I'm not denying it. I just don't go around parading my sexual urges the way you do, and I don't succumb to them as easily.

Why?

Because it's wrong, Samantha. People just don't do that. It's not proper. Especially not in women. Talking about things like that makes them seem… loose—

You mean sluts, or whores.

I never said those words.

You were thinking them.

I can see you're about to bite my head off, so why don't we drop the subject, and do something else?

No, Michael, I need to talk about this, and I need you to listen.

The art gallery down town is having a display of new oil paintings, we could—

Why do you want to avoid the topic so much? Is it making you uncomfortable? Because if it is, then I'll drop it.

It's not making me uncomfortable. I just want to avoid a petty fight.

We're not fighting. We're arguing. We're discussing a subject that matters to me. I just don't understand why it's so wrong! What makes it so wrong?

Society, Samantha. Society is what sets the boundaries of what's proper and improper.

To hell with society! I don't give a damn about what society deems right or wrong! Free will is what it all comes down to. I don't see why I should abide by their rules—

You live in their—

Let me finish! Everyone tells me to exercise my freedom. To break free of my bindings, break free from my boundaries. The greatest artists— the most memorable and writers, have always been the ones to break the rules, the ones who follow what they think is right, and don't give a damn about what society thinks. I want to do it. I really want to, but I can't.

I hate the fact that I'm ashamed to be myself in front of others, ashamed of the fact that I have to play the role of the sophisticated, proper, little erudite. The little saint—the innocent child. I'm not a saint. I'm not innocent. And I'm not a child! I'm an adult, imprisoned in the body of a child, and that makes people dismiss me, and chastise me with much more ease than others. I'm drifting in limbo, as an outcast until the age of twenty-one, when society will finally recognize me as an 'adult', and even then people will take me lightly.

I can't be taken seriously, because I'm 'just a child', because I'm not 'mature'. Age has nothing to do with anything! You have men and women, thirty years of age, and they're as irresponsible as your stereotypical five-year-old.

I know 'children' twelve years of age with the mind of people thrice their age! You look into their eyes, and you feel sorry for them. You feel sorry to know they'll never be taken seriously. They'll never belong with other kids their age, and by the time their body has caught up with their psychological maturity, or by the time society recognizes them as legal adults, it'll be too late.

Society silently represses sexual freedom, sexual expression, and yet you see it plastered all over the walls, the internet, broadcasted in movies, TV shows, published in  books, and magazines.

We're being bombarded with sexual innuendo, and both subtle, and blunt sexual propaganda, since the day we first open our eyes to the world, and then society looks down on you when you actually want to exercise that freedom.

I can't write anything slightly erotic under my own name because of this. The images are so vibrant in my head, so vivid! But I simply can't. There's always something holding me back.

And no one's going to read this stuff! That's the worst part! It's meant for my own amusement, my own entertainment. But I turn on the computer, place my fingers on the keys, and all of the sudden, all the inspiration, all the motivation, vanishes.

It frustrates me to feel so limited!

Honey, no one is limiting you. No one can dismiss you easily. You don't let them. You're not conscious of this, but you have one of the most intimidating, most impressive way of carrying yourself, of acting, when you're in the presence of others.

You feel limited, because you're limiting yourself. You say you don't care about social norms, but the truth is that you do. And it's alright, Samantha! If people weren't the slightest bit self conscious, the world we live in, would unravel into chaos.

You don't care if other people dismiss you, or your work. You've never cared about what others might think, or say about you. You've said so yourself! Critique, you ignore, unless it's constructive— unless it helps you improve. The rest, you can dismiss.

What you're afraid of, is what we might say, or think about you. What the people whose opinions really matter, might say. And people might think what you're doing is wrong, and be shocked by it. They might be repulsed by it, and look down on you because of it. But you have to know that you will never be able to please everyone, and that the people who react negatively to your work, and can't realize, and accept the fact that it's a part of you, don't appreciate you, and can't accept you for who you are.

