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[personal profile] buffyx
Title: Erotic Memoirs of a Soulful College Girl (1/1)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] buffyx
Pairing/Character: Taylor, Taylor/Ryan
Summary: The title sums it all up, I'd say.
Rating: Light NC-17. Sexual situations are described.
Spoilers/Warnings: Through 4x06, The Summer Bummer. This sucker is LONG.



Subject: “I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way.”
Mood: Satisfied
Music: Bach - Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major
Date: December 8, 2006 – 8:48 AM


Bonjour, dear readers! I do apologize for having lapsed in my habitually punctual updating, however, last night was a thrilling whirlwind full of romantic intrigue, unneccessary complications that are comical in a truly Shakespearean manner, and best of all, resolved sexual tension (!!!), one that I could not break away from in order to update my online journal. Do not fret, mes amis, I will recount these exhilarating exploits for you now, in full, delicious detail.

Before I do, however, give me a moment to adjust to my surroundings. Since Summer, her pet rabbit and crushed spirit have now returned to Newport, I have been relegated to one of the guest quarters. While the room is lovely, with this fabulous Scandinavian décor (the Swedes have excellent taste!), I quite miss Summer’s bedroom; I now feel more than ever that I am some kind of a refugee, seeking sanctuary in the Cooper-Nichol-Roberts-possibly-soon-to-be-Bullet (?) residence.

I suppose I should refrain from such exaggerations; after all, it could be worse. It isn’t exactly as if I’ve been deported to Darfur. Yet. Who knows what my mother is planning.

Anyway, the guest room is endurable, but not at all conducive to my writing; I need total and absolute privacy. Thus, as I type this I am perched on the bathtub ledge, laptop resting perilously on my lap. Not the most ideal of conditions, but I shall perservere!

At least the door locks, and I was able to borrow Kaitlin’s portable mini-stereo and play my compilation of Bach’s best works, which soothes me but seems to grate her deeply, if her huffing, pointed eye rolling and arms-folded-across-the-chest are any indication. She has no appreciation for the harpsichord.

The youngest Cooper would do best to cease with her flair for dramatics, since Julie Cooper-Nichol-Roberts-possibly-eventually-Bullet has not yet returned home from her business venture—or, wait, I suppose she would be condensed to Julie Cooper, since Mr. Nichol is deceased and the engagement with Mr. Roberts is defunct, as he has relocated to Seattle. I have been relegated Temporary Parental Authority Duties in her absence. Summer has the same mandate, but as I am two months and five days older, I feel that I am really technically the head of the household here.

Kaitlin owes me as it is, since I have promised to not divulge to her mother the illicit gathering she incited last night. Somehow I cannot imagine Jules being content with the knowledge that her fifteen-year-old daughter hosted a rager complete with underaged drinking, illegal substances, sodomy, and countless other high school staples as usually seen in films aimed for the teenage demographic, until the local police contigent broke it up (another exciting cliché!).

Or, at least, that is what I was told after the fact. While the cops raided the house, Ryan and I were oblivious, too distracted in the midst of consumating, at long last, our mutual, irresisitable attraction to each other in a heated liplocking session.

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you: MUTUAL!

\o/

I promise you, hand to indefinite deity, there was no underhanded maneuvering on my end this time! Well, very little, and it was ultimately rendered useless, anyway. It’s not as if I rigged an elevator shaft to malfunction with only Ryan and I inside, faked a dehibilitating bout of claustrophobia, and then convinced him that the only cure for my hysteria would be to have sexual relations. Please. That would just be silly!

Instead, our consensual union occurred inside of the hall closet, among an impressive array of Julie Cooper’s designer Dior handbags that I covet rather madly.

Ryan and I kissed with a fervor that can only be borne from the invigorating passion of youth, our warm forms pressed together as if fused by some cosmic, magnetic, supernatural force. His hands roamed across the mountains and valleys of my body as if there was no single part of me he did not want to touch.

When, in a moment of sudden bravado, I closed my teeth (with careful gentleness, remembering the incident outside of the Arc de Triomphe with Henri-Michel that led to his embroidered silk hankerchief being soaked in his own blood) around the bottom of Ryan’s earlobe and tugged teasingly, a high, tight gasping noise escaped from him. I pulled back, admittedly a little alarmed, to look at him, and saw that rather than being wounded by my incisors, he’d merely been startled into laughter.

