The Tales From The Tavern: I Lust After Your Scar free porn video

I remember that fateful day in my junior year of high school when we were packing up our stuff at the end of the practical chemistry course. My lab partner tripped over a backpack someone had put in the way. He was holding a rather bulky chunk of sodium in his hand that he dropped into the sink where I was washing the labware; so the was filled with warm water.

Once pure sodium hits water, it will form sodium hydroxide under development of gaseous hydrogen, and enough heat to ignite the oxyhydrogen gas explosion.

Then, a roaring blast. Loud. So insanely loud. Shards of glass flying at unimaginable speeds, ripping apart anything that was in their way, no matter if labware, computers, or, well, potentially nearby classmates. Luckily there were just him, and me in close proximity, and neither of us got seriously hit by the glass. The blast, nonetheless, tossed me halfway through the classroom right against the blackboard, shutting me out for a long while.

I woke up to look at my Dad's sad face. I didn't know where I was. For all I knew, I was still in the school lab; just taking a nap. What was he doing here at school? Wasn't he supposed to be at work? Why couldn't I remember being tired, and laying down for a nap? And above all: why did my face burn like I had mistaken a hill of bullet ants for a pillow? My head? Blurry as my eyesight – at least the eye that still functioned.

Why did the other eye strictly refuse to project an image into my brain? Why was there that guy in a lab coat who was absorbed by some sort of bulletin in his hands? Why couldn't I recognize the place I was in? Where was I anyway? Why did an entire orchestra play one constant loud, and sharp cacophony of dissonant tones on their piccolo flutes? My head was a mess, but nothing compared to the sight that…

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She interrupted her narration. The candles she had asked for to emphasize the atmosphere shun their flickering light right onto her face, highlighting the fire scar that began on the right side of her neck, covered her entire right mandible up to her ear, went up her cheek, over her eye, and had eaten away her right eyebrow as well as a handful of the hair above her forehead.

"People, do you mind if I put my shades back on?" she requested, "even after all these years, I'm still not comfortable with people staring at my disfigured face like this."

Big ol' Tom, the elderly barista, nodded along with the audience that had gathered around the narrating woman.

A little earlier that night:

Around midnight, a lady entered the calm, but crowded tavern. No one seemed to be fulfilling the establishment's slogan 'the place where stories are told ' so far. A few of the guests had a feeling that this was about to change, as the prominent shades that new customer was wearing were beginning to attract quite a few customers' attention. Why would someone wear such obnoxiously big shades in the middle of the night inside a tavern? It seemed as if she was wearing them for the sole purpose of gathering attention – which they did.

She walked straight to the bar, where Big ol' Tom was serving his guests. It took him a while to catch up with all the open orders. The woman in her mid thirties patiently waited, sitting on the only free barstool, her eyes hid behind those immense shaded glasses that covered the better part of her face. Although her eyes could not be seen, it appeared obvious that her gaze was locked to the heavy mahogany of the bar counter.

The customer to her right chatted her up, "Do you wear these so people don't see that huge ass scar?"

She ignored him.

Before he could press on with his rude approach, Big ol' Tom interjected, "I apologize for the waiting, ma'am – and for that crude fellow here as well. What can I offer you?"

The mysterious woman stood up, leaned in, and waved her hand so Big ol' Tom would lean in as well. Then, she placed her lips right to his ear.

" I hear you like stories in this establishment," she whispered, making Big ol' Tom nod slightly. "Drinks on the house for as long as the story goes, right?" she paused to allow him to nod again. "Does that count for my listeners too?"

"Usually no," Big ol' Tom replied, himself whispering as well, "but I have a feeling your story's gonna be worth it. So I'll make an exception today, if you wish so."

"Good, so we've got ourselves a deal. Gather your people, and tell them they'll get so see my scar."

The old barista obliged to her request, and drummed up his people around her. Before long, a considerable crowd had gathered around the lady who was wearing the shades. As promised, she revealed her face, displaying her remarkable scar, eyes closed. She rejected the bid of a few customers to touch it. After a few minutes, she sat back down on her barstool; a freshly filled pint of Big ol' Tom's best draft was already waiting for her.

Back to the current events:

"I'm still not comfortable with people staring at my disfigured face like this, you know," she resumed, having put her glasses back on, "you know, the constant watching, the never-ending talking as if I wasn't there, the kids pointing at me, yelling at their parents, 'look, mommy, look!' Am I a god fuckin' damn zoo, or what? I just feel so exposed without my glasses."

