Textual Exploration.

Ok so this week we are going back to school and I am trying something new, with so much of the modern world being SMS/email/whatsapp or IM can we tell a short story for the modern world, can we show a seduction in symbols, a ravish through the radio waves intercourse through the infra red?

Who knows but I will have a bloody good go.  Ben

Picture the scene, a busy High school a girl in a wheelchair bashfully slips a note in the locker of her crush, on a dare, on a lark, a girl who doesn't speak except through notes, how would she seduce or be seduced?

Lukas lay on his bed staring at the phone his mind blown by the revelations of the last few texts, Layla the girl he secretly dreamed of talking to whilst waiting for class to end not only liked him but was “Crushing on him” and she was flirting with him heavily, he blushed as he reread the last message. Fuck he was going to be frustrated tonight. He sighed, grousing under his breath as he went to bed resigned to the fact that he’d have to change the sheets in the morning and probably his pj bottoms.

Layla lay against the cool plastic of her shower-seat, the shower head in her hand, punishing jets of water soothing her aching muscles as she thought, tense in her back and in her brain as she wrestled with nerves, with fears and with dreams she had never before dared voice.

She had been daring and teasing and hoped to God it worked. She shifted her position slightly facing away from the camera so her blush couldn't be seen, her phone snapping a shot of just her hair and upper back her leopard-print  tattoo on her shoulder so she knew he would recognize it as her and not a net pic. She hit send and breathed slowly, placing the phone out of reach and pressing the shower head against her wetness gasping, riding that wave as the jets slammed into her body. Dragging her limp limbs out of the shower she crawled to bed blushing waiting for the morning.

Lukas’s phone began bleeping harshly, atonally, dragging him out of his fantasy just as he was about to reach that crescendo, grumbling swearing to himself “If that’s Steve drunk texting about an epic white castle dump again I will kill him.” he thought resigned to frustration through his dreams. He clicked through the menu seeing it was a MMS message and pausing worried it was a drunk pic of the aforementioned white castle dump.

Seeing it was from Layla he figured it was safe and clicked to open the mms message, his body firing as if gripped by some hot wet vice as he saw her soft smooth skin, the lather of soap and the tattoo he admired for its contrast.
"FUUUUUCK" he mewled. He scrawled a reply blinking in the blinding light of his iphone waiting nervously. Was she teasing, was this a message, a harbinger of more? He waited with baited breath for a reply.

What he got was teasing, coy. He could imagine her shy smile and wave, the one he saw at the end of every class. How had he missed her before? Wow!. 

He lay in bed running those words through his mind… surely she didn't, she couldn't, but maybe hopefully. . .  God I hope so!  He drifted off in a dream world of pink leopards, prowls and  purrs all entangled around a beautiful dark haired girl.

She lay tense, nervous, hoping she hadn't gone on too strong, too intense. Worried and hoping that he wanted her, that she wasn't being a fool, that this wouldn't be  spread around school as the latest joke. Like when she’d sent Larry a Valentines card in Junior High and he’d thrown it back at her and told her he didn't need a girl who licked windows instead of cocks.  She remembered the jeers and laughter from his friends. So she had hidden her attractions even as she was becoming more and more aware of her lusts, her wants, needs. She cried, watched others love and be loved, feeling guilty observing and writing, watching from the sidelines, feeling a frog as she organized the dances, the Valentines formals, and the love notes section of the paper. 

All these feelings, channeled into her art, her drive to excel, into anything but expressing her desires. She hid them to make others comfortable. Being the good asexual token cripple until that day, until she cried. Until someone saw how desperately unhappy she was behind the mask. Until that conversation with her form teacher, Ms Macyntyre, who forced her to open up, forced her to talk,  to show the world who she really was.

 The woman who talked openly of love and sex, of exploration, and told Layla that she needed to be herself and live for herself, not to make others comfortable.  Ms Macyntyre  lent her books on confidence, on writing, on sex, on sexuality and through those she found herself. She found that she needed to be herself, needed to fall in love and lust.  Found that she wanted to be human, not an asexual  token that they talked about behind her back. Not some bauble to show how inclusive they were, not some half heard,asked stupid questions of and looked at as a mascot. She wanted to work, to date, to love, even to try the things she had read about. She lay breathless and tired, exhausted by fear and arousal as she waited for the new dawn, her new world.