For a moment I was certain he was laughing at me, but his eyes were soft, kind (clear, bottomless cerulean pools you can so easily lose yourself in if you look too long), and there was something in his smile. Something like happiness. And that makes me happy, in turn—to know that maybe I could bring a partial reprieve in Ryan’s life from the intense grief that drove him to spending months living in squalor and partaking in angsty, self-destructive cagefighting which did, at the very least, provide him with some very well-sculpted arm muscles.

Ryan has draped many an albatross across his own neck; I do hope that, if nothing else, I could alleviate some of those burdens.

All right, I’m forced to cut short my reminiscence and post it as is, due to the fact that now Kaitlin is knocking on the door and demanding she be let in, as she is apparently in dire need of black eyeliner.

Le sigh!






Subject: “Il faut aimer si l'on veut être aimé.”
Mood: Pensive
Music: Maurice Ravel - Piano Concerto in G Major
Date: December 9, 2006 – 6:23 AM


Kate Chopin once wrote, “Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love as an excuse.”

Odd how a woman in 1899 was able to perfectly summarize what I feel today, a hundred odd years later. I suppose some emotions are just entirely universal; that, or the women’s movement is not as nearly advanced as I thought, and we are bound to be trapped and smothered by social structures for forever.

It’s funny because lately I haven’t thought of Henri-Michel at all. But this morning I woke up in the stiff, brand new 400 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets, and when I stretched one hand to my left, I honestly expected it to curl around his broad, bronze shoulder, and for him to draw me to his length and instigate a pre-breakfast frolic, whispering sweet French nothings into my ear, “Je t'aime, toi et tes pêches,” as he rendered me speechless with his pulsing manroot deep inside the heat of my feminine folds.

The man was such a sex god. Words just do not do it justice.

…I think tonight I will ask Summer if we can have a sleepover or something. Oui.






Subject: The Human Embodiment of Velcro
Mood: Lonely
Music: Eminem – “Bad Influence”
Date: December 10, 2006 – 4:57 PM


Before anyone leaves a comment questioning, let me clarify that the musical selection is courtesy of Kaitlin. She left this CD in my car and I’m listening to it out of curiosity, nothing else. Personally, I think this music is too vulgar for a fifteen-year-old, but as someone who was by many people’s standards very oversexualized at a young age, I don’t think it is my place to make such judgement calls.

This afternoon, I drove the two of us to get matching mani-pedis at this cute little salon Kirsten recommended. I used to have them done at the same place as my mother, but I would be absolutely mortified if I were to by chance encounter her in public. We haven’t spoken in weeks.

The appointment went wonderfully! The manicurist didn’t even disparage me for my rough cuticles, and though Kaitlin acted like it was a total drag to be fussed over, I think she secretly enjoyed it. She finished first, and waited outside, and when we met up again, her eyes were sort of red and I thought maybe she’d been crying, but she seemed a lot more relaxed and smiley on the way home, so I guess not. Bizarre!

I invited Jules along too, but she and Kirsten were preoccupied with something at the office. You know, I’m not sure what they actually do there. Hmm. In the car Kaitlin told me she thinks her mother is probably only “doing” the clients herself rather than matching them up with potential life partners. I told her she should consider herself lucky for her mother’s healthy libido, since studies have shown that sex is a proven stress-reliever, and thus Jules is less likely to jump down her throat without provocation.

Kaitlin didn’t say anything to that, just rolled her eyes and stared out the window. I wanted to tell her that she is lucky that her mother, at least, isn't a cold, heartless tyrant who hates her with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns and refuses to acknowledge her existence.

Summer spent the night last night with Seth, probably indulging in some reunion copulation, so I had her room to myself. It seemed to curtail the inappropriate sexual wanderings of my brain, if only for one night.

I haven’t seen Ryan since our rendezvous in the closet, but I’m too nervous to call or just show up at the Cohens without a plausible excuse. I don’t want him to think I’ve become the human embodiment of Velcro; we’ve both agreed to prevent ourselves from rushing into any romantic commitments, but wow, restraining myself is far more difficult than I had originally predicted.

An aside: I need to Febreze the interior of my car. I noticed on the way home that it smelled a little like burnt tea bags. Huh.






Subject: dl;fkdlfkl;SDkf;slfk’sf!!!!!!!!213q2 11111!!!!!!
Mood: Ecstatic
Music: my internal squee-o’meter
Date: December 11, 2006 – 12:35 PM


I know this is a departure from my usual reserved, eloquent style, readers, but please permit me this moment of incoherent joy:

Flksdfjsdk;lfjsdl;kfjsdlfjldfjF !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3<3<3<3 !!!!!!!!jdflkdfj!!!!!!!!!