I enjoy reading your work. I'm shocked with every paragraph, every turn of the page, yes,  but I enjoy it because it makes you happy. I would never read stories like this. I have no care for them, but because they're written by you, I do it. Because I love you— all of you. And I support you, fully. You'll never be able to do anything that will make me look down on you.

And the same goes for your parents. Caroline loves to read your work! And so does Carmilla. They're the ones who fully endorse your experimentation. We will always support you regardless of what you say, or what you write.

If you're so concerned with marring your image as "Samantha", adopt a pseudonym. Writers do it all the time, and you can have so much freedom with it! Especially online.

 Once you're pleased with a story, and want to show it to people, choose them wisely, and tell them that it's intended strictly for entertainment and to circulate among a few close friends.

If it's only our opinions that matter, then you can rest at ease, knowing we'll always be there to support you in your pursue of becoming a better writer. Just… stick to your vision, and don't change it for anyone, unless you think it's OK. Write the stories you've looked for, but haven't been able to find. Write the stories you want to read. Odds are, if you find it interesting, some else is bound to find it interesting too.

The blood inside her began to boil, and she could feel her heartbeat increasing; the heat between her legs, the fluttering butterflies in her stomach— the craving that always meant she had to pull away, almost unbearable. Michael, stop it.

He kissed her, hungrily, his tongue pushing harder into her mouth, drawing the breath out of her, hand cupping her cheek, possessively, as she tried to pull back. He wasn’t going to let her get away again. Oh, no. Not this time. Michael, I’m serious. But she wasn’t serious, and she knew that this was clearly what she wanted: one last night with him. And she knew that if he stopped— if he dared let her get away, she would hate him.

Suddenly, she pushed Michael away violently. She couldn’t take it. It had been enough, she told herself. It was already late, and she needed to get home before things went too far. “What, am I not good enough anymore?” He asked angrily, sitting up on the bed, and slamming his fist on the mattress. “ What the hell does Cassian have that I don’t?” He stood up. Samantha turned away, looking around for her black purse as Michael paced about the room, panting frustratedly. She had to get out.

“Michael…”

“Before, I was the one who had to call out it was enough, and now—“

“Michael, you don’t understand! Cassian is not—”

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand anything of what was going on. Bit how could he? All he knew, was that there was a new man in Samantha’s life, the raven haired man, with the electric blue eyes—Cassian, and that the more time she spent with him, the farther she drifted from within his reach.

Rapidly, Michael grabbed her by the shoulders, and pinned her against the wall, kissing her, his body pressing against hers, wantonly. “Michael, I don’t love you!” She blurted out, the sentence bursting in the most abrupt, and unexpected manner, as she shoved him to the side. “…What?” He looked at her, dark brown eyes staring back at her own, shocked, bewildered. She couldn’t’ve said that… Had she really just told him she didn’t love him? Told him, Michael Raleigh, she did not love him? Michael, her high school sweetheart. Michael, her intimate friend, and confidant. Michael, her beloved. A dark, ugly feeling passed over him.

“You don’t mean that.” He said, but her words had already taken effect, and he felt his heart stop.

Michael stared at me with his big brown eyes. He was scared, frightened. His breathing rapid, and his heartbeat apparently competing with my own to see which one could pump the blood fastest without causing neither of us to pass out. His fear, and my excitement, only intensifying every movement, every touch. I would go insane, if he didn’t get off me! But I didn’t want him to get off, and he could see in my eyes, the conflicting emotions.

He covered my mouth with his hand once again, and whispered something in my ear. It must’ve been something along the lines of ‘I’ll get off if you promise to be quiet’, though in all honesty I wasn’t paying much attention to anything that was going on. I was lost somewhere, outside of my body, and I could feel my heart rising up to my throat, the blood pumping harder and harder in my ears, and I couldn’t hear, or see anything.

Get off, me just get off me…

No. Don’ do it. Stay….

And then the idiot did the worst thing he could have done. When he whispered, he unintentionally brushed his nose against my neck. The urge, the craving, the wantonness. Things I’d only been able to feel, or ‘understand’ indirectly through books, or movies… it all sprung the moment I felt his breath against my skin, and culminated in that awful electrifying feeling of guilty pleasure, and helpless paralysis. Michael had no idea of what he had done. How could he? It was all so alien to us! More him, than me, it seemed. All he was worried about, was keeping me quiet so Ana wouldn’t come in.