She paused to find the better part of her audience nodding in affirmation, although they as well had not made as much as an effort to keep their staring at her prominent scar less obvious. She had to admit to herself, though, that it was indeed not easy to focus on anything else if such a striking scar presented itself to everyone's eyes.

She gulped down the entire content of her pint at once, chuckled, and with a cheeky grin then added, "On the other hand, I've made myself some good fun horrifying some of these all too nosy brats who couldn't take their eyes off my neck by lifting these glasses, and winking at them with my broken eye. That expression of mere trauma is priceless, believe me folks."

She hammered the glass back on the bar counter, waved it, and asked for a vodka glass filled to the brim with pure, colorless Russian spirit chilled below freezing point.

"Back to the story!"

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So I woke up, right? My eyes were fuzzy. It took me a while to realize that only one of them worked anyway, and even a longer while to figure out why that was. There was that huge questionnaire I mentioned before rumbling in my head. I'm not gonna get through all of that again, okay? Yet, these questions were causing me the mother of a headache.

I tried to mumble a few words, but the stinging pain all over the right side of my face wouldn't allow me to. I wanted to scream out from the pain caused by my overhasty attempt to speak, but tearing my mouth open only stretched my wounds, intensifying the pain like salt, or even lemon juice.

Dad was close to bursting out in tears; I could tell that, although my sight hadn't improved a bit. He handed me a mirror. I wondered why, and yet I was afraid of what I might find in there. I didn't want to look in that mirror at first, not to mention to face the truth. What would I see? Was it really so bad? What would be so bad?

My head was suddenly flooded by flashbacks. Snapshots. Tiny, stationary fractions of time. Powerful. Brutal. Violent. With that came the panic, the sweating, the adrenaline. I didn't want to look into that mirror. I knew my heart would burst. I knew I couldn't take that picture of how my face had to look like, deducing from the soaring pain in my face, and my neck.

With my hands shaking, almost incapable of holding the mirror, I finally mustered the courage to lift the treacherous reflecting glass to my face, but kept my eyes firmly closed. I didn't want to see this. I hesitantly opened my broken right eye first, still wondering why it wouldn't give an image. Then, I peeked through the lid of my left eye, anxious of what it might detect in the mirror. The blurred sight shocked me enough to open it all the way.

Luckily, my eyesight had still not adjusted, but the image was enough to answer at least the question of the missing right half of my vision. I closed my eyes again, rubbed them. I could only rub the left one, for the right half of my face including my right eye was covered by a thick compress . What had happened to my face? How bad would it really look underneath that sterilized cloth?

More panic overcame me. My whole body got out of control. I felt Dad grab my hand firmly to calm me down, let me know he was there. It was futile, for I thrashed my limbs in all directions, trying to free myself from my bed, screaming, yelling, hitting my desperately crying Dad until I felt a sting in my neck, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep again.

The next time I woke up, I was strapped to the bed. My memories were even more blurred now that I had been tranquilized a few hours earlier. Dad was still there. My injured classmate was with him. My eyesight came back – clear this time. The flute players in my head were still whistling their high-pitched constant tones – a little more bearable this time. Mixed feelings churned up my stomach. Anger. Angst. Desperation.

I heard a voice from afar, but couldn't make out the words. I missed out a few sentences until I matched said voice with the movement of Dad's lips: "…said you might feel strange, but it should wear off by a few minutes. How do you feel?"

His eyes were irritated, and his cheeks reddened; obviously, he had been crying. Was I really in such a terrible shape?

My bone-dry throat made it hard to form the words, and my voice was weak: "I… don't… know… How… am I…s'posed… to feel?"

Yeah, how was I supposed to feel? With all these answer-craving questions in my head, the burning in my face, my clearly broken memory, this unbearable high-pitched tinnitus I was afraid I might never get rid of again. How was I supposed to feel?

Dad took my hand in both his hands, and lifted it up to his lips. He murmured comforting words like he always did in times of need.

After a while, I was fully conscious again; still far from being good, but fully conscious. Not trying to make sense of the constant shuffled, and blurred flashbacks helped a lot.

Dad looked into my uncovered eye, his eyes swollen, glistening as though he was about to burst out in tears again.

Hesitantly, he asked, "Beth… Bethany! What do you… What do you remember?"

I was struggling to keep that one eye open. I was still suffering the side-effects of the tranquilizer I had been injected a while earlier, or whatever chemicals my body was drugged up with.

With my weak voice, my answer came in bits, and pieces, "Hot. Fire. Then, Dark."