This is the effect Ryan Atwood has on me.

Yes, we finally saw each other, at long last, after such an agonizingly long interval! I was downstairs, working on the Elliptical machine, listening to an old Jay-Z album, which I may or may not have stolen from Kaitlin’s collection. I have to admit, it is much more practical to work out to bass-heavy hip-hop than to the strains of Chopin, exquisite as his compositions may be.

Just as I was really delving into it, the music shut off without warning, and I turned, expecting to see Kaitlin or Summer or Jules or even maybe Jules’ latest ridiculously good-looking personal trainer. However, it was RYAN, of all possible people, and I was so utterly shocked to see him that I pushed the foot holder too fast, slipped and almost tumbled backwards.

I know what you’re thinking: Quelle horreur! I don’t blame you for a second; I was cringing inwardly too, because of course the times when I want most to appear as the cool, composed, adult woman I know is blooming inside of me and just dying to burst through, like a struggling butterfly out of a tightly wound cocoon, I end up looking like a, for lack of better terms, complete spazz.

Ryan didn’t look traumatized by my overwhelming display of gracelessness, at least. Though it is perfectly possible that he is just growing an immunity to it.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to—” He stopped and kind of looked away, and I realized that he was nervous. NERVOUS!

It was very adorable, and my stomach fluttered, but in a good way, a I-could-just-eat-you-up fashion. A I-want-to-lick-your-oil-covered-chest-and-suck-on-your-nipples-like-a-sugar-stick-until-your-hips-start-bucking sort of way.

“I brought coffee,” he offered as means of explanation, and indeed, he had two cups of java in his hands.

We sat on the weightlifting bench, and consumed caffeinated beverages together; he presented me with a frou frou drink—a vanilla latte, to be exact—which I happen to adore.

“I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding,” Ryan explained. “Or that things are weird. They’re not weird, right?”

“Weird?” I sipped my latte for a long time (delish!) and said, “Of course not! We are friends. Friends with benefits, and the potential for something more simmering underneath the surface, as of yet untapped, but: no pressure. We’re pressure-free. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

He shifted, his hip pressing up against mine, and I wanted quite suddenly more than anything for him to push me down on the bench, part my flushed, vibrating thighs with strong hands, and have his way with me right there.

Alas, he merely smiled and relaxed and looked me in the eyes. Oh, my stomach could barely take it, somersaulting more than Svetlana Khorkina on the uneven bars.

We talked for a little after that, and finished our coffees, and he asked if I wanted to go bowling tonight.

I have to admit, the suggestion caught me off-guard. I realize Ryan is not Henri-Michel, is not even my boyfriend, officially. He will never sweep me off to Italy for a weekend in his countryside villa, the two of us drinking Pinot Gris in a private courtyard and making love in the rose bushes, but: Bowling??!! Who goes BOWLING?

I have never bowled in my life.

I cannot wait.






Subject: Mind, Meet Gutter
Mood: Confused
Music: Muffled, angry music with a heavy bass beat coming from Kaitlin’s room
Date: December 11, 10:50 PM


Only Ryan Atwood can make bowling sexy.

Tonight, when he flexed his toned muscular arm, bowling ball in hand, it was as if he silently saying through body language alone, La reine a du souci à se faire, Taylor.

At first I was horrendous, gutter ball after gutter ball. But my balls weren’t the only thing in the gutter-- when on my third attempt, Ryan came up from behind, carefully sliding one arm around my waist, and guided my hand with his own, my face flushed and knees went all liquid. He spoke and I could smell his fresh, minty aftershave, his natural manly musk, and his instructions had profoundly lascivious undertones.

By the end of our second game, I lost by a landslide, but when Ryan eased the rented shoe off the arch of my foot and kept his hand against the small of my back when we returned them to the counter, I felt nothing but a surge of UNADULTERATED TRIUMPH.

In the driveway we kissed for approximately seven minutes, and it was as amazing as ever, even with the seatbelt digging into my collarbone and the stick shift providing some mild interference. Let me tell you, the boy has a mouth to die for, and he’s very, very talented. And as you all know from my entries, avid readers, I do have a plethora of previous suitors by which to compare and arrive at this conclusion.

Inside, I found Summer eating cereal out of the box and reading some dissertation on feminist theory. I offered her some Fro Yo but she just said no and went upstairs to call Seth. She’s been super distracted and depressed ever since she’s been back; I can tell by the heavy eyeliner and she is definitely not using Pomade in her hair these days, a true sign of neglect. I’ve been assuming that it’s due to the whole being-kicked-out-of-Brown debacle, but then I began to wonder if it was because of Ryan and I or something.

