Thread: When Nobody's Watching [Dane Stalling & dearestdarling]

September 15th, 1967 How could you even suggest something like that? You talk about dignity, modesty, and virginity as though they're inconsequential, and maybe they are to you. But what would you do if it had been drilled into you your entire life that this was the way you were supposed to be? Even if inside nothing fits and I feel like I'm wearing a mask every day to hide these unbearable yearnings. If I let go, it would all fall apart. I would lose everything I've worked to achieve at the paper, pitiful though my position is, if they thought I was just some loose tart. They have to think I'm professional, modest, not some sexual object. I won't pretend that I understand what kind of relationship Johnny and Joyce have, but still... He's her man. It would be just awful of me to let him put the moves on me, even though okay yes-- I've thought about it-- even though those chocolate eyes are about as vacant as a cow's. Yes. I've imagined it. I wanted it. But wanting and doing are worlds away, besides that, he wouldn't come around if Joyce wasn't home. They have a system, you see. I've noticed after nearly a month of watching her sneak away with him. If she can come out to play, she clips her pink panties onto the clothesline in the side yard. If he sees them, he'll come in the night and steal her away. If not, it's a quiet night here, but either way if she's not home, she's with him. He would never come tapping for me. It felt like I was trapped underneath my blanket, and I wanted more than anything for Johnny to notice me there, in the dark, burning and yearning, to yank the damned thing from my body, to see me and know what I wanted and to just do it. I wanted him to grab my ankle and pull me to him before I could come to my senses and tell him no It felt like I was daring him to find me with my hand between my legs, it felt dangerous and risky and wrong but fun and somehow thrilling. My heart was racing and I felt like I was running a fever. I ached for him to catch some small movement I made, to notice me there in the darkness... I don't know what he would've done if he had found me. What Joyce would've done. Maybe laugh or maybe give her blessing in the name of Free Love. I'll never do it again, so I'll never know. I'm starting to think that you want Mrs. Stanford to meet an early grave. I asked for those books, and I had to bite my cheek to keep a straight face. She sees me how I want to be seen square, respectable, trustworthy. I had to assure her again that it was just research for an article, one that would advise parents to more carefully monitor the literature that entered their homes, and that the books would be delivered straight to Hopkins, that I wouldn't dare to crack a spine. I felt so guilty as she smiled and patted my head, as she did when I attended storytime as a little girl. I hadn't even left the library before I broke my promise. I switched the dust jacket with Les Miserables. I had never even heard of Fanny before, but that probably wouldn't surprise you. I didn't even know that there were books like this, least of all any in our humble public library. Though the content was likely the dirtiest that I've ever laid eyes on, the book itself was untouched and pristine, except for one thing. I found a bookmark, a recipe card for millionaire pie. That same pie that Mrs. Stanford brings to the cake walk every year to my church's fall fest. It was snuggled right next to a particularly lewd passage about the madam and one of her many lovers. Maybe they aren't kept locked in the office because Mrs. Stanford wants to protect us all. Maybe she didn't want to share. Pretty G