That was all. Dad adjusted his chair to sit right next to my head, so he could lean in, and caress my intact cheek.

"Okay, Bethany, darling," whispered Dad, sighing, playing with his lower lip, seemingly fighting for words, "there was an accident in your school lab. I think your classmate can explain it to you.”

My classmate took a deep breath. He too was obviously fighting for words, as the fresh shock was still deep-seated.

“Beth, I... I made a mistake in the lab. I... I'm so terribly sorry. I... It was my fault. I caused an explosion. It flung you through the entire room. The entire lab is completely destroyed.”

He was shaking, pale, unable to speak any further. He sat on a chair, and stared blankly into space, his face immobilized.

Apparently he had been luckier than me. He just had a few small patches here, and there. Lucky him, he had fallen under the sink, being almost completely shielded from the explosion, and the flying shards. What I didn't see was that the sink had been ripped from the wall, and fallen onto his back, damaging, nonetheless not breaking, his spine.

Dad resumed: “You suffered a concussion, a few broken ribs, second-, and third-degree burns , and a likely psychological trauma ."

As my curiosity was greater than my fear, I directly asked him about the bandages in my face. He didn't reply at first, but again, nibbled on his lower lip, seemingly desperate to find the right words, only feeding my everlasting panic.

After a while, he finally mumbled something about getting the doctor.

"Stay put, I'll get him," he said, getting up, and then disappearing through the door.

The waiting was horrible. I was alone in that room, still strapped to the bed, unable to move. The characteristic smell of antiseptic flooded my nostrils. I tried to remember the picture I had seen in the mirror; my face, patched up much like an Egyptian mummy, actually. What did that mean? What was I to find under the bandages? How bad would it really be? How much damage had my face taken?

Dad came back a few minutes later together with the doctor. The doctor placed his glasses on the tip of his nose so he could check my record through his glasses, and look at me through his naked eyes. He sighed. Dad sat back to the chair right next to my head,, and gently took my hand again.

"Doctor Carsen, can we please remove those straps, I think she's calmed down," I heard Dad say.

Doctor Carsen nodded, put the record down, and took his pager.

"Yes, that'd be better for Ms. Page," he said while dialing a number on his device, "I'll get sister Miller, because you're not allowed to do this, Mr. Page – for sanitary reasons."

The sister dropped by a few minutes later. Both Doctor Carsen, and the nurse loosened the straps from my bed.

Dad's nerves were still all on edge as he addressed the doctor: “She... um... she asked about it. Her face, I mean. I think she wants to see it.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

“Okay. It might be a little early, but I'll have the sister change her compress anyway since we need to re-sterilize the wound. I can't see what bad can come from showing her already – apart from an even deeper trauma, that is.”

Oh, how I hated that doctor's sarcasm. I guess being surrounded by death, disease, and purulent wounds all the time makes you numb to these impressions.

The nurse cautiously removed the compress off my face. Despite her great efforts not to hurt me, she still did. I knew she didn't do it on purpose.

An even odder sensation than the one that was haunting my very being crept up my back as I felt the complete absence of the compress, but my right eye still failed to record any picture. The doctor handed me the mirror. He had to close my fingers around it as I would not do it myself, paralyzed by an oppressive feeling of emptiness.

Slowly, I lifted the mirror to my functional eye, and gave in to my curiosity while my heart was pounding up my throat. Bad mistake.

The sight of my severely burnt right face side instantly caused waves of nausea. A large wound extended from my neck all the way to my forehead. A picture flashed through my memory. The initial blast that had flung me through the entire lab had laterally hit my face before I could react, and shut my eyes. My head being the only uncovered body part had suffered the full heat wave. If you're asking about safety goggles: I had just taken them off to wipe the sweat off my forehead with a napkin. Being a part of my right face side, my right eye as well had been burnt.

Seeing my once blue eye all grayed out pushed me over the edge. Having dealt with similar situations on a daily basis, the nurse had already handed me a bucket to puke into. At least this eased the nausea. It didn't prevent me from bursting out in tears right after, though.

Mom showing up only made it even worse. She too burst out in tears at the sight of her disfigured daughter.

The doctor, and the nurse left us alone for a while, so we could have a moment together.

Once I had braced myself, we called the doctor back.

He explained his diagnosis, using a pen to point to my wounds without touching me, “This area here doesn't look all too bad. There's a real chance that it'll heal off completely without any traces. It'll most likely recover its natural complexion within a year. While all this here is an entirely different story. This will probably never fully recover, unless you decide to have it fixed surgically by means of a transplant. We typically use skin from your thighs, or buttocks, but I guess you'll prefer to take it from your thighs, since no one wants to be a butthead – literally speaking. We have more than capable surgeons in the house that can fix that. If you wish, I can provide you an appointment where one of our specialists will come up with an offer. It won't be cheap, but it'll certainly be worthwhile.”

