Early July brings a chill and the promise of winter. The scent of frost hangs heavy in the air the night my life changes.
Taking my laptop out to the porch, I snuggle up on the comfortable old reclining chair I’d purchased at a yard sale. Each night I sit, rugged up on my newest purchase, and chat with Molly. I left the blinds open despite the frosty wind to allow the silence of the night to surround me as I share my life, my fervour, with a girl.
As I wait for my laptop to load my mind drifts back over the weeks passed. The community of Museology called to me every morning and I was compelled to log-in to see who is online, to see if Molly was.
My heart thumped an erratic beat and the excitement sent ripples over my skin when I saw the anticipated word under her photo, online. A brief check of email before I leave for work showed she thought of me too.
Miss you xxx.
Again, I curse over the time difference between Australia and New York.
Our stolen moments are brief, filled with erotic words and promises. As I prepare for work Molly is at rehearsal. I smile when she is waiting online during her free days to exchange hastened words before I depart for my day job. Each night I race home and the first thing I do is log-on. Molly waits up despite the early hour, then sleeps her morning away when I go to bed. On weekends I stay up waiting for her to wake, and we then chat through my night.
It was her song, the words I composed for Molly, that propelled our friendship to infatuation. My secret crush revealed to her through lyrics brought forth her spontaneous returned declaration of affection. Our mutual love of the same composers and lyricists encouraged our developing friendship. An intellectual connection and her sassy nature nurtured my growing adoration.
It took several days within my new community to summon the courage to load my songs. MissMolly offered one of my first reviews. Her encouraging and inspiring words showed her comprehension of my passion, my prose. I’d discovered someone who saw the world as I do.
As I listened to her violin composition fresh sensations arose within me. The compulsion to cry besieged me as the haunting mellow sound of her bow against strings sang to me from across the world. The instant fascination to discover all I could about her frightened me.
Her avatar strengthening her appeal as eyes the colour of bluebells captured. Though her pale rosy skin and pixie-like prettiness stole my breath, it was the harrowing sound of her violin and her mischievous wit that won my heart.
Our exchanges built from polite conversation to promises of kisses and amorous overtures within in weeks. Her subtle hints of reciprocated love encouraged me to record her song. My muse.
The moment we discovered our devotion for each other was not unrequited our declarations of fervour began. Stories of my difficult childhood poured from my heart through my fingers. My real name, real face and intimate details revealed without prudence.
Her confessions about a similar upbringing and failed relationships endeared her further. Our lives seemed to be a mirror reflection. My mourning for Alex repaired piece by piece with loving words and erotic dreams.
My puzzlement over my feelings for a girl plagued me as they intensified. How could it be possible that I was falling in love with a woman? I’d never harboured thoughts of same sex experimentation much less erotic thoughts.
The personal promises I declared surprised me. The pleasures I longed to bestow on her caused my cheeks to flush. I questioned whether it was the safety of knowing they could never be realised that gave me the courage to type the words. We lived oceans apart. It was safe to indulge in unrealistic fantasies, to discover new and strange impulses. We would never be part of each other’s real world.
I mused over how swift my barrier of mistrust shattered. How without any doubts I revealed the most intimate details of my life to a perfect stranger. Though Molly wasn’t just anyone, she’d become part of me, part of my new self discovery.
Long forgotten was my vow to proceed with caution and to trust no-one. I lived for the hours we enticed each other with words and song. Molly made me feel whole, beautiful and cherished.
The thrill of being totally besotted with another woman warmed me from within. All this time I had been looking for the love of my life in the opposite direction. Were the answers to my unfulfilled issues to be found in the arms of a girl with dark hair?
The furrowed brows from my real life friends did little to quell my enthusiasm. On the odd occasion during the past months, since my life changed, I ventured out with my closest pals. Shopping, movies or drinks at our favourite haunts, although enjoyable, no longer filled me with the same zeal as before.
They offered me curious and anxious expressions as I shared my growing infatuation with them. Do you understand the perils of trusting someone online? they would ask. Of course is all I would offer in reply. They didn’t, couldn’t, understand the kismet of meeting someone to fill the empty void. Molly understood. The only one who ever had.
The instant chat icon flashes on my screen and my body tingles in exhilaration. My pulse quickens in anticipation, when I know I will be speaking with her in mere moments. Her emailed imaginings of hot breath at my neck as she kisses me, of her tongue tantalising me to giddy pleasures sustain me until this moment each day.
“Hey you,” flashes on my screen, sending an immediate elated grin to my lips.
“I miss you,” I type.
“Me too. I wrote something for you last night.”
My heart swells. “Can I hear it?”
“I’ll email it to you.”
I tap each passing second out with my foot as I wait for it to arrive. Her song to me on this occasion is light and joyful. If I was standing I would be swooning as my heart had moments before. “It’s beautiful,” I type.
“So are you. Do you want to know what I was thinking about when I wrote that?”
“That you finally decided to come and visit me. Then when you got here I kissed every part of you until you begged me to stop.” Heat shoots up from my toes to rest in my cheeks. Desire tingles every pore as I imagine her rosy lips.
“You know how much I would love to.”
“Why don’t you?”
I wonder why she speaks of this again. We never anticipated our relationship could become a reality. “You know the answer to that question.”
“I’ll help you with the fare.”
“I’m serious, Justine.”
“If I don’t have you soon I’m going to burst.”
This feeling I appreciate. Our conversations ensured my imagination ran rampant when I attempted sleep. My desire to touch soft ashen skin drives me to distraction. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not. I want you to come to New York.”