Your Voice, My Hand - Sex Stories

Your Voice, My Hand

... couldn't imagine living day in and day out with someone for years, let alone a lifetime.

You became my closest friend that summer, and I didn't even know your last name. Trust was slow to build, with neither of us wanting to get burned. I didn't ask personal questions about your marriage, but when I asked how your son was doing, you told me he was traveling in Europe with friends that summer. I sensed you were lonely, that you and your wife were busy with careers and socializing and all the tedium involved in maintaining a house which suddenly felt too large for just the two of you. It seemed you had little time left over for each other at the end of the day. But as you spent evenings alone in your home office, you made time for me.

My art slowly improved as I followed your gentle and patient instructions. You shared some of your more personal work with me. One was a drawing of your father months before he died. Though it showed him in profile, you somehow managed to capture what looked like regret etched into his features. Studying that piece made me blink back tears.

We might have continued in such a way indefinitely if I hadn't fallen prey to another debilitating depressive state that fall. When the daylight dwindled, I sensed the growing darkness encroaching not only on my surroundings but on my mind as well. This had happened countless times before, but I still panicked, flailing against the apathy settling upon me like a second skin. I fought to maintain my ...

... clever banter with you, pretending I was fine. But by late October, I could no longer hide my suffering. At work, I became quiet, almost listless, but I managed to do my job sufficiently enough to avoid reprimand.

I'm not proud of what I did to you, Paul. When my happy façade crumbled, I simply stopped responding to your emails. I couldn't muster the will to explain what was wrong, and I doubted you would understand anyway. I told myself it was best to let the friendship go, to stop wasting your time. I figured you'd get the hint after a few of your emails went unanswered.

Instead, you grew frantic. When I'd been silent for almost a week, you sent an email with a subject line I couldn't fail to notice:PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY. I AM FREAKING THE FUCK OUT HERE. I was at home, dulling my anguish with a bottle of wine, when I read those words. I'd ignored your previous emails, leaving them unread; I thought it would be easier if I made a clean break. But I hadn't deleted them.

Going back to the earliest ones, I noticed you were only mildly concerned at first:Hey Justine, just checking in. You're probably busy, but we've written each other every day for months now, so I want to make sure everything's okay with you. As you became increasingly worried, your tone was far less guarded. A wave of guilt flooded through me, chasing away the wine's numbing effect. Because of my selfishness, you had needlessly suffered. The most recent email with the blaring subject line read:I ...