I involuntarily pushed him off the bed, almost gasping desperately for air as I clutched my chest, as if doing that, would make any difference on its fast pace. “I’m sorry, I— …You wouldn’t be quiet!” He blurted out, standing up from the floor, and rubbing his back. I burst out laughing, and fell on the floor. Might as well’ve proclaimed that day the official “Erratic Behavior Day”. We were both acting like idiots! And it had all been due to the lack of communication.

“Samantha!” He hissed, threatening to cover up my mouth again. He was making it seem as it were a bad thing. I just laughed. I knew I wouldn’t’ve minded, if it meant him kissing me again, and triggering that rush. “OK,OK! Jeez, Michael. Relax!” I said, letting out a bitter, and frustrated sigh. Curses… “You want to come over for dinner? I’m sure the moment you set up foot in the house everyone will know we’re now an ‘official’ couple. ” I said that in the most sarcastic tone possible. I even acted out the little quotation marks with my middle, and index fingers for emphasis.

Michael only chuckled, and rolled his eyes, taking a seat beside me, and sitting me on his lap. He sighed. I assumed he was glad it was all over. I could see how the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders, as that glare in his eyes began to fade, and soften up.

“Finally!” Ana and Carmilla burst into the room all of a sudden, startling Michael and I, while in the middle of a hug. He instinctively pushed me away, and I glared at him. The two girls had been listening to everything. I didn’t even know Carmilla had come over! That sneaky little vampire. She probably came over to get me, and plotted with Ana spy on the two ‘love birds’, as they referred to us, when she told her I’d dropped by, but supposedly gone home. Were my actions so predictable? Maybe I should’ve closed the window…

“Oh, Michael, we caught you guys red-handed!” They giggled, and spoke in that teasing, taunting ‘singy-songy’ voice; pointing their little accusing fingers at us, and squealing with delight. They were more excited about the whole thing than we were! We were more concerned with being cautious about the matter. We were putting everything at stake. Simply dumping all we had on the table. There was a fifty-fifty chance, and Michael never gambled anything with those kinds of odds. Then again, he never gambled unless he knew he was going to win, so that gave me some comfort, and security.

“The two of you, out of my room. Now.” Michael stood up, angrily, and stomped his way to the door, shutting it rather hard, and loudly. Hard enough, that I think I felt the house shake a bit. The two girls, terrified, ran next door to Ana’s room, and locked themselves inside. He grumbled, and sat back on the floor.

“So…” He cleared his throat, and stretched, grabbing me by the waist, and sitting me back on his lap. Everything was back to normal again.“…you were saying somethin’ about dinner tonight?” He rested his chin on my shoulder, and looked at me with that innocent look on his eyes. The kind of look he always pulled out when he wanted me to forgive him. “No. Sorry, Michael. You ruined everything.” I said with hints of sarcasm in every other word, teasing him— playing with him, as I shrugged, crossing my arms, and shook my head.

“Whaaaat?”

“You heard me. No dinner for you tonight.”

Samantha seemed surprised, though not concerned. When people asked her what was going on, she said she didn’t know. That he was probably worried about something, and didn’t want her butting in. It was natural, after all, for people to have an off day or two. And that was her answer, time and time again, that she would give him his space, if that’s what he wanted. But she knew that it was her fault he was behaving like that.

She had stirred things in him, that he had probably not ever felt before, and she knew it. It had been a bad idea to kiss him so abruptly, to have crossed the line from the ‘friend zone’, to… whatever it was she had set her foot on so hastily. Uncharted territory, no doubt, for both of them.

She handled the issue better than he did, it seemed. She didn’t think it’d been a big deal. It was just a simple, stupid, ‘meaningless’ kiss, after all. Curiosity. Nothing more than curiosity. And the week came and went, and Michael didn’t drop by Samantha’s house to study, and Samantha didn’t bother Michael at home. He needed his own space to meditate on things. His dazed, agitated glare told her as much.