He made a short break for me to process the information he had given me as well as his habitual portion of sarcasm he was notorious for, before resuming his explanations, “And this is a cortisone ointment. Apply it three times a day. Not too much, however, as you might grow a mustache since cortisone is a steroid. Nah, just kidding. This won't happen, as it's not a systemic drug.”

Damn doctor, and his sarcasm!

He handed me the tube. In his other hand he held a chunkier cardboard box.

“And this here are some prophylactic broad-spectrum antibiotics. Just in case some nasty bug infects your wounds. Burn wounds are prone to severe bacterial infections. Take one with every meal for the next two weeks, and first of all don't forget it. You might get some mild diarrhea from it, but that's just the medication doing its job. And don't forget to replace the bandages every twelve hours, which also includes renewed washing, and disinfection of your wounds, alright? I'll have sister Miller show you how to do that. You'll need to do this for the next two weeks as well. After that, you can start removing the bandages altogether, and let the wound dry. Your wound can't, however, see the sun. Not until the scar tissue is fully formed. Even then you'll have to take extra care, and protect it with strong sun lotion. That would be all.”

The doctor left me with an overflowing head. Luckily, my parents had taken notes of everything.

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“As you folks can see,” the storyteller said, removing her prominent shades, “I didn't get a surgery so far, although it's been over fifteen years. I still can't entirely accept my scar, but it bears so intense memories.”

She took a deep, and long sip of her Parliament vodka as though she was drinking water.

Big ol' Tom uncorked a fresh bottle of the colorless spirit, raised his eyebrows, and commented through his thick mustache, “If you keep up the pace, young lady, I'm afraid my stash'll be empty before your story is over.”

The scarred lady leaned back as far as the barstool allowed, and fondled in her purse for a cigarette. By the time she had pressed her lips on the soft filter, a flame came approaching to the very tip, provided by one of her listeners.

She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs, slowly tilted her head back, and blew the smoke back out straight upward. She leaned forward over the bar, her free hand playing with the freshly filled glass.

“I know this is a non-smoking bar, but you wouldn't have my poor, attentive listeners wait for me to finish my smoking break, would you?”

Although his grin was not visible through his mustache, one could make out the characteristic wrinkles in the corners of Big ol' Tom's eyes.

“Let's call this an exception, shall we?” said the old barista.

“Oh...” added the mysterious woman teasingly, “and I do expect you to keep up with my thirst. We wouldn't want the story to end because your stash is empty right about the moment we get to the interesting part, would we?”

The girl with the shades took another drag of her cigarette, and slowly placed her head to rest in her left hand in which she held the glowing stick. She lazily blew the smoke over the bar past big ol' Tom.

“Yes, memories,” she sighed, and removed her shades, exposing her eye-catching rippled skin malformation, “especially David, but I'll come to him later.”

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The hardest part was not the ephemeral physical pain. It was the more lasting psychic pain.

It became a habit for mine to wash my wounds in front of the mirror. Whether it was my mom, my dad, or me who did it. I insisted on enduring the sight of my forever scarred face during the daily care. I hoped I'd eventually get used to the hideous sight of my forming scar tissue this way, but I didn't. What was even worse was to know that getting a surgery was simply not within our financial possibilities, so I'd have this scar for life.

I was deprived of my beauty, deprived of my youth, of my once angelic face now completely distorted. Every time my eyes caught a glimpse of the irreparable damage, my tears began flowing all from alone.

My parents tried to convince me not to wash my wounds in front of the mirror anymore, but I kept on insisting. I refused to have my wound treated without being able to look into that treacherous mirror that so mercilessly showed me nothing different than the true face of my newly gained ugliness. I hated to see it. I hated to see my face in this new, permanent state. I hated my face. But I needed this. I was addicted to my own hideous reflection as much as Narcissus was addicted to his own beauty .

To that came the badmouthing, and gossiping at school. Most of them weren't even bothering about pretending they were talking of something else. Whenever I entered a classroom, it was a sudden dead silence, and two dozen pair of eyes glued to me. Either that, or obvious murmuring as though I was completely deaf – or blind. These glances they sometimes threw me, and all these fingers pointing at me... not just my schoolmates, though. The teachers as well treated me like the cripple I looked like. Talk about the teachers' duty to act as a role model. The same goes for my friends, I tell you. It's funny how one's facial features closely correlate with the number of social bonds,

Guess I had my fifteen minutes of fame – every recess.

