Write Dirty to Me

There are three types of people in this world. One type gets the check at the end of their meal, pulls out a charge card and then when the wait-staff returns with the receipt to be signed, they dutifully add a tip to the bill, sign it and leave. The second type might go through these motions, but then they put the pen back on the table and say, Nice pen. Then they leave. The third type of person takes the pen, adds the tip, signs the receipt and then in a slightly throaty voice says, I really like this pen.

Translated, I really want this pen. Translated, I covet this pen and wonder if I can get away with stealing it. Meanwhile, you are writing on napkins with it, clicking or turning the ball point in and out, in and out, your eyelids heavy and low, your lips gently parted. You take in the color, the design,  you smell it. You run your fingers over the top, the middle, the bottom, touching it carefully, a little saliva gathering inside your mouth. Your pupils dilate a bit, maybe you even slip your shoes off. You start to imagine yourselves together, alone in your writing room. You plot and scheme. Where can I get this pen? I must have this pen!

Everyone you are dining with is ready to leave. The chairs are scrapping against the floor, the bags and coats are gathered up, voices are trailing away from you. But you can’t leave. Your throat is dry but your blood is rushing through you like a pounding waterfall, so loud and fierce you are certain they can hear it in the kitchen. Finally, you have to go. Someone is wiping down the table, your friends are turning their heads looking puzzled and blurry, sweat is trickling down to the small of your back and you know soon you will appear weird, if not dangerous. Slowly you leave, but the longing in your body makes you weak and clumsy. You stagger out flushed and dazed and drunk with desire.

If you are this third type, your cheeks are pink by now. You know this can happen to you anytime, anywhere–an expensive Italian bistro or Chilli’s Bar and Grill–it doesn’t matter. Your love affair with pens has no bounds. You stash them in your night stand drawer or under thin silk scarves in your dresser. Some are in special leather holsters or carved wooden boxes. Your writing desk is swollen with them.

You are so hooked.

 It’s your dirty little secret. Sure, at times you make a joke or two about it, but that’s just to cover up the obsession. I know. I am one of you. I have been this way since puberty. Of course I don’t look it. Who would guess behind this good girl facade lurks the all night affairs with fountain pens, roller balls, even mechanical pencils. I whisper their names into midnight blue skies–Pelikan, Lamy, Mont Blanc, Cross, Waterman, Pilot Precise. I have a particular weakness for Italian pens.

I know this is a public blog, but its time to come clean. Caress me with your secrets. Slowly.