I went up to Kaitlin’s room to seek her opinion, since even though she is younger than me, I sense that at heart she is an old soul, and I appreciate her wise insight into these matters.

“Why would Summer be mad at you?” she eyerolled.

“Because of Ryan,” I explained, “and Marissa. And their history. Maybe she thinks that I’m violating that, you know, betraying her best friend’s pristine memory by fooling around with the guy who was probably the love of her tragically short life?”

“Marissa is DEAD,” Kaitlin snapped. “Does NO ONE get that? There’s nothing left to BETRAY! GOD.”

And then she slammed the door and blasted hip-hop so loud I think she must have burst her own eardrums.

I do not think I will ever understand people.






Subject: Détente
Mood: Relieved
Music: Pancakes rustling in his cage
Date: December 12, 2006 – 10:17 AM


Summer is letting me sleep in her room still, bunked out on the floor, so I can only presume I am not the cause of her melancholy. I also know because last night I came right out and asked her as she unscrewed Pancakes’ water bottle to refill it.

“Does it bother you?” To make sure she knew what I was specifically referring to, I added: “Ryan and I?”

“You? And Ryan?” She set down the bottle and turned around and raised her eyebrows. “There’s a you and Ryan? Since when?”

I cannot believe she had no idea!! But I guess she was just too bummed about her college situation to pay attention to much else going on around her, even with the burgeoning, almost tangible sexual tension that has festered between Ryan and I for ages now whenever we're in the same room. Still, I can relate; technically the title of this blog should be edited to reflect my current status—Erotic Memoirs of a Soulful College Dropout.

In all honesty I have not spent much time lamenting my abandonment of the Sorbonne, what with the Henri-Michel mess. I can’t imagine returning to France again in the foreseeable future, but there are always other schools, and emotionally I am far too all over the place to devote the time and energy that studies would neccessitate without inevitably feeling overwhelmed by intense disappointment in myself when I do not live up to my own expectations.

Ah, well. C'est la vie!

Summer didn’t seem mad. She just paused and bit her lower lip and shrugged, and told me that if we were happy, she was happy. It’s a relief to have her blessing; she is pretty much the sister and best friend I never had, and I have a great deal of emotional investment in what she thinks. Also, as Marissa’s former best friend, her approval carries a certain amount of weight.

Not that Ryan and I are in an official relationship yet, but there’s a natural progression with these things, and the ball is rolling, and should it ever come to that, I’ll have this base covered. I enjoy being ahead of the curve.

I’m less worried about Summer now, since she has Seth and Pancakes and they seem to make her happy. At least she is moisturizing again. I choose to take that as a positive sign.






Subject: Contemplations
Mood: Anxious
Date: December 12, 2006 – 3:31 PM


This evening I am supposed to meet Ryan after his shift as El Pavo Guapo. Before then I’m meeting Seth at the comic book store—he promised to lend me his copy of Howl’s Moving Castle. I’m quite excited to see if the animation quality has lived up to the glowing reviews I’ve read on Rotten Tomatoes. Fingers crossed!

We’re supposed to be going to this showing of the newest Sasterne film, Les Cousins Dangereux, which I’ve been told is very erotic, complex and avante garde.

Mostly I am stewing about the latter portion of our non-official-date. When he drops me off, after the compulsory end-of-night front seat makeout session, I want to invite him in, but it’s too soon. It’s too soon, right? I have no concept of how normal developing sexual relationships function.

With most guys, all they have to do is compliment my looks and I’m climbing them like a rope ladder.

But Ryan is not most guys.






Subject: Mission: Accomplished (?!)
Mood: Shocked
Music: (none)
Date: December 13, 2006 – 1:19 PM


It finally happened.

Ryan and I had sex.

Wow.






Subject: Crap.
Mood: Confused
Date: December 13, 2006 – 1:25 PM


I wish there were strings attached.






Subject: Aftershocks
Mood: Contemplative
Music: My own whimpering
Date: December 14, 2006 – 6:37 PM


So I took a risk and cornered Kaitlin in the bathroom because I couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“Ryan and I had sexual relations,” I blurted out, without preamble. I figured context was unnecessary and would only detract from the real issue at hand.