And the cheerleader squad I had been the captain of? I had fought to get into that position, even defeated these sluts that were taking advantage of the gym teacher's weakness for underage girls, and still-developing sixteen year-old titties. All the fighting, the teeth kicking for what? For having my achievements, and my dreams shattered by one clumsy, stupid accident.

With that also came the teen angst. A crapload of teen angst. Having irreversibly lost one's beauty in this hostile world which is driven by unrealistic model standards can cause all sorts of complexes, and disorders. The paranoia of possibly never being able to make friends again, let alone finding love, or getting laid for instance.

During that time I had to learn to wear a mask, to be strong, not to show any sign of weakness. Every day the same fight at school, and consequently crying my eyes out once I hit the bed back home. Why me? Why my face?

Eventually, the talking went flat after a few months. They had probably ran out of re-runs of old jokes about me, and got tired of picking at me. It didn't help increasing my popularity back to a decent level, though.

By that time, I had ditched the bandages completely, and replaced them by these here shades. It took some convincing to have the teachers let me wear them during class. Of course some of my classmates were terribly jealous of my permission to keep them on, and wanted their own share of my exception. As they realized they'd never get it, the gossiping continued – less loud this time, however.

Some of them even tried to drag me in front of the principal, but I knew about his sweet spot for dirt cheap chocolate despite his severe diabetes, and his wife breathing down his neck. Dark sins. Who doesn't have them? They don't necessarily have to be of sexual nature.

Before long after ditching the bandages, I had – oh miracle – turned into the aim of a competition among the jocks. Who could touch my scar first. Sometimes two of them would hold my arms while the third would trace his index over the tissue, singing, chanting a stupid rhyme about my scar while his buddies where laughing, and cheering. Yes, super ballsy to pick on the ones that can't even defend themselves three to one! The scar tissue was very sensitive to touch, and it hurt like hell, but that was nothing compared to the damage my heart took from these idiots.

I kept up the act a few more months until I could finally breathe: summer holidays.

By then, the wound had healed off, and left that ulcer-like looking scar tissue you can see now. Still, looking into the mirror meant overcoming of my disgust towards my own face, and came with tears instantly swelling up my lacrimal sacs. At least with the sun my obnoxious shades wouldn't attract too much attention.

Then came David. With him everything changed – almost everything.

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“In order to complete the story, I'm afraid I'll have to go a bit further afield,” said the narrator.

She took a deep breath, and slid the hair that covered her face behind her ear. With her free hand, she put her shades back on. Only Big ol' Tom sat close enough to her, and in the right angle to catch a glimpse of tears forming in her eyes. He was the only one to know she didn't just put the sunglasses back on to cover her scar. Then, she let her hair fall back into her face.

“David...” she resumed.

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He was our neighbor – and also the secret crush of an every female individual from sixteen to forty five, or so in the neighborhood. Some of us knew how to keep a low profile, others were less decent, and were visibly startled by his mere presence. It's fascinating how even a married mother's behavior can change in the presence of a potential mating partner.

I once caught my own mother awkwardly gawking out of the kitchen window while he was mowing his front yard one summer in the afternoon sun. Topless. She probably felt it passed unobserved. Yet, I have to admit that she was right, as the sweat droplets glistening on his lean, male torso gave him a somewhat sparkling appearance. It was a sight to behold; a male body sculpted to perfection.

Two, or three times, the motor of his lawn mower stalled, and he had to crank it back on. When he bent down to reach for the cord, he presented us his perfect buttocks.

Suddenly, Mom winced, and turned her head to the kitchen door, where I was standing. Pissed, I rolled my eyes and turned around.

For some reason, I didn't understand what all these females found in him. He was just our neighbor, for god's sake. Not that I was that asexual not to realize he was quite a catch – quite the contrary so – but being the captain of the cheerleader squad plus benefiting from a comparably unfair redistribution of body fat in my favor during puberty – I mean look at my huge ass tits, and my slender figure – I had dealt with all kinds of males, no matter if schoolmates, fathers of such, or once even a grandpa that had all left a good impression of a complete lack of individuality among their gender. To cut the chase: All men were the same pigs, so why should David be any different? And besides, what's the point of conquering a man that is literally swarmed by more than worthy competition, where the term 'more than worthy' refers to sluts with inch-thick make-up on their faces, completely oblivious to their husbands.

