University Stories and Poems Part 1: Two Minds to Die

Two Minds to Die

I couldn’t save him.  And no miracle could ever change that.

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Jethro was one of those men; loud and obnoxious. No matter how many times a woman would try to put him in his place, he had a counter-argument ready at hand: “There’s no place for a woman in today’s society. It would be better if they just stayed out of sight and out of mind”.  The gentlemen, and that term was used loosely, of the 21st Century had not changed at all. They were still derogatory towards women, still finding faults at every possible chance, belittling them in front of other men.  Looking at Jethro, at the age of thirty-nine running his deceased father’s business, one would think that he would settle down with a suitable woman, but no.  This man standing at six foot four with dark short hair  groomed into a sleek style and a very fanciful taste in designers had no time for women. Even though his sparkling green eyes caused many to swoon in his presence, he regarded them as the worst of the worst, and after only one thing in life – a man’s soul. Once they possessed that target, the men might as well lose  their ability to live a successful life. Love and women make a man weak.

To the outside world, Jethro would have appeared to have been a hater of women all his life, but there was one exception; one that only his father and mother knew of. His relationship with his parents, when alive, was strained at the best of times; his father ignoring his existence, focusing mainly on the family business. The only time his father spoke was to discuss Jethro’s future.  His mother wasn’t exactly the maternal type unless you counted the marks made from leather on his back and the purplish stains on his body.  What haunted his mother to treat her own blood that way; no-one would ever know. More importantly, Jethro would never receive this closure to help him move on with his life. 

Things began to look up for Jethro when his parents reached the end of their time. The economy grew and so did his wealth. This was the beginning of the Aston Martin DB5’s as well as the chauffeured Rolls Royce, freshly pressed suits, well polished shoes with a gold plated Rolex attached to his wrist. He was living to accumulate his wealth.  Nothing could ever get in his way of luxury.  He held the world in his scrooge-like hands.  
Tonight, like any other, Jethro found himself sitting in his usual spot at the local gentleman's club, surrounded by people he barely liked. “There is nothing better in a man’s world then spending your riches on such fine products” he stated with a puff of smoke escaping his thinned out lips, a recently lit cigarette held between two fingers with ash ready to collapse onto the white linen covered table.  “Such lovely sweetness of these paper notes.” he went on to say. The endless talking about status and wealth made many of his acquaintances groan with displeasure, save for the ones who were on the same wavelength as dear Jethro. Those were the individuals who made his ego grew substantially larger, so much that the world seemed smaller than possible. 
 “I agree, though there is one thing I love perhaps that little bit more…” an associate said.
 “Do not say what I think you are about to say young man!” Jethro quickly interrupted with a clear complaint. “If you say the words my woman you are not man enough to be here.” This did not phase the fellow associate, instead he declared the words Jethro always wanted to avoid “My woman made me who I am today” he said gulping the malt whiskey down his throat.  It was possible to see the glare from Jethro’s eyes from the other side of the room.  A look which many had been on the receiving end of plenty of times. 
“Don’t spout such nonsense in my room. This goes to anyone and everyone. Women are nothing to us. Yes they may provide an heir to carry on our name and wealth, the latter being important, but the women themselves are useless. If you wish to talk about that irresponsible species then leave.”  He declared and found himself sat alone in what would seem as a library, the walls being covered in old mahogany bookcases, the rich fragrance of ink and paper as well as the itching of dust. He leaned back into the darkened leather Chester Armchair, and gazed up towards the ceiling. What had he become? A man so repulsed by the female gender, but it was no use in thinking.  It only led to more outrageous thoughts. If he carried on the way he was going, he would turn into one himself and that was no good. He didn’t need anyone.  He was a solitary person and it would always be that way.

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The antique ornament isolated in the corner of the library chimed a loud brass sound of midnight.  Where had the time gone to? It was only a few hours ago when Jethro was sipping the harsh liquor burning his throat as it went down. He tried to focus his blurry eyes on something inanimate, and it became apparent that he could not hold his liquor any more.  That was only explanation he could think of. “Hang on” the confused words echoed in the room. “How on earth did that appear here?” He fixed on an offending piece of material on a small polished chair. He pushed himself of his seat, and headed towards it, his black potent shoes tapping against the laminated wood.  One look and he felt bile rise up his throat. There resting, was a scarf. A women’s scarf.  A woman’s paisley patterned scarf.

