The Heart of the Matter
Jan. 20th, 2012 03:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: The Heart of the Matter
Author:jackofknaves
Rating: R
Pairing: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Summary: I'm a writer at heart.
I’m a writer at heart, which is what people say when they mean they can’t find a job doing what they love and so end up doing something they hate. “Oh, I’m an accountant, but I’m a singer at heart.” “I work as a waitress, but really, I’m an actress."
Fuck it.
What I really am? A twenty-something college graduate who found out that novelists are made, not born. So when I say I’m a writer at heart—well, I’m a regional manager in real life.
All my life, though, I have searched for that great story. Everyone has stories and most of them they tell ad nauseam during dinner parties, when someone asks how their vacation was and they pull out the old gem about going to Hawaii and finding out that their hotel reservations got mixed up and everyone laughs, like it’s funny or something. Yeah, bestseller material there, “How I Had 30 Seconds of My Life Plan Screwed Over” with a neat little subtitle saying, “And Then It Was Fixed So I Didn’t Have to Panic.”
I can see that one making the New York Times right now, number one, with critics praising at how “real” it is. Like that’s what fiction’s about, you know? I don’t read because I want real life, I read because I want to escape it. That’s what “at heart” really means. I read about people who wanted to be writers and then do, not that they woke up one morning and found out they worked a loser job and hated their lives.
I want to read about people who aren’t me, I guess.
Which leads me to this story: how I lost my virginity. Everyone says you remember your first (though experience has taught me that you remember your second, third, fourth, and fifth just as clearly), so I wanted something to remember. When everyone else talked about how their prom date fondled them in the back of his dad’s car and they said yes because that’s what you’re supposed to—I wanted a story, for when I lost mine. An adventure. Something good books and good lives are made of.
3:04 in the morning, I’m out walking because I need to get rid of some stress, bad dreams, and my sweet ass would be on the curb if my landlord caught me smoking inside. I hear a motorcycle—that low growl and grating of the tires against moonlit asphalt—and turn, because this is no yuppie wannabe sportster with a Yamaha. No, this sounds like a real one.
So I turn and he goes by, black bike, black helmet, green shirt over smooth abs. He turned around to look at me, but kept on going. Something told me to wait. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it fucking George for all I care—I lit another cigarette and waited. Exhaled some smoke, felt that sweet burn in my lungs, and waited. Sure enough, here he comes again, going by like a black knight.
He stopped and asked if I wanted a ride.
Like I was waiting for anything else.
I ended up on the back of his bike, hair tangling in the wind. You can put that Geena Davis crap out of your mind, too, because this wasn’t Thelma and Louise, my hair didn’t curl perfectly to frame my petite little face and snub nose; it was tangled, greasy, and grit from the road stuck in it for days, even after I washed it.
Still, it was almost perfect.
We stopped at a motel and I got my first good look at the bike under sickly pale orange lights.
“Nice,” I said, letting one finger stroke the finish. “What is it?”
“Norton 750 Commando,” he replied, fiddling with his helmet like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. You can tell a lot by what a guy drives, and not just the size of his dick either. A Corvette screams he makes a lot of money but isn’t happy with his life. A Mustang says that he wants to be cool but doesn’t have the money except to fake it. A Norton—well, that says something that I kind of liked. “It’s not like a Harley or anything. Actually, its design is based off of—“
“WWII messenger bikes, yeah, I know,” I cut him off. I hate it when people babble, call it a character flaw. “You want to go inside?”
The place was decked out in hotel bland: beige walls with a beige carpet and, inexplicably, a riotous shout of pale pink color on the bedspread.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, stripping off his shirt. Mine joined his on the pile on the floor.
“Picked up by a stranger or had sex?” I said wryly.
He shrugged and I could tell he was stunned by my frankness.
“Either,” he settled on finally.
“I’m the easiest virgin you’ll ever meet. I like your ride,” I added in explanation. Maybe it was rude, maybe I should have said something caring like how I thought he was special or something. They say chicks like that kind of stuff, but in my experience, a man’s ego is twice as fragile as any girl’s.
“Your mother ever teach you manners?” he shot back.
“Didn’t stick,” I said, pulling off the itchy comforter and shoving the sheets down. “She also taught me not to accept rides from strangers.”
We made use of the bed.
This is the part where I turn this into a bestseller and say something about how afterward, we stared lovingly into each others eyes and exchanged cooing declarations of passion in a motel whose main draw was "color tv". This is the part where I say we fell madly from lust into love, sin into sincerity, and married to raise happy children.
Except none of that happened. I hooked my bra and pulled my shirt over my head, walking out of the motel room and waiting by his bike until he walked out, still struggling to pull up his pants.
“Do you want breakfast—“
I held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not really a wine and roses kind of girl, believe it or not. Let’s go.”
I never knew his name, though I remember every inch of that bike. His eyes may have been blue or may have been brown, I don’t really recall.
All my friends were horrified of course—what if he had been a psycho killer?—but I got what I wanted out of it, and not just the sex, either. I got my story. I got something else, too. I’m not just a writer at heart anymore.