Okay, I admit it. I myself used him as a model for my masturbation fantasies a few times over. Come on, I am just human myself after all, but seeing all these sluts so desperately trying to get nailed by David was simply disgusting, and off-putting.

Apparently he was very picky when it came to girls, for I had rarely seen him in female company; and the few times I did, he didn't seemingly try to lure them into his bedroom,. That although he had an entire catalog of girls of all ages, colors, and shapes at his free disposition. At least he didn't seem like a total dick.

He even gave me a ride to school once, or twice when I had missed the school bus. Guess who teased me with that? My archrival for the captain position – who else? – asking me who that new boyfriend of mine was. She said that with a mischievous undertone to what I simply replied that chances were big it was her father. It could be true for all I knew, since her mother had conceived her at the very mature age of seventeen, having been knocked up by a non-assignable guy, given her merely endless list of mating partners. Oh, the virtues of coitus interruptus as the sole mean of contraception.

It pissed my rival off enough to leave me alone.

I'm digressing. Back to David.

So when I started getting out of the house again, slowly building up what little confidence my accident hadn't crushed, I noticed there could possibly be more to David than just another male, and that likely pig I suspected him to be. Much more, actually. I noticed he always was kind of smiling warmly, and seemed happy to see me. The friendly neighbor, so to say.

Had he always been that kind, and warm? Had my passivity towards the opposite gender blinded me before my accident? Or was I simply making up things to make this world seem less hostile; some sort of subconscious self-therapy thingy?

Whichever it was, I didn't know, and didn't really care. I just accepted things as they were, for it felt great. I felt like I mattered again – at least to someone else than my parents. Around him, I started feeling confident again and, most importantly, like the woman I was about to become.

It's funny, because suddenly the other girls of the neighborhood started to see me as a rival in the conquest of David. I could tell that by the way they were looking at me whenever David greeted me with his lulling baritone voice. If looks could kill they would have watched me die, that's for sure. But... Me? A rival? With that face turned ugly? Sure!

So in the collective female mental network of the neighborhood I became the intruder, the interloper. Of course at first glance everything was all peachy creamy, but we're all well too aware of the old stereotypic – even a tad sexist – joke, aren't we? What would happen if women ruled the world? There would be no wars, but a bunch of countries that don't talk to each other. Hating each other silently, while on the outside everything seems at piece, and alright. It's a girly thing.

-------------

“I really hate to interrupt you,” interjected Big ol' Tom, “but the candles start running low on wax, so either you crank that story of yours up a notch, or – and that would be more of our taste I think – you keep the story coming, and I'll get new candles once these are out which means we'd have to make a break at a certain point.”

Bethany smiled, and emptied her second glass of vodka. A hissing noise came from between her teeth as a reaction to the burning of her quite large sip of the strong liquor.

“We wouldn't want to disappoint my listeners, since I promised them an evening-filling story, right? I better keep that slow pace. In other words: I fully expect you to find new candles once these are out. We wouldn't want to keep the listeners waiting, would we?” she nonchalantly said.

As her glass was full again, she repeated her procedure of taking a large sip, and hissing through her teeth before going on with her story.

-------------

Everything changed one day that summer when David was unloading his car. He had bought some new bookshelves. Although he didn't look like he'd need a hand, I offered him mine. It meant going out of the house a little, getting some fresh air, and doing some exercise. What can be wrong about that?

Okay, who am I kidding? I kind of did it for him. I had eventually taken a liking to sticking around him, alright? For all I knew, he was my only friend during that time.

“Hi, Mr. Jordan , need a hand?”

“Wherever you wanna put it, Ms Page ,” he shot back, strongly emphasizing the 'Ms Page'-part.

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell we had engaged in that rather shameless flirting a few days prior to that when he offered me to call him by his first name, but I just kept calling him 'Mr. Jordan' on purpose. I have not the slightest idea why I had done this in the first place. Ah, screw this, I'll just be honest with you. It fucking turned me on to hear him calling me 'Ms Page', goddammit. Whatever, we had lots of fun calling us by our last names, and purposely stressing them. Oh, how I fucking creamed my panties every time he called me by my last name with that sexy voice of his.

“Sure, Mr. Jordan , how about you let me touch that wood of yours?” I replied, and added, “I bet it's best quality.”

He rolled his eyes up, and wrinkled his forehead in a mock pensive expression, before teasing back: “Sure, Ms Page , it's just that I can't offer you any high quality morning wood. I just ran out of it a few hours ago, but the wood these shelves are made of will make do.”

