away from me, I can see she has a great peach-shaped ass.
That’s right, she’s walking away. Why?
Because I gave her the brush off. That’s why.
Hence my question. What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s not even as if I can say that she was irritating or that her voice grated. Quite the contrary. She was nice, friendly, and articulate, and yet I’d passed on her not so subtle come-on. I look at her again, knowing I can have her if I want her, but try as I might, I can’t muster even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for the idea.
And that’s the problem.
Enthusiasm and I don’t seem to be on speaking terms anymore. All the color has seeped out of my life. I’m living a monochromatic, black-and-white photograph of a life where everything is a shade of grey.
I don’t know how it happened, or even when it happened.
It just did.
It kind of crept up on me, slowly sapping the vibrancy from my life and one day I woke up and everything was grey, dull, and lifeless.
And it’s been that way for a while.
Lifting my glass to my lips, I pause, letting the bourbon wet my lips before throwing my head back and tossing down the last of my drink. Closing my eyes, I hiss, relishing the searing burn to my throat—a small reminder that I am actually alive; a living, breathing, sentient being and not some automaton.
Now if only there was a whiskey burn for my emotions, I’d be set.
Glancing down at the aged cherry wood of the bar top, I vaguely wonder what they use to achieve such a high polish. It’s almost mirror-like in its sheen. I can clearly see my face reflected in its surface. Deciding that’s not such a good idea at this point in time, I look up meeting Seth, the barman’s, eye. He raises his eyebrow at me in query, and I give him a brief nod, watching as he pours me another double of Bookers.
As he slides it across to me not a word is spoken. I nod, he nods, and we both go back to doing our own separate things—me to thinking, him to serving the other patrons. The opening chords of a song from the piano situated at the opposite end of the dimly lit room, and the dulcet tones of Liza McClaren float above the chatter from the Thursday night crowd. They go quiet as she continues. I’m not surprised. She’s good.
The fact that the music has started tells me it must be eight o’clock and really I should be heading home to grade papers.
Sighing at the thought of what awaits me when I get home, I take another sip of the amber fire in my glass, swirling it around my mouth before letting it seep, drop by drop, down the back of my throat. I’m grateful to the bourbon for serving a dual purpose: numbing and anaesthetizing me while at the same time reminding me with its burn that I am still alive and breathing. Quite an achievement, really.
Another sip, more swirling and the drip, drip, drip down my throat, and I’m motioning to Seth to tally up my tab.
The crowd is swelling; the live acts here are good, but I’m just not in the mood to be entertained. It’s a sad state of affairs, I decide, that I prefer to be home alone reading essays, than here being chatted up by a beautiful woman who probably wanted me to warm her bed as well, if her body language was to be believed.
I look at her one last time as she mingles with her friends, all long-legged and sexy in her tight black jeans and figure hugging top, and mentally apologize to her, though why I am apologizing when I know she would have enjoyed being impaled on my cock, had I chosen to share it with her, is beyond me.
They all enjoy it because I can fuck them for hours. No problem with premature ejaculation here. No Sirree. They think it’s because I have incredible control, like I’m some sort of master cocksman or something, but the truth is a lot more humbling.
None of them excite me enough to get me off, and these days it all feels like too much hard work to even try.
Once upon a time, I searched energetically for the Elizabeth to my Darcy, the Juliet to my Romeo, the Cathy to my Heathcliff, but with each successive disappointment, my enthusiasm for the task waned. Now I can’t even be bothered getting naked with them.
I toss the last of my liquid fire down my throat, pursing my lips at the heat that goes all the way down to my belly, and push my empty glass away from me. Rising to my feet, I turn toward the cloakroom by the entrance and with a final nod at my favorite barman, bid him farewell. “‘Night, Seth.”