Author:
jackofknavesRating: R
Pairing: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Summary: I'm a writer at heart.
I’m a writer at heart, which is what people say when they mean they can’t find a job doing what they love and so end up doing something they hate. “Oh, I’m an accountant, but I’m a singer at heart.” “I work as a waitress, but really, I’m an actress."
Fuck it.
What I really am? A twenty-something college graduate who found out that novelists are made, not born. So when I say I’m a writer at heart—well, I’m a regional manager in real life.
All my life, though, I have searched for that great story. Everyone has stories and most of them they tell ad nauseam during dinner parties, when someone asks how their vacation was and they pull out the old gem about going to Hawaii and finding out that their hotel reservations got mixed up and everyone laughs, like it’s funny or something. Yeah, bestseller material there, “How I Had 30 Seconds of My Life Plan Screwed Over” with a neat little subtitle saying, “And Then It Was Fixed So I Didn’t Have to Panic.”
I can see that one making the New York Times right now, number one, with critics praising at how “real” it is. Like that’s what fiction’s about, you know? I don’t read because I want real life, I read because I want to escape it. That’s what “at heart” really means. I read about people who wanted to be writers and then do, not that they woke up one morning and found out they worked a loser job and hated their lives.
I want to read about people who aren’t me, I guess.
Which leads me to this story: how I lost my virginity. Everyone says you remember your first (though experience has taught me that you remember your second, third, fourth, and fifth just as clearly), so I wanted something to remember. When everyone else talked about how their prom date fondled them in the back of his dad’s car and they said yes because that’s what you’re supposed to—I wanted a story, for when I lost mine. An adventure. Something good books and good lives are made of.
3:04 in the morning, I’m out walking because I need to get rid of some stress, bad dreams, and my sweet ass would be on the curb if my landlord caught me smoking inside. I hear a motorcycle—that low growl and grating of the tires against moonlit asphalt—and turn, because this is no yuppie wannabe sportster with a Yamaha. No, this sounds like a real one.
So I turn and he goes by, black bike, black helmet, green shirt over smooth abs. He turned around to look at me, but kept on going. Something told me to wait. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it fucking George for all I care—I lit another cigarette and waited. Exhaled some smoke, felt that sweet burn in my lungs, and waited. Sure enough, here he comes again, going by like a black knight.
He stopped and asked if I wanted a ride.
Like I was waiting for anything else.
I ended up on the back of his bike, hair tangling in the wind. You can put that Geena Davis crap out of your mind, too, because this wasn’t Thelma and Louise, my hair didn’t curl perfectly to frame my petite little face and snub nose; it was tangled, greasy, and grit from the road stuck in it for days, even after I washed it.
Still, it was almost perfect.
We stopped at a motel and I got my first good look at the bike under sickly pale orange lights.
“Nice,” I said, letting one finger stroke the finish. “What is it?”
“Norton 750 Commando,” he replied, fiddling with his helmet like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. You can tell a lot by what a guy drives, and not just the size of his dick either. A Corvette screams he makes a lot of money but isn’t happy with his life. A Mustang says that he wants to be cool but doesn’t have the money except to fake it. A Norton—well, that says something that I kind of liked. “It’s not like a Harley or anything. Actually, its design is based off of—“
“WWII messenger bikes, yeah, I know,” I cut him off. I hate it when people babble, call it a character flaw. “You want to go inside?”
The place was decked out in hotel bland: beige walls with a beige carpet and, inexplicably, a riotous shout of pale pink color on the bedspread.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, stripping off his shirt. Mine joined his on the pile on the floor.
“Picked up by a stranger or had sex?” I said wryly.
He shrugged and I could tell he was stunned by my frankness.
“Either,” he settled on finally.
“I’m the easiest virgin you’ll ever meet. I like your ride,” I added in explanation. Maybe it was rude, maybe I should have said something caring like how I thought he was special or something. They say chicks like that kind of stuff, but in my experience, a man’s ego is twice as fragile as any girl’s.
“Your mother ever teach you manners?” he shot back.
“Didn’t stick,” I said, pulling off the itchy comforter and shoving the sheets down. “She also taught me not to accept rides from strangers.”
We made use of the bed.
This is the part where I turn this into a bestseller and say something about how afterward, we stared lovingly into each others eyes and exchanged cooing declarations of passion in a motel whose main draw was "color tv". This is the part where I say we fell madly from lust into love, sin into sincerity, and married to raise happy children.
Except none of that happened. I hooked my bra and pulled my shirt over my head, walking out of the motel room and waiting by his bike until he walked out, still struggling to pull up his pants.
“Do you want breakfast—“
I held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not really a wine and roses kind of girl, believe it or not. Let’s go.”
I never knew his name, though I remember every inch of that bike. His eyes may have been blue or may have been brown, I don’t really recall.
All my friends were horrified of course—what if he had been a psycho killer?—but I got what I wanted out of it, and not just the sex, either. I got my story. I got something else, too. I’m not just a writer at heart anymore.