It wasn’t long before she had enough of his aloof behavior, and began to grow more and more concerned. Whenever she hugged him ‘good morning’, whenever she took a ride to school with him in his black BMW X3, at the request of her parents, he grew stiff, and awkward. In the fifteen, maybe twenty-minute ride to school, there was nothing but an awful, uncomfortable silence. It always seemed he was about to say something, but he never did. His mouth would open every now and then, his eyes glaring at her with that unwonted, cold, piercing gaze… but the words never came out. By the end of the week, she had had enough. She would take no more of it.

“What is going on Michael? You’re acting strange, and it’s bothering me.” Silence. Just the sound of the engine, mixed with the low muffled murmuring of David Ault, playing the role of Doctor Who in one of those audio dramas by Darker Projects he liked to listen to. “You’re home, and your dad’s waiting.” He didn’t bother in turning off the car like he usually did after dropping Samantha off from school. He wouldn’t get out, open the door for her, and escort her home. She assumed he wouldn’t be staying for supper either.

“Is this about the other night? Because if it is, you’re acting like a perfect idiot.” He set the car on ‘drive’, and pressed on the breaks. “ I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said, and Samantha grabbed her things, and got out of the car. Her father was waving at Michael, and he was waving back at him, actually smiling. It’d been a while since she’d seen him smile. Not even a fake smile, like the one he seemed to be forcing.

She couldn’t concentrate. Now she was making a big deal out of things. How could she have been so careless? She should’ve asked him first. Wait… what’s going on? Aren’t I the girl? Shouldn’t it be me overreacting? By sunset, she was on her way to his house. Just a couple blocks away. No big deal. No need to take the car.

She knocked on the door, and it was Ana who answered. “ Hey Sam, Mike’s not here. He went out. Soccer practice, or something. He’ll be back in a couple hours, if you want to come over.” She was lying. His car was parked in the driveway, but she didn’t point it out.

“Fine. Tell him I dropped by”

“Will do. Tell Carmilla to call me”

“Bye.”

Ana closed the door, and Samantha resorted to his window. Time to jump the fence, jump over bushes, and climb to the window. She thanked God Michael, too, slept on the ground floor. The window wasn’t locked. Bingo. No way he could get out of talking now.

Samantha slid his bedroom window, and climbed her way into his room. He was barely getting out of the shower, when he shut the bathroom door abruptly upon seeing her. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asked angrily, not expecting her visit after Ana had told her he wasn’t home. And even if she knew she was lying, she should’ve gotten the hint. He didn’t want to see her.

He came out moments later with a towel wrapped around his waist. That was the first time she’d ever seen his shirtless body up close, wasn’t it? She was impressed, but now wasn’t the time to admire his athletic physique. She was there on a mission. A very important, high-priority mission. “ Michael, we need to talk.” He was walking back into the bathroom for a small towel with which to dry his hair and face. She followed, never mind the fact that the boy was soaking wet, and half naked. Was she crazy? What would his parents say if they walked in on them? “Yes. We do. But not now. Go home.”

“…excuse me?” She was incensed. How dare he talk to her like that? The girl had slapped him out of impulse, and forced him to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Moments later a red mark began to appear on his right cheek, but he hadn’t even flinched, in spite of the pain. “Can’t I at least get dressed?” He sat up and looked through his drawers for a change of clothes. Sweats, socks, boxers, and an old, torn up shirt comfortable to sleep in. “Fine.” She lay on his bed, contemplating the ceiling as she waited for him to come out of the bathroom.

It was about time…

“Why have you been acting so damn weirdly?” She asked, brown eyes still fixed on the ceiling, as Michael leaned on the frame of the door, giving the impression he didn’t want to go near her.