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The next few days contained very little happenings, and so Jethro spent his time holed up in his charming office, counting the golden coins and demeaning anyone that dared to interrupt him. Though on a particular Monday, Jethro was blissfully unaware that his life was not as it seemed. Removing himself from his cluttered desk, Jethro decided it was time to leave his hiding place and head out to the headquarters; the young gentleman’s club where no doubt a few females would somehow be there, on the prowl looking for their next victim.  Putting the scarf incident behind him, though he still never unearthed the mystery as to where it came from, he stomped into the coat room and stopped suddenly.  Next to his tailor-made Russian coat, was a red jacket, which looked awfully like a young woman's. “Maybe that darn woman-lover brought her here and left it by mistake.” But all he could think was; he hadn’t seen any female here at all. Grabbing the item of clothing, he walked into the lounge area, lit a warm chestnut fire, and threw the jacket into the flames. Watching it turn to ashes, he hoped it would be the last of the craziness.  He walked out the door into the front porch facing the bitter cold in his face, asked aloud “Is this a coincidence or just some weird turn of events?” and blew the thought into the wind.

Upon entering the social gathering in the club, many heads turned to speculate Jethro. He could see it in their stares; He finally graces us with his presence, I see, or I wonder if he drinks himself into a stupor and acts all egotistical.  Why should he change who he was.  It was better to speak the truth, no matter how harsh than to lie all the way through one’s life.  Advancing towards the barman, the room rumbled with a “make mine a double scotch.” that way his presence would be known to everyone and there was no need to queue. 

“Finally giving up on your denial of a woman?” a scrawny brunette said beside him. Jethro gave her a wariy glance. He had no idea what to make of that statement. “Remember me? It's Adrianna” she continued. He looked at her as though she was speaking double-dutch. What sane woman would talk to him?  
 “Go away I have no time for such witch behaviour from you.” He finally answered and began to turn away from her. 
“Look mister, I don’t care what your problem is with me, but you clearly have woman troubles. Carrying a pair of French knickers in their pocket is not something a man like you would normally do in a place like this.” Jethro abruptly turned round and faced her. “Oh you’ve finally want to talk to me now. All this time I have taken a back stage approach to you, trying to help you sort out your problems. I have heard all about you. I have tried to remain on the fence, but now this you misogynistic evil man.!” He tried to search her face for something, unsure of what it was, but something. Maybe someone had set her up to annoy him, or to cause a scene perhaps. He opened his mouth to give a retort but she beat him to it “Don’t you dare say a word.” Her finger pointed at him and an angry look took over her “First you walk into this place like you own it; secondly you emotionally abuse us women, especially me, when all I have done is defend you.” in the midst of the next phrase her voice took a softer approach which surprised the hell out of him “I know what your past has been like, and I admire your strength, but to act the way you do towards women and then parade around your dirty laundry, or should I say hers, I feel sorry for you I really do.” And with that he exploded. 

 “What right have you to say such ridiculous things about me?  I have not been with any woman and nor will I ever. You wonder why I called you a witch. Well here is the answer” A loud scoff came from behind him, the room had suddenly gone quiet. But he didn’t care he just kept on going. “You women think you know everything when all you do is cause heartbreak, and you just get in the way. What business do you think you are to me? Nothing. Now I don’t care how you know my past but suggesting I have been frolicking around is nonsense. Now move out of my sight before I say something I would never regret.” He could feel his face going beet red and instead of Adelaide, or whatever her name was, moving away from him, she approached him with determination on her face, reached out towards his coat, and somehow pulled a pair of scanty red underwear from his pocket. He finally remembered what she had said “carrying French knickers in their pocket” French knickers? And with that bombshell he snarled towards those listening and left the club.

On returning home, he bid his chauffeur goodnight, thinking of French knickers, a red coat and paisley scarf. Had he been cavorting and simply forgot? Maybe it was the scotch. However he soon disregarded that reason straightaway and strode in the direction of his drinking cabinet, and poured himself a double on the rocks.

