The Story Guy (Novella) Read Online Free PDF Page A

rolling from barely dampened excitement, I was filling it with food, tea, coffee, expensive treats, and in the evenings, wine—everything tasted so perfect and hyperdelicious.
    After throwing a handful of salt into boiling pasta water one evening, I licked my fingers and actually moaned . The taste of myself plus the tang of the salt was almost like the velvet salinity of Brian’s tongue.
    I am worried about my good sense.
    So tonight, after a lo-o-ng Saturday spent first working, then gorging myself and eventually furiously masturbating fully naked and on top of the covers, something I haven’t indulged in for years, I am working my way down my contact list of friends, pleading my desperate case to be taken out.
    “I wish I could, Carrie. I’m pretty interested in what’s gotten into you lately.” Shelley’s voice is lazy with a few too many beers, courtesy of some event with Will’s family.
    “Nothing’s gotten into me,” I snort and then giggle, because this feels like a lie and a regret.
    “Jesus. I wish I weren’t drunk. I can tell you have six ways of crazy to spill. Will’s family’s home brew gets me every goddamn time.”
    “I’d head over to you, but I can guess how your evening’s going to end.”
    Shelley laughs loudly, swamped in her own happiness, and for once I don’t feel the heart sliver sting.
    I hit pay dirt with my wise-beyond-his-years intern, Justin.
    “Where do you want to go? I can’t pick you up, because Aaron has the car.”
    “Aaron always has the car.”
    “Probably because it’s Aaron’s car and he’s the one who knows how to drive. Which is convenient, since he also runs all the errands and does the shopping.”
    “Remind me why he keeps you?”
    Justin is pointedly silent until I start giggling.
    “Why don’t I just meet you at that bar next door to your building?” he asks.
    “Because that’s what we always do, and I’m restless.”
    “Oh-kay. Any suggestions? Keep in mind that I’m already humoring you.”
    “Let’s go to that Jamaican place around the corner from you.”
    “Cluck You Chicken? Are you serious? The health department probably uses that restaurant for training exercises.”
    “Somebody told me it was good, and I’m hungry and restless, and I won’t tell you what I’ve done unless you buy me jerk chicken.”
    “You better have done something very, very bad.”
    An hour later, Justin and I are deep into a platter of smoky, spicy chicken and a pitcher of icy beer. I’ve hardly said a word—partly because the food is so perfect, and partly because of the way Justin keeps looking at me, his eyes bright with a laser of speculation.
    “Put down that chicken bone. What did you do?”
    “What did I do?”
    “Or who?”
    “Who did I what?”
    “ Carrier .”
    I take a deep breath. I can’t even look at him. He’s years younger than me and likely many times savvier.
    “You know MetroLink?” I peek at him and he just raises an eyebrow. “I like to read the personals there.”
    “Sure. They’re hilarious. I frequently drunken-check the ‘Missed Connections’ section after making a fool of myself out on the town. Wait—are you posting personals?”
    “God, no!” But the blush comes racing up so fast it feels like the ends of my chinand nose are actually on fire.
    “Oh shit, Carrie, you should see your face.” He leans over, resting the back of a hand against my forehead as if he’s checking my temperature, then he whispers, “Have you started turning tricks on MetroLink?”
    “Oh, fuck you, Justin.”
    “That’s ‘cluck you.’ And come on . What are you trying to tell me?”
    “I answered an ad.” I say this to the platter of chicken.
    “Oh. Okay.” He taps his index finger against the laminate table. “It must have been a good date to have you worked up like this. It’s not a big deal how you got the date.”
    “It wasn’t a date,” I say. Then I tell him everything.
    “You’re right, that’s not a date.