A Thirst for More - Chapter Three

My heart is racing. My palms clammy. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a sudden movement, and my heart jolts with adrenaline. Are they here? Is anyone here? They could be back at any moment...

But no - it's just the the curtains billowing gently in the mid-afternoon sun. I'm alone, stepping forward through the tomb-quiet house. I'm not supposed to be here, not really. But no one's around to see me. No one has to know. No one needs to know what it is that is driving me on, what is pulling me forward with an irresistible magnetic force...

The closet opens with a quiet creak, and my eyes sweep hungrily over the glorious contents within. The sight alone of those floral prints and pastel colors and the long sweep of silky fabric is enough to set my hands shaking. And as I reach forward and grasp the fabric, pulling it up to my face, my eyes drift closed in heart-thumping ecstasy. Oh, that scent. That matchless feminine scent, that waft of flowers and powder and perfume that sets my skin tingling and my trousers tightening with longing...

Within moments I've stripped, and I find myself trembling, shivering with cold and anxiety and delight as I step forward into the forbidden puddle of pale blue fabric, pulling its heavenly beauty up and around my bare frame. It's a trifle tight, but as my shaking fingers tug the zipper upward, the skin-tight fabric slipping around me only heightens the matchless sensation of a gloriously soft embrace.

So this is what it must feel like to be a girl.

For once, I feel beautiful. I am surrounded by softness, by an unfamiliar light breeziness around my quivering knees, by the scent of beauty and femininity and everything that I find so intensely attractive. I can imagine my hair, long and soft and combed and maybe even braided, bouncing gently against my shoulders as if to reassure me of who and what I am. I am glowing with pleasure, and if I died right now, at least I would already know what heaven is like...

BEEEP, BEEEP, BEEEEP

Oh shit

they're here

they're coming for me

oh god oh fuck

I gotta get this off

can't let the neighbors see me

can't let them see the teenage neighbor kid in here

creeping in their house

snooping around and wearing their daughters clothes

like a fucking creep

like a stupid pathetic loser-

"Aaahhh!" I jerk awake, my heart thudding painfully in my chest as I find myself bolting upright in bed. What the-

Oh, thank god... just a dream. Just a stupid dream. I draw a shaky sigh of relief. Good grief, that alarm clock damn near give me a heart attack...

But as I step out of bed, taking in a few more deep breaths and gulping down some water to calm my shaken nerves, I can't deny that I wouldn't exchange that dream - and the vivid memories it has awakened - for the world.

***

Fortunately I've got more than enough real-world stuff to deal with. More than enough to take my mind off that dream and give me other, less personal things to think about.

Like essay writing, for instance. Or organic chemistry assignments. Or those stupid coding projects that are already teaching me to hate parentheses with a passion I never knew I could muster. But still, it's not all bad. I've found a quiet corner of our dreary dining hall that fits my vibe pretty well, and a couple of sweet places to work in the library. I've even gotten to know a few folks that seem pretty cool...

Blair, for instance. She's seated across from me now as we munch on our lunch-time burritos, her septum ring flashing a dull gold in the hideous fluorescent lighting. "Can't believe they want us to write a summary of that stupid lecture," she comments, wiping her mouth none too elegantly with the back of her tattooed hand. "I mean, like, hel-lo! That's what recordings are for, you know?"

I shrug. "I dunno. I guess they want us to, like, respond to it or something. Guess that's not the same thing as a summary, right?" She snorts good-naturedly. "Yeah, maybe? I dunno. S'pose I'll write up some sort of BS and call it good..." I take another bite, reflecting silently that oddly enough, I don't really mind Blair's crabbed demeanor. Because even when she's complaining, she never really seems to take it personally or get emotionally invested. She's the type to bitch amiably about everything, and yet when it comes right down to it, she'll be there working just as hard as anybody...

Odd, isn't it?, I muse as I get to my feet to discard my trash. All my life I've been surrounded by folks who look and dress and act just like me. And yet after a week or two, I feel more at home with this self-proclaimed pansexual, goth girl from Portland than I've ever felt back in the Midwest.

Maybe it's because deep down, I already know that she likes me just as I am. And though I'm not willing to try it just yet, I'm pretty sure she'd still treat me just the same, even if I would tell her about my dress-wearing escapades...

***

Mrs. Fenoli may be nice, too. But she's also got her quirks, that's for sure!

Oh, I'm not talking about her accent. Honestly I'm getting pretty used to that by now. But - well, you know how some people seem to have an obsession with something? Like, they can't leave anything alone if it's not perfectly level, or they have to correct anyone who ends a sentence with a preposition? Yeah, she's got a thing like that... and you'll never guess what it is.

It's water, of all things.

I guess I should have known from the very first day I met her. Her kitchen counter? Got a great big water pitcher on it. Every meal we eat together? Glasses of water for the two of us, and she drains hers at least twice. You might even remember how she actually gave me a pitcher and glass all my own, right? Yep - there they sit, right atop my makeshift dresser.

"Ya gotta stay hoidrated," she'll beam as she refills my pitcher and hands it to me every night before bed. "Can't have ya gettin' dried out now! Water does amazin' things for ya, so drink up!" Of course I do, mainly to be polite. Somehow, I don't think she'd really like to hear me tell her how back home I generally used to drink far more Mountain Dew than water...

But lately, there's been more than politeness leading me to down the water. "I promised ya friends I'll be takin' cayh of ya," she just told me this evening as I was preparing to head up to my room. "So I know ya might think it's silly, but I'm gonna make shuah you're eatin' and drinkin' enough. Okay? Can't have ya livin' on ramen and sodas - not on my watch." She beamed and thrust the pitcher back into my hands. "So make shuah you drink down this wahtah befoah bed now, heah?"

I heave a little sigh as I make my way up the creaking steps to my little room. This is a heck of a lot of water. And she's really expecting me to slug it all down? For the first time, I feel what it must be like to have a mom in the house making you eat your veggies and drink your medicine and wash behind your ears...

But hey! She's nice enough, and the rent is low enough for me to afford. And so what? I muse as I drain the second glass and settle back in front of my laptop. So what if I have to get up for the bathroom during the night? Honestly, that's a pretty small price to pay for keeping Mrs. Fenoli happy.

Now, then, time to finish that response paper. After that, bedtime. And then maybe, just maybe, another adrenaline-inducing dream...