There were some times that this boy I barely knew would lie his head across my lap on the school bus. Leaning himself over my body so i was holding him. He would close his lovely green eyes and fade off, his breath lightly against my bosom. I would bite my tongue because I wanted nothing more than to just reach out and suck on his bottom lip before biting down softly and nibbling his lip with my teeth. But this boy was my best friend. We were close but it was like we just really cared about each others company and had never mentioned our attraction for one another. This boy made my pussy swell and drip and he had no idea about the look of frustration i would have when he would close his eyes and when his breath would send shivers up my spine. He was a shy boy… Not having much luck with making friends or keeping potential love interests. A lot of people considered him to be annoying or a loser, which may have been a deciding factor in my interest to pursue him. He demeanor sang. How dedicated he was to putting down hisobservations and the meticulous way in which he did so, taking it onfaith that his effort wasn't wasted. And it wasn't wasted, was it? Hispoetry, if serving no other purpose, had given value to his otherwisereclusive and seemingly threadbare life. He wrote without any audience,without any hope of an audience, without any encouragement, certainly; infact, with all the discouragement that only a thoroughly disinterestedworld could provide. He wrote, apparently, because the act of writingmade him feel more alive. What better reason could there have been thanthat?As painful as it was, Marcia felt almost duty-bound to read through hisoeuvre, as if Birdwell had been writing somehow to her, "the unknownperuser" of his soul, existing as she did in the "far-flung'ed future"only he could imagine, and hope, his ideal reader would exist. What wouldhe have thought of her, his "fair lover of another time"? She wouldlikely not be what he expected. On the.
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