“Define ‘weirdly’”

“Don’t answer my question with another question, Michael.” She glared at him, and sighed. The tension emanating from him, almost palpable. “You don’t talk to me. You neglect me. You stiffen up every damn time I hug you. You’re always anxious, and there’s always this horrid awkward feeling. It's been a week already. I’m sick of it. I thought if I left you alone, it would go away, but apparently not. The least you can do is explain why the hell you’ve been acting like this. Why should I have to suffer?” silence when we’re in the same room together, and it’s been going on for over a

Once again his mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but once again, no words came out. “You have something to say, then go ahead and say it, damn it!” She propped herself up from the bed, still enraged at his indifference, and threw a pillow at him out of irritation. Apparently she was making up for his lack of emotion, by blowing her own out of proportion.

“I love you.” He said, finally. Yet, he hadn’t answered the question, and his answer had made no sense. What? She thought he was merely being an idiot. Whether she said it out loud or in her head, she didn’t know. Nevertheless, Michael repeated what he’d just said.

“I love you.”

“Love you, love you, or love you—”

“Love you, love you”

Silence, and then that feeling again. That pleasurable tingling in the pit of her stomach. That light, pleasant swoon. She laid back down on the bed. Shudder.

“I’ve been acting strange because I’ve been trying to figure things out. When you kissed me— I wasn’t going to tell you something I didn’t actually feel. I had to make sure. And I didn’t— I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You saw what happened Denzel and Blair. Seven years of friendship down the drain. I don’t want it to be the same with us.”

Silence. She was speechless. She didn’t know what to say.

“ I didn’t know what to do, or how to react…I talked to my father, I talked to my mother. I talked to your step-mother, Ana and Carmilla. I even discussed matters with your father before he left, when he came over to pick up Carmilla the other day….” He sighed frustrated.

He had to be joking. Was he actually serious? Why hadn’t anyone told her?

“ … but I’m sick of thinking. I’m just wasting my time. I’m just going to put all I’ve got on the table. New York, medical school— our friendship…” He paused, leaving a bit of room for Samantha to say something if she had anything to say, but she was just staring at him, her eyes wide in sheer shock, the way his eyes had been when she’d kissed him during the movie.

“I know for a fact I love you. At first I doubted it, but right now, I’m one hundred percent sure. I love you, and I want to move our relationship to the next level. I want you to be my girlfriend.” He kissed her, and wrapped his arms around her. “I love you, Samantha.”

And just like that, all the tension, all the rage, all the bottled up contempt, and frustration in the room vanished. “Samantha, are you even listening?” No reply. “Blink twice if you—“ She blinked once, then twice. She’d stopped breathing. She didn’t know whether her heart had stopped beating, or it was simply beating too fast. The point was, it hurt. It felt as if someone had given her a blow to the chest, and she was suffocating. She felt it was about to burst at any moment if she made a sudden move, and though she tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come out. No, it wasn’t the words that wouldn’t come out. The words were in the tip of her tongue. It was her voice that refused to make any sound.

Michael grew anxious. “…S-Samantha?” And then it exploded. “Michael Desrochers, you son of a b—…!” She sat up, grabbing him by the throat, pinning him to the bed, almost strangling him. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me anything?! You behave like an asshole for a week, and you don’t even talk to me, and now you’re asking me to be your girlfriend?” She yelled like a lunatic. She was outraged. Bewildered. Panicking. “And why the hellme?!” would you talk to anyone about this before

Michael tried to explain. He tried to tell her that he needed to make sure he hadn’t been the only one who felt anything when she kissed him, that he needed his father, and her father’s approval before anything could happen. That he needed to make sure of what his intentions were, since he didn’t want to regret his decision, and wound up hurting her. But he couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him talk. His words came out choked and half-said, as she smothered him. She couldn’t make out anything of what he was saying. She wasn’t even listening!

“For Chrissakes, Mike! Lower the volume on your sissy-girl soap operas. I’m trying to concentrate on a reply for Carmilla’s roleplay!” Ana banged on the door, but Samantha wouldn’t cease her yelling. Michael covered Samantha’s mouth, and without the littlest effort, pinned her down on the bed. She was kicking, and screaming under the crushing weight of his body, and he didn’t get off, until she calmed down. Never in his life had he seen a woman react that way. He was frightened, to say the least. Shocked, even.