1. Sarah


    Date: 10/27/2017, Categories: Lesbian, Author: claire2013, Rating: 10, Source: LushStories

    palms, the telephone on my bedside table rang, and suddenly I was jolted back to reality. I had already decided to take Sarah for a walk that morning. I wanted to show her some of the lesser-known, more ‘intimate’ Rome, and to buy her coffee at a bar I had discovered when I first arrived, Bar Rambollini. I put on a wafer-thin white cotton-silk summer dress with delicate noodle straps, with a flirty mid-thigh length hemline that teased my thighs. We linked arms as we walked through the narrow streets, but I could tell that Sarah was not her usual self. She seemed more reticent, as though deep thoughts were congregating in her mind and affecting her mood. Bar Rambollini was quiet. I knew it would be. We ordered two capuccini scuri and found ourselves a quiet booth to sit and talk. “Sarah,” I said, taking a deep breath and hoping to penetrate the shell I sensed she was beginning to surround herself with. “There’s something the matter. What is it?” Sarah took a long, slow sip of her coffee. “Can I be honest with you?” she asked. I nodded. “For almost six months, I have written almost all day, every day. I have shut myself away in my apartment, pouring myself out and into every word I have written. When you are alone with yourself, with your thoughts, feelings, emotions and, yes, desires, things can become very clear to you.” I nodded again. “And what, if anything, has become clear to you, Sarah?” She paused again for a short time. “As time passed, I began to realize some things ...
    about myself that I can no longer ignore. For whatever reason, I cannot ‘do’ relationships, Emma. Whenever anyone gets close to me, I retreat into my carapace and allow my deepest needs to be fulfilled through what I write. All my desires find form within my mind, and then are transformed into word after word, page after page of expression and emotion.” I remained silent, nodding as if to signal my concerned understanding at what she was trying to convey. “Last night, when we kissed,” she whispered, “I felt all those feelings of insecurity and fear surge through me like wild, crackling electricity. You know that my body was responding to you, don’t you. But my mind was also suddenly beginning to become paralyzed with fear. All I could think of was to detach myself, to be alone, shut myself away and write again. It’s almost as though my reality only now exists on sheets of vellum and expressed through ink on a page. It is as though I need to somehow express my feelings in a story, rather than experience it myself. It’s where I feel... safe.” Sarah took a deep breath and another mouthful of coffee. “You are a storyteller, Sarah,” I said, smiling at her and placing the palm of my hand on top of hers. “Storytellers have existed as long as anyone can ever remember. Before stories were written down, they were imagined and told. However, whether they are written down and find their expression between the covers of a book, or whether they are shared around a camp fire, all stories, ...
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