I sighed: “You just ran out of it? Bummer. Know what? I can help you with that. I'd be much obliged to give you a hand at growing some more of that morning wood you've been talking about, Mr Jordan .”

Have I mentioned the flirting was shameless? It went as far as to excite me, to light a forgotten flame between my legs that seemed to flash up every time we flirted, or even at the mere thought of him.

Was I too gradually falling for that man? Was I too acting like these impious sluts that were so desperately trying to get laid? Me? Really? Falling for him? A man almost twenty years my senior?

Get it out of your head, girl. He's just being friendly, and he's way out of your league. The nice guy next door. What could he possibly find in you? Unexperienced, naïve, childish... Hideous? Cut the crap, girl! He's just another guy.

Once we had moved all his stuff into his house, we both sat down at his kitchen table. It's only then that I realized I'd actually never been in there before.

The accommodation was very tasteful, that I could tell; very inviting, in fact. Everything was well-groomed, and clean. He had just a that slight bit of a mess, and few magazines lying around to prevent his otherwise perfectly arranged home from emanating a sterile atmosphere. Another attribute about him that made him a genuine female magnet, so to say.

But there had to be something. One flaw. At least one little detail, however tiny it might be, that was wrong. How could he be so perfect, and yet have no 'Mrs Jordan' to spend his life with. Even the home-made cookies he offered me were perfect.

I gradually became somewhat obsessed with the thought of tracking down his imperfection. He was too good to be true. Everything he did appeared so well-thought, trained, and controlled, a lot like the Shaolin monk who had practiced the same kick ten thousand times in order to master it to absolute perfection. It bothered me, and yet he fascinated me.

It was decided! I wouldn't let go of him until I had found his one flaw.

That thought caused an adrenaline rush in me. I felt my heart beat so intensely that it felt as if it might burst right through my thorax. A part of me was afraid David could see the palpitations through my shirt. Or was I excited because of him? Because he was the perfect man?

For the next days, we kept our flirting going, much to the resentment of my fellow female neighbors. Sometimes, he invited me over to share his closing-time beer along with a few not-so-serious flatteries, and a little gossiping, all the while I was obsessively trying to crack that tough nut of a flaw that simply wouldn't show.

The only thing I ever observed was that I caught him staring at my scar a few times. But, hey, he was just human after all. I didn't really mind, as it reminded me of my place in this world. It gave me the security of knowing that he didn't hang out with me because he didn't just see the vulnerable girl I was, or didn't just want to play with me, that he was just being a true friend.

Still, my mind would not let go of the eventuality of having him suddenly overwhelmed by an animalistic desire to consume me as the female prey I was little by little becoming. Then again, each time I stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, my scar reminded me of how stupid my little fantasies were. I had to remind myself that we were just playfully flirting with each other, fooling around, that it meant nothing at all , that all these kinky scenarios that kept flooding my mind were not to be fulfilled – ever.

It was the scar. Even though we had grown very close to each other, I knew that he could not see past that irreparable patch of misshaped tissue on my face either. I could see it by the look in his eyes whenever he stared at my face. Was that his flaw? His constant, obnoxious staring?

My investigations on his personality didn't pass entirely unnoticed, as he liked to ask where that head of mine was lost in. Easy answer. Thoughts about him, but not just about his hypothetical flaws, no; rather about having his soft fingers caress my naked skin. How he'd be standing behind me, letting his hands run down my belly, inside my panties...

“ Earth to Beth,” he repeatedly said, again staring at my scar while we were sharing our beer at his kitchen table, “you there?”

My face turned to a darker shade of red, instantly.

He laughed: “The color on your face just looks like that Johnson girl's when she saw us chatting over the fence. With the only difference that her expression came from fuming anger, I guess.”

I giggled: “Well, of course. You know exactly why she came over. To try to catch you, but you weren't biting . Bitches be jealous, Mr. Jordan . Did you see what she was wearing? You could've had her for five bucks – no, wait, that would've been far too expensive.”

He distorted his face in a sarcastic way, while waving his hand as though he had burnt himself, and hissing, “Ouch! Buuurrrrn!”

That day it really bugged me that he too was not even trying to have the decency of hiding his obvious revulsion at my scar.

“ Speaking of which,” I resumed, a bit pissed, “could you please take those eyes you kept glued to my scar off it, and focus back on my titties. I know they're a tad oversized, being a full-grown E-cup, but they're right down here, you know. I'm not a zoo. Otherwise I'm afraid my scar's gonna – wait for it – burn your eyes.”

