Free Impulses by V.L. Brock Page A

unyielding consternation causes my legs to tremble. I feel myself vibrate internally as the result of the awkward silence hanging over us, dense and stifling.
    What have I done?
    Mirroring her silence, I follow behind her taciturn state and recover my attire. “Well, that was…interesting,” I mutter, omitting my angst-ridden soul in an attempt to maintain my poise. Her callous approach after what was initiated feeds my insecurities and provides a bottomless void for my self-conscious. Wanting to conceal my body as quickly as possible, I hastily begin to button my shirt.
    I pull my focus away from the material sheathing my upper body, and look up at Samantha. She’s already dressed, looking heedless and blasé by what just happened––what we did, what we gave in to. She’s rummaging through her black holdall purse on the desk; the desk that only thirty minutes ago she was the writhing upon, and now…she is a completely indifferent person.
    Maybe you weren’t good enough for her, maybe she faked it, it wouldn’t be the first time, the gaunt, pale, black greasy haired, dark eyed man that is my paranoia insinuates as he stares at me menacingly, his back and shoulders hunched.
    “Sam…was that…” I hesitate, embarrassed by the question that I need to ask to dismiss myself from this disturbing thought. “…okay for you?” I wince, nervous of what answer is going to pass her lips.
    Unperturbed and direct, she begins, “We have been waiting for that to happen for the last two weeks. It was frustrating and very challenging trying to suppress what we obviously craved.” A complacent grin spans across her face. “Yes, Mr Wentworth, it was very pleasurable. But like I stated…” she glares at me like I am from Mars, or have three heads. My stomach churns as I listen to her clear, shaping tone. “Lust, passion and desire can all be overcome when the thirst is quenched, when the hunger is fed…when you have had what you crave, what I am trying to say is––” she grins disdainfully, and it’s a blatant, unwarranted reminder of my past. “Now it is done and we are slaked, there is no need for a repeat performance. We can move on.” She shrugs.
    I feel my heart constrict. I don’t do this. Lust is not a reason why I have sex with somebody. I need to have deeper ties with the person––a spark––and I feel that around Samantha. The effect that she has on me…for the love of God, I have told her this…why is she saying this? Why is she doing this? I feel anger leaching into my wounds and a flare of insignificance follows.
    I hang my head humiliated, and begin to feel tears pool in my eyes. I have been used? She has exploited me? You would think after the things I’ve tolerated, degradation would be something I could rise above. But the similarities between Samantha and Her are uncanny, and it weighs my heart and spears through my soul. I can’t look at her, not after this.
    “Do you need a ride home?” I drone, my voice cracking through the lump in my throat. I stand frozen to my spot looking vacantly at the flooring.
    “No, thank you. I will be fine.” She grabs her purse, and starts to round my body. She halts at my side.
    Composing myself, I raise my head to look at her. She reaches up and places a brusque kiss against my left cheek. “Thank you, for umm––well––thank you.” She looks pleased, grateful even, as though I have just provided her with a free service and now she can be on her merry way. And she struts out of the double frosted glass doors, leaving me totally bemused, and feeling entirely used.
    I peruse my surroundings: the desk, the back wall…the couch. As I recreate in my mind’s eye the happenings that we fulfilled, I feel the side of my mouth twitch, surrendering to a transitory moment of relief and contentment. But my thoughts betray me, and my blissful, satisfying slideshow becomes a collage of expressions, unspoken words, and impassive body language that Samantha