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The next morning, his head gave the impression that he had one too many.  He couldn’t even remember climbing in to bed. He searched his memories for some inclination of what happened.   A few moments passed as he laid in his bed, when unexpectedly, just like someone had switched on a light in his head, everything came rushing back; the confrontation with Adrianna, the double at the club, the doubles in the lounge, sitting in front of the fire and then nothing. Blank. His hand rubbed at his forehead to relieve the tension. In the corner of his eye he noticed his arm wasn’t bare like it normally would be when he went to sleep. In its place was a pale lemony coloured sleeve, the type you would see a woman wear as a nightgown. He slowly lifted up his velvet duvet and peeked downwards. It was definitely a nightgown. Jethro froze in place. Each of the random items he had found in what he thought was a safe home, were his. He quickly jumped out his bed, ripped the nightwear from his skin like it was burning him. Burning him like plastic in a fire.  Not caring about the only attire he was wearing at the moment, being his underwear, he rushed through the house like a madman searching for other women’s clothing. “I’m a...” the word became lodged in his throat. Woman. “I dress in those.” He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. To be fair, he did not even want to know? Motionless, he walked to the harbour in his home; the cabinet.  He took a crystallised glass, and poured himself one final glass of scotch.

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Dear Miss A. Chase,

I regret to inform you that the inquest for Mr Jethro Shaffer’s death was again ruled for suicide.  The evidence left is sufficient to support this. I have checked his previous medical records for any mental health issues or depression and it was apparent that his schizophrenia was left untreated. As the records are confidential to the patient I cannot say anything further. If you need any help getting any closure for the victim’s recent departure...

I couldn’t read any more.  A tear fell from my eyes, landing softly onto the letter. I was too late to save him. I, Adrianna, who took no drivel from men, let Jethro slip away. I let him feel alone, like he couldn’t turn to anyone.  I promised his father I would try. Even though they weren’t that close, his father still cared. Maybe I was too young to understand what he was asking at the time. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. The truth was; he would never listen.

Sweet Dreams are Made of Sex and Music

At least you'll have nice thoughts of me
When I'm cheating on you in your dreams
I told you before, my closet's clean
And that these bones don't belong to me
-Playing the Blame Game by You Me at Six

So without further ado.....

Dream number 1

This one night I find myself reliving a staff night out and meeting this stranger across the dance floor. Now some of you may remember the events from a previous post about secrets being made, however the person in those secrets was not my mystery stranger. In fact, this person just happened to be my new crush, maybe it was because of the dream that he became my crush I am not sure but anyway back to the dream. So there I was mid dance with my colleagues from work when this stranger made his way towards me; exactly how a lion stalks his prey. His eyes pierced mine, silently hypnotising me. His hand slowly extended closer to mine, gripping tightly so I could never run. All of a sudden I was pulled into a hold that had me captive. I could not escape, not that I wanted to it seemed. The world around me disappeared, it was just me and my beautiful predator. His hold of me felt tighter and tighter, no space between us. The next thing I knew I was laying on my back, on a soft cloud with him above me. With his hand softly stroking my cheek, he whispered words of velvet seduction. His gaze caressed my body, making me feel like I was covered in silk.....
And that's were I'm leaving it, as I am not particularly into writing public x-rated words. I think that you know what happens next. Oh and a side note, my crush is not a stranger, but a beautiful and condescending prick. 

An Apology of Sex

So my last post may have slightly tricked a few people, but this is one is here to make things right. I am aware that many of us lost our virginity between the ages of 14-18. Some probably lost theirs soon as they become interested in girls/boys, some might want to wait for that right person. Yet how many of us can put their hands on their heart and say they fully enjoyed their first time. Not many.
The whole awkwardness of the act combined with young age and probably not knowing their partner very well, doesn't make it a good start for losing your 'v' card.

Now as you get older, and not sleeping your way through the town, sex becomes sort of cherished. Many people my age are just happy with sex being just sex. A primal need. A quickie in a car, or against a wall. But that sensual, soft, worship only comes when you find that right person. That doesn't mean to say that when you find that right person, sex becomes love making, instead you find a balance between love and lust. The quick throes of passion mixed with the long torturous pleasure of love. The way you can tease pleasure and twist it into something special.

Its amazing when you find the things that make your partner go crazy. Soft nip on the ear, the typical biting of the neck, or the grazing of their legs. Many girls and boys have different spots and when you find them, all their control is lost.

That's it for now. I got sidetracked by a memory of mine haha x