We laughed way more than we should have over that shallow pun.

“Okay, now, seriously,” I hesitantly started over, “listen, it's a really annoying that you're staring at my scar like that, okay? I know it's very prominent, but really, David, it's not a tableau.”

David took a deep breath. He looked past me, avoiding my eyes. I could tell something was looming; something big.

He first struggled to find the words, but then just blurted it out: “Okay, I guess I'm caught. Listen, Beth, there's something I need to tell you. It's a confession.”

No, no, no! Not this again. Not him! Please not him! Why jeopardize what we had built between us? We were friends, and things were good as they were. Why change that? No, please don't let him be just another debauchee. Not him. Not after all the effort it had cost me to make friends with him, start making little progresses, and gain faith in myself again.

I cut him short: “No, it better not be. I'm just gonna go now, and pretend this never happened. Thanks for your hospitality, David.”

He grabbed my arm before I could get up.

“Will you please just hear me out. Just let me talk, and when I'm done you can go if you like, okay? 'Cause if you're going now, I'll just lock myself up in my little misery, write a few songs about my broken heart, get stupid rich with them, and ask you again to hear me out, which you won't be able to decline since cash makes even me sexy as hell,” he said.

I rolled my eyes, and shook my head, but giggled, “You're impossible. Alright then. Let's get this shit over with.”

He took another deep breath, before starting over: “Okay, um, how shall I put this? Have you ever wondered, er, why there is no, um, Mrs Jordan, or anyone like that?”

I had to contain myself from just standing up, and leaving. The more he spoke, the more I felt my fear of having to deal with just another of these lechers confirmed. Was he really so desperate that he had to hit on the vulnerable, and weak girls that were crippled in addition to their low self-esteem? That was particularly sad.

“That's because I have a certain, well, an, um, I feel a certain attraction to...”

He looked at me, past me, on the table, unable to find a focus. His jaw was trembling. I could tell he was fighting against long-repressed emotions.

“A certain attraction to scars.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“So, yeah, there's that. Now you know it, yay! I can't fight it. I've always thought scars were attractive. Hell, who am I kidding? I fucking get off to scar. I crave it! I lust after your scar, okay?”

I looked at him with shock-widened eyes, speechless, mouth wide agape. My head was spinning, unable to form any controlled thoughts, and my heart felt like bursting right through my chest.

“Go ahead,” he went on, “call me sick, call me crazy, but I find that scar on your face really beautiful. And on top of that you're really nice, cute, smart, and I can see that beneath that insecure surface of yours there's someone joyous, and full of life, willing to burst out, and see the world. Fuck, that's the side of you I fell in love with. Yes, now you know it: I love you, Betha...”

A heavy slap from my hand right on his cheek interrupted his confession, and left a suggestive red mark all over his face.

“Will you please shut up already?” I sobbed, tears forming in the corners of my eyes, “Who do you think you are? Fuck! Fuck! We had something special! And now you just go, and destroy it! Why, David?! The only thing that's gonna burst right now is me into tears, you fucking moron! You idiot! Do you realize you're old enough to be my fucking dad? You insensitive prick!”

Although his eyes were glued to me, David didn't look at me. His gaze pierced right through me as his eyes began to redden. He swallowed hard.

“That turned out just as expected,” he calmly said, “I don't expect you to see me start crying as well, and I fully understand if you never want to see me again. It's been real nice having you around, though. You should know that.”

I reached out to cup his face with my right hand, and made him thus look into my tear-irritated eyes.

Between my sobs, I tried to form a few sentences: “What the fuck are you fucking talking about, you stupid fuckhead. Can't you fucking see that I'm fucking falling for you? I really fucking am, and it's your goddamn fucking fault.”

I grabbed the hair on the back of his head, and pulled him to me to plant a quick kiss on his lips, leaving him even more confused than he had already been.

“I have never heard anyone use the f-word in a confession so often,” he mumbled in his state of mental confusion, “and I don't understand where we are going with this now.”

I wiped the tears off my face with the hem of my tank top.

“Are you really that stupid, you goof? Didn't you hear me? I love you too, you idiot.” I made a pause to stand up, and sit right next to him.

“And now will you please just make out with me, you silly loved man of mine?”

-------------

The last one of the candles went out, leaving the entire tavern in a pitch black darkness.

Big ol' Tom's voice spoke first: “You see, young lady, I told you we'd need to replace them soon.”

Bethany laughed, and replied: “Guess we'll have to make a break after all. I hope you'll find some fresh candles quickly.”

...to be continued.