Blue Eyes

A black car drives up the winding road, further and further into the hills, upwards towards the house of glass. The man stares at her as she looks out the window. Her big, bright eyes were gazing towards the sheets. Dozens of candles flicker like fireflies, emanating their welcoming warmth out into the night. She smiles with anticipation, white teeth, ivory skin, pitched against the panther black interior. The man licks his lips.

The car pulls up to the house. The woman gets out and prowls towards the front door. A tall man with dark hair opens it. He looks the woman up and down expectingly before casually inviting her into the glass castle. 

Jump to scene.

Empty wine glasses, Merlot staining her teeth like blood smeared over a bathtub. She wipes her tongue along them, lingering on the moment of protrusion. He smirks. The man edges towards the edge of his seat. They kiss, he bites her bottom lip gently, ploughing his fingers through her dark hair. She pulls away, giggling as she reaches down. 

He stands, she kneels. A button pops, a zip screeches. She gasps, her blue eyes widening in awe. Her red lipstick staining what she holds. 

Jump to scene.

Naked bodies entwined on white sheets. Her nails dug into the skin on his back, leaving marks for decades. His hand around her throat, as if holding a tiny wild bird. Their eyes locked in eternal ecstasy. Her moans shake the castle. Her eyes begin to roll, falling drunkenly into her skull. Unable to remain in reality.

The bed squeaks and squawks, the oak frame pounding against the castle wall, her voice crescendos. He begins to grunt, gutturally, gratingly, louder and louder… 

Click.

The man stops. Through the pants, a sigh of dissatisfaction drips from his mouth. He sinks back into his chair, the brown leather licking away the sweat. He stares with numbed eyes at the screen. Something shrinks, knowing the moment is lost, like a joke you hesitate to say aloud.

I should’ve muted. I’ll mute the videos from now on. Fuck! That was fucking perfect; that was going to be perfect. She was perfect, until this oaf started moaning louder than a rutting boar. 

The man scrolls down, finding the recommendations as dissatisfying as ever. His hungry eyes, a lion without a kill, scanning the thumbnails, thumbing through the images desperately. 

Click. Blue eyed brunette. Click.

The man’s finger caresses the scroll wheel, scanning the videos with practiced precision. So many eyes. Most of them he’s seen before, many times before, too many times before. He searches for something he hasn’t seen, always for the ones like hers.

Hers were the blue marbles he used to roll across the wooden floor of his bedroom. The smooth fragments of glass he’d find on Porthcurnick Beach. He would get lost in her eyes, forgetting the world around him, like the bedtime stories his mother used to read to him. 

The Bear Under the Stairs. The man smiles, pausing for the briefest of moments as he remembers his star-covered duvet. His mother’s hand running through his hair, like wind through a meadow. 

His finger starts scrolling before he tells it to.

Minutes pass. The man gives up, settling for familiarity, comfort, one of his favourites. One of his first. More minutes pass; the deed is done. Again, the man sinks back into his leather chair. The moment of pleasure already gone, never lingering, never flowing through him, always seeming to fade quicker than before. 

He thinks back to the first time. How he was left quivering and shaking, breathing hot breath into his pillow. His secret seeping into the fabric. Safe forever, until his mother looked through his phone. The mystery of the stains revealed. 

He wasn’t shaking now, just still, still looking at the screen. 

Click. Click. Click. Click.

He purges the evidence, tying cinder blocks to its feet and dropping it into the darkest part of the ocean. The wave of guilt and shame subsiding slightly. Never resting, perpetually ebbing, nibbling. 

The man sinks back into his chair, the epilogue always the hardest part. The clean up. Washing his hands. Collecting the stickiness, casting it down the plughole or into the toilet. Never the bin; it makes the bin smell. He smells his hands to be sure he’s scrubbed them enough. Wiping over the dark patches of his underwear before screwing them up and throwing them into his dirty bag. The antibacterial wipe glides over the leather chair. The water from the shower latching onto the lingering sweat and dragging it down. He feels reborn, but still stained.

He shakes his head, as though his former self was a naughty schoolboy, and he was Miss Ham, always disappointed. 

The man looks in the mirror. 

This is the last time. This is the last time. Watching another man fuck a woman you’re never going to fuck. You’re pathetic, how utterly pathetic you are. This shits keeping you alone, keeping you from everything you want. She’s married, happy, happy without you. She never thinks about you. She’s not on a screen, you won’t find her on a, on a screen. She’s with another man, getting fucked by him. While you wank to porn every day, fucking pathetic. 

This is the last time!

He knows it’s a lie. He used to always lie to Miss Ham.

The man walks along the canal, his boots sticking in the mud. Blue sky stretches above him, birds sing to him. He greets the strangers that pass by with a smile, his eyes sparkling. The wind wizzes along, always in a hurry. He finally reaches his home, opening the back door. His body allows weariness to wash over him. 

This was a good day. I was up early. I’ve gone for a hike, read my book. That girl who took my order was nice. I’ll try talking to her next time. What should I say? I’ll think of something later. 

The man sits down at his desk. He works for hours, working for something that only exists inside his head. Perhaps it will only exist there. Perhaps.

Fuck I’m tired. 

He goes to shut down his laptop before hesitating. His hand lingering between choices. Between past and future, fantasy and reality. Between what has been and what could be. Between what was lost and what could be found. 

Click.