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I flip out a yoga mat and hold a pose that’s supposed to clear my mind. I breathe in and out, filling my soul and toes with a cleansing breath. And then an image of her flickers through my mind.

I fall to the mat and reach for my phone to try and scrub it from my thoughts.

HAYDEN: You owe Leslie an apology.

BETTE: We text now?

HAYDEN: We do. On company issued phones only. Watch yourself.

BETTE: Give me her number. What does she need?

HAYDEN: Probably a vibrator.

BETTE: HA HA. Couldn’t get it done?

HAYDEN: Didn’t even try.

I have to walk away. My dick is hard even with this contact. Fuck it. I rip off my shorts and my cock springs out. I hear the phone ding as I walk to the bedroom. I ignore it. I stroke myself and there goes my dick, pre-cum easing my tight fist up and down. This is going to be fast. I grab lube and the sound of another text popping off gets me going even faster. My blood is molten hot for this fantasy. I pull harder and faster, fucking my hand. I can’t even lie down. I imagine her from behind. Shit, that’s it. When she said that the other day it became the only thing I could fixate on. I need her ass to be perfect and because she’s a fantasy I know exactly the one to picture. I groan as I fist faster. I’m thrusting into myself and my balls draw up hard. The burn in my abs begs for release. I’m so crazy with lust and my desire to come, I throw my head back and let it go. Only after I’m done do I realize I have to wash my comforter now. I’m catching my breath as another text comes in and my dick stirs like it’s Pavlov’s cock.

HAYDEN

It’s been a relatively quiet couple of days. The truce is so boring, I’m pulling my hair out. It’s Saturday and I’m not good with weekends if I don’t have plans. I lace up my shoes, tuck a sketch pad into my bag, and head out to Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts.

I walk in and Shelia and Madge are behind the desk. “Oh, look who’s here?” Shelia says. “It’s mister too important to visit his friends.”

I laugh.

“Where ya been, gorgeous?” Madge yells and her cohort snort laughs.

“Quit busting my balls. I’ve been searching for women as perfect as you two. Came up empty, so now I’m back.”

“Alright. Keep it in your pants. Love to your mother,” Madge quips, they used to play bridge together.

They giggle and nod at me as I stroll right through. I wave to the other folks behind the desk and shake the guard’s hand as I set off for the antiquity rooms. I want to find some peace after the disturbing and confusing phone call and text exchange that set off this week’s Chicago-based StrokeFest. Even now, in my sacred space, my dick is getting hard thinking about her hating me. I fucking dream of her submitting to me, finally, with a defiant look and her legs opening wide. I have a problem. I want to call and see if she’ll fight with me.

I shake my head and find a bench and stare at an ancient drawings that have fascinated me since I was a kid. This particular one is on a Sumarian water jug. I love that the mundane was decorated and celebrated.

I flip open my pad and the sound of pencil scratching on the thick paper instantly soothes all my frayed nerves. I have to draw dog food later, but for now, I let my pencil massage the paper in sensual curved lines of the vase.

Strangely, today was different.

I was totally focused on my nemesis, Bette, when I let loose all over my house. She’s simply a current fantasy. In the future, my thoughts will drift back to the one girl who split me open and took my heart.

Several hours later, I close my pad and do a quick Downward Dog in front of the antiquities. Then I wave to the staff. Some of them have known me since I was seven and discovered a different way to communicate. All the bungled up shit in my head could come out in a drawing instead of me having to fucking talk. I hate talking about my feelings. Mostly because I have to admit I have them.

I talked about hopes and dreams once. I chatted about my “emotional inner life” as they call it. I told her everything I’d ever thought I’d be and how I felt when other people didn’t see it the same way. I blathered on about what I wanted most in this life and what I found beautiful. I admitted flaws and traps from my own life. And when she stopped taking my calls, texts, and emails, well, that was the last time I did that shit.

I pull my bag’s strap over my head and head out into the sun as spring is turning over to summer. I need to focus on our Arco pitch.

I’m drawing it, then doing a watercolor of a pastoral farm scene to bring back an old-time values feel. I haven’t painted with watercolors in forever. The Arco people want to evoke warm family dog images. I’m sure she and her demon sidekick have a better idea than painting a farm. Shit.

DAX: Hey man. Where’s the goods? I want to render it and ship it the hell off.

HAYDEN: Give me like an hour.

DAX: Where are you?

HAYDEN: Why?