Page 1 of Edging Obsession

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My hands press against the headboard to prevent hitting it as the bed creaks from thrusts accompanied by grunts. It lasts far too long before the moans of ecstasy assault my ears. Of course, they didn’t come from me. Carl fucks like a drill sergeant, in and out, and onto the next thing. There’s no romance. Intensity. No eye contact. Nothing but Carl’s aim toward his own release. I like sex, except with him. He’s aself-serving vanilla, and his natural smell of car fumes adds to the displeasure.

Carl rolls off, catching a last second glance of me, and leaves to relieve himself. When he returns, he slips on his underwear and jeans, unzipped and unbuttoned, and drops into the antique chair positioned by the window. I found the chair at an antique market on the side of the road and fell in love with it. All of its beautiful wood finish and S-scroll legs, maroon velvet seat and backing, along with gilded studs. I admire it more than Carl. Finally, I look at him. He almost appears angelic the way the light beams through the sheer white curtains. Almost. Carl sits back in the chair while I pull the covers around my breasts and rest my back against the headboard.

It doesn’t take long for him to break the silence. “I can’t do this anymore.” One of my brows cocks up. His hand flaps between him and me. “This. Us. Pretend like I want a future with you.”

“Ah, but a fuck wasn’t out of the question.”

He leans forward in the chair. “You know, Jules, your swearing is a turnoff. Among other things.”

I roll my eyes at him and return my focus to the antique chair. I bought it prior to meeting Carl, and although he hated the vintage style, I refused to part with it. But Carl, I’m not so sure I’ll have a hard time parting with him. It’s not his lean muscle build, short blond hair, and green eyes that are a turnoff. It’s his personality. He lacks a sense of humor, which got lost somewhere between our firsthelloand our first date. It’s best he doesn’t laugh though, because he sounds like a hyena.

When we met, I made the first move, which he shut down. He said he wanted to get to know me before we slept together. So, I waited. And waited. On our tenth date, he decided it was time for us to become intimate, as he put it. I should have known then this relationship was doomed. Not only that, but he has an ever-growing dislike list about me he tends to regurgitate whenever things don’t go his way…even though it went his way minutes ago. The ache for an orgasm between my thighs is proof.

“And another thing…” Carl’s voice brings me back. “I’m tired of your moods. One day you’re chatty Cathy, and the next, you’re a frustrated bitch.” I let out an animated sigh. He points at me. “This is what I’m talking about. You’re acting as if you don’t care.”

“Because I’m not prepared for another lecture about the list of things I do that bother you.”

He shoots out of the chair as if Satan burned his ass. “Jesus, Jules! The list keeps growing and you don’t do a damn thing to change.”

I smooth down the sheet against my body. It’s 400 thread count is how I assume sleeping on a cloud would feel like…if I were to imagine the experience of a thick, puffy cloud.

“Are you listening to me, Jules?”

My voice levels. “The entire neighborhood is listening, Carl.” His hands are fisted on his hips. “What do you want from me? Are you upset I didn’t moan enough? Forget to thank you for a not-so-fun time?”

He begins to pace, running a hand through his hair, and when he does this, it’s serious. I’m not sure my heart can take another hit. His dismemberment of my character hurts. I just don’t know how to be the kind of woman he wants me to be.

“I had planned to tell you yesterday, but then, well…you looked so hot in your dress. Anyway, this was supposed to take place yesterday.”

Wrapping the sheet around me as I rise, I stand in front of him, eyes almost level, and say, “This is me, Carl. I’m the same Jules from when you first met me. Apparently, you are more absorbed in my façade instead of my true self.”

For the first in a long time, his eyes dig deep into mine, searching for something which doesn’t exist. After realizing this, he swipes up his shirt from the floor, pulls it over his head, and reaches for his shoes. My hand latches onto the top of the sheet while I shift to my other foot. He’s tossing clothes into a duffle bag and shaking his head. In the washroom, the cabinet slams against the wall, there’s clattering, and he’s back to tossing items into the bag.

He zips it and says, “I’m sorry, but we’re done. You can keep your moods. I need someone who’s stable, consistent. Someone willing to meet me halfway. I’ll get the rest of my things later.”

I swallow down the sadness because Carl doesn’t deserve to see my cracks. He has no problem pointing out my flaws, yet I’ve never introduced him to his own. There was a time when I cared about him, so I brushed off his shortcomings until they were specks of dust buried deep under the rug. All his messiness went unspoken. His lack of consideration never uttered. I ignored Carl’s proverbial sarcasm at my expense. Over time, it made our relationship hollow. A cavern of empty promises and lost hope.

Carl is at the door, holding the bag, and gives me a last glance before leaving. I don’t chase him or beg him to stay. His stiff back disappears behind the door. Another relationship disintegrates. As usual, my friendships and romantic relationships go up in puffs of smoke. I know there’s something wrong with me aside from depression—a shortage in my brain. How does one fix themselves when they can’t pinpoint the problem? Some days I’m an explosive volcano, and others, I’m buried under the lava, my focus solely on breathing.

There’s no time to worry about another failed connection. I gather the droppings he left on the floor, toss them in the garbage, and start getting ready for work. The ensuite washroom is a bit darker without a window. Still, the airiness of white is inviting for the large shower and two-sink vanity, which I take full advantage of this morning to wash away Carl.

Outside my office building, I stand to the side, sipping my coffee and contemplating my place in life. School wasn’t for me, so after many attempts at finding a job, I came upon a low-level magazine position. My boss Fred found me attractive enough to hire and make me a writer. With no experience other than my enjoyment of writing, Fred lets me write all kinds of articles, even when the editors curse and complain to him. I’m grateful for the job, but I’m unsure if this is my forever.

My coffee spills onto the ground when my arm is bumped. I hold the cup away to prevent it from splashing on my clothes. My frown turns into a smile when I see Fred.

“Sorry, Jules. I should have nudged your other arm.”

His underwater laughter caused by years of cigarette abuse brings unwanted attention. Some colleagues pass by, sneer at the favoritism, and walk into the building. Fred disregards them, taking out a used handkerchief to wipe off my coffee cup and hand.

I back away and toss the cup into the trash bin. “No worries, Fred. I was about done with it anyways.”

He crushes the handkerchief back into his bloated pants pockets and holds out an arm toward the door. “Shall we?”

I walk ahead of him, knowing he’s checking me out. His wandering eyes are never subtle. Instead of going to my desk, Fred invites me into his office. All I can do is hope he doesn’t try anything again. His hands tend to graze, pat, or touch me. I haven’t said anything because I like the job and experience.

His modest frame plops down on the chair as fingers whisp aside the lone hairs on top of his head. I take a seat on the other side of the desk. A barrier against his roaming hands.

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