(no subject)
Hey guys, I thought I'd post my first wilson_fest entry here before I inflict it on innocents. It's very short (531 words), and probably about an R. The prompt was "House/Wilson - Wilson rents a prostitute while in his hotel room, but can’t concentrate. He thinks of something else entirely." It's very introspective and not porny at all. Sorry about that.
Consolation
"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love." ~ Márquez, Memories of my Melancholy Whores.
He hasn't done this before. He twists uncomfortably between the hot sheets. The room is dim and febrile, and feels unfamiliar, although he lives here, returns to this space every day, to dwell among the shadows of other lives - how many books has the bedside table supported? How many hazy forms has the shower curtain shielded? How many loves, how many emotionless fucks, how many twilit arguments in this bed?
The bulb is gone in his lamp, and the main light is too harsh, so the curtains are open just a little to let in the street lamp's orange light, which somehow colors everything blue. He watches the outline of her breasts and the curve of her belly as she moves above him. Her eyes are closed and her brow is slightly creased, and his wallet is open on the bedside table, and his eyes wander around the uncanny room. He feels restless and somehow, despite the blank canvas of a woman he is pinned beneath, he feels utterly alone. He feels stained and broken and resigned. He smells cheap perfume on the air stirred by the slightly-opened window. He thinks he feels long fingers for a moment, playing across his cheek, or through his hair, and then they're gone, and he can only miss the illusion of them. He closes his eyes and sees another body stretched out across another bed, hears a weak, rough voice saying "I love you" and seeming to mean it.
"I'm sorry," he says, "this isn't going to work," and up rush memories from another room, another situation, another voice saying "I'm sorry, this isn't going to work," but it's no memory at all, just another fantasy gone wrong, because courage never forced that moment to its crisis.
"What is it?" she asks. He has no answer.
After sighs and recriminations, when she's gone and has taken her fee, he dresses carefully for no particular reason, and finds himself descending the stairs and wandering the street in his suit and tie and coat, as though he needs this emblem of his identity to remind him who he's supposed to be, because he doesn't know anymore, because he's lived out all his plans and they've all failed, failed to give him anything to hold on to, and he thinks he may have waited far too long.
He thinks about the lives he could have led, and all the lives he's lived - every wife and every lover, each with her own particular way of looking into him and seeing something new. He wonders if anything they saw was really there, or if they saw more than he knew. He has lost the ability to understand himself. At once he feels the absence of every pair of arms that has ever held him, and with a pang he wishes for them back, because he's wandering cold and lonely through streets that seem as though they're closing in, and while he can't stand the way things are he doesn't dare disturb them.
He looks up and realizes what street he's on. He drifts towards the door. He hears the music coming from within, and underneath a low voice sings. He hesitates. He knocks.
Consolation
"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love." ~ Márquez, Memories of my Melancholy Whores.
He hasn't done this before. He twists uncomfortably between the hot sheets. The room is dim and febrile, and feels unfamiliar, although he lives here, returns to this space every day, to dwell among the shadows of other lives - how many books has the bedside table supported? How many hazy forms has the shower curtain shielded? How many loves, how many emotionless fucks, how many twilit arguments in this bed?
The bulb is gone in his lamp, and the main light is too harsh, so the curtains are open just a little to let in the street lamp's orange light, which somehow colors everything blue. He watches the outline of her breasts and the curve of her belly as she moves above him. Her eyes are closed and her brow is slightly creased, and his wallet is open on the bedside table, and his eyes wander around the uncanny room. He feels restless and somehow, despite the blank canvas of a woman he is pinned beneath, he feels utterly alone. He feels stained and broken and resigned. He smells cheap perfume on the air stirred by the slightly-opened window. He thinks he feels long fingers for a moment, playing across his cheek, or through his hair, and then they're gone, and he can only miss the illusion of them. He closes his eyes and sees another body stretched out across another bed, hears a weak, rough voice saying "I love you" and seeming to mean it.
"I'm sorry," he says, "this isn't going to work," and up rush memories from another room, another situation, another voice saying "I'm sorry, this isn't going to work," but it's no memory at all, just another fantasy gone wrong, because courage never forced that moment to its crisis.
"What is it?" she asks. He has no answer.
After sighs and recriminations, when she's gone and has taken her fee, he dresses carefully for no particular reason, and finds himself descending the stairs and wandering the street in his suit and tie and coat, as though he needs this emblem of his identity to remind him who he's supposed to be, because he doesn't know anymore, because he's lived out all his plans and they've all failed, failed to give him anything to hold on to, and he thinks he may have waited far too long.
He thinks about the lives he could have led, and all the lives he's lived - every wife and every lover, each with her own particular way of looking into him and seeing something new. He wonders if anything they saw was really there, or if they saw more than he knew. He has lost the ability to understand himself. At once he feels the absence of every pair of arms that has ever held him, and with a pang he wishes for them back, because he's wandering cold and lonely through streets that seem as though they're closing in, and while he can't stand the way things are he doesn't dare disturb them.
He looks up and realizes what street he's on. He drifts towards the door. He hears the music coming from within, and underneath a low voice sings. He hesitates. He knocks.