Your Voice, My Hand - Sex Stories

Your Voice, My Hand

It started innocently enough with anonymous chats. You and I were both members of an online group of amateur artists, though you were, and still are, far more talented than I could ever hope to be. I liked the mellow vibe of the group; most members weren't edgy or precious about their work. The vast majority simply wanted to improve their skills while learning from others.

The community also fulfilled my need for socializing, offering friendship at a distance. That was the way I tended to prefer it. On the rare occasions my mother and I talked on the phone, she spent half the conversation nagging me to get out there and meet people. "You're thirty-two years old, Justine," she said the last time we spoke.

"Thirty-one," I corrected.

"Whatever. My point is, you're not getting any younger, and you need to focus on trying to find someone to spend your life with."

"Because that always worked so well for you," I muttered. Her third divorce had just been finalized.

While my mother was the last person who should offer advice on romantic relationships, she did have a point about my lack of a social life. Still, I didn't bother trying to explain to her that I'd grown apart from friends I'd made in my twenties. As each of them married and began obsessing about buying a house and starting a family, I realized we had little in common. I knew I should have made more of an effort to maintain those friendships, but I'd been apathetic about a lot in recent years. When I felt ...

... mostly okay, I could show up to work at my dead-end job every day with a smile and then return to my shabby one-bedroom apartment, built in the 1980s and now in desperate need of renovation. I could be almost content with the monotonous routine. But when I was in the grip of the depression that had plagued me for most of my life, it was all I could do to take care of myself. Being available for anyone else was out of the question.

I'd suffered a particularly severe depressive episode during the past winter, but once spring arrived, I felt well enough to indulge my love of drawing again. I was thrilled to find the online group with its laid-back atmosphere. You were one of the first to welcome me, and I noticed that whenever I asked for feedback about how to improve, you made a point to emphasize what you admired about my work. I was grateful for that kindness, especially since I knew I was a mediocre artist at best.

As we interacted more, my curiosity about you only grew. Almost everyone in the group used nicknames, opting to remain anonymous, but your profile picture was a self-portrait. While it was abstract enough to conceal your identity, it was obvious that a man had painted it. One evening after you'd offered helpful suggestions about a sketch I was working on, I sent you a private message. I'd had a couple of glasses of wine on an empty stomach, so I didn't hold back in gushing over your work, and about how much I loved what you were able to do with light and ...