The Ward twins were sitting on the bathtub ledge, and Kaitlin was leaned up against the sink. My revelation caused the Ward boys to grimace and make obligatory remarks of disgust, which was completely ridiculous since they were the ones sitting in our bathroom shaving each other’s chests, and having viewed Les Cousins Dangereux, that whole seemingly highly inappropriate ritual took on a new, rather traumatizing connotation.

“Uh, thanks for sharing,” she scoffed, and looked like she was going to ignore me, but I snatched her arm in order to better convey the urgency and desperation of the situation.

“I’m serious!” I continued. “I don’t know what to do!”

She told me next time I should just close my eyes and think of England if it was that bad. I told her that it was not bad, it was the opposite, amazing, about how I had been imbued with a kind of incensed ardour I’d never felt with anyone before, not even with Henri-Michel and his incredibly talented chimney-cleaner, because this time, this time there was a connection. The kind of connection that runs deep enough that for the first time, I don’t even feel like sharing the explicit details on an online forum (sorry, readers! I do still cherish you!), because it felt private on such an intimate level.

At that point in my tangent, the twins bolted out of the bathroom, leaving Kaitlin and I to continue our discussion in private.

I think she could tell I was seriously distressed, because she patted my hand in a maternal manner and said, “If you really care about him like that, just... tell him how you feel. Ryan is so the kind of stand-up guy who finds that emotional crap totally hot.”

Dammit. She’s right.

I have to tell him.






Subject: Revelations
Mood: Indescribable
Date: December 14, 2006 – 11:11 PM


I told him. Everything.

I spent about an hour preparing for it—doing my hair, changing my outfit five times, trying to not outwardly look like someone who is having an inner meltdown. Over a boy. And as soon as I open the front door, what do I see? Ryan climbing out of the Cohens’ SUV, hurrying down the drive with his hands in his pockets.

He walked toward me a little too quickly, nodded and said hi. He looked—serious.

Before he could open his mouth again, I told him not to say anything, that I had to tell him something and once it was out he would be totally allowed to be freaked, to end things and bow out of this… thing we have, or whatever he wanted, but it needed to be said regardless.

He paused and said, “Okay… what is it?”

I could tell he was anxious because his eyes went all shifty and he spoke very slowly.

“I like you. I really, really, REALLY like you. The other night we had amazing sex in your poolhouse, not only on a physical level but also on an emotional one, and now I am freaked out because I want a lot more but I know you might not be ready. And I don’t want to ruin what we have but I don’t know if I can just continue this ‘Let’s have a good time, no strings attached, it’s just a fun romp blah blah blah’ pact, but it’s something we’ve both agreed to, and I don’t know what to do.”

By the end of this, I was rather winded from the run-on sentences and my own hyperventilating, and Ryan just stood there and stared for a few seconds, soaking it in, I assume, his eyes a little wide.

And then he exhaled and stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, and I couldn’t breathe.

“Taylor. This is not—you’re not just a fun romp,” he said, very firmly and in a low voice. “I’m going slow because I care about you. I don’t want to screw this up. There’s… I have stuff I need to figure out. A lot of stuff. And you fit into that. You do.”

He rested his forehead against mine, and we just stood there. Readers, I am telling you, I have never been happier in my entire life. Not even when I was named valedictorian, or when Ethan Hawke gave that amazing, tear-jerker of a toast at Henri-Michel and I’s reception.




Subject: Douceur de Vivre
Mood: Peaceful
Date: December 15, 2006 – 12:52 PM

I cannot believe I forgot that I had stashed my divorce papers in the guest room. I’ve been cohabitating with Summer in hers for so long now that it had slipped my mind! Today I went in there to find some personalized letterhead for an angry letter Summer wanted to write to some company that tests hair products on animals; I told her that if she was going to be partake in such activities, she should still be classy about it.

I found the divorce paperwork there. Henri-Michel signed them with his signature flourish, of course. As I flipped through I realized that I am very, very proud of that document, as silly as it sounds. It’s the best thing I ever did for myself, the first real decision I made on my own. For me, and no one else.

It's so weird to remember how paralyzed with terror I was, convinced that Henri-Michel’s magnetic allure would ultimately draw me back in, that my inherent weakness would be my downfall and I'd never be able to escape. I really believed that. And now sometimes I can't understand how I ever doubted I had that strength, when it retrospect it seems like the glaringly obvious choice, the only choice.

I did what I had to do. I lost everything. Except not, because I’ve never been this peaceful with myself. Never. I’m still me, off-putting and blunt and deeply flawed, but that’s okay. For the first time, I’m okay.

And really, that is the douceur de vivre.




--end




A/N: I do not know anything about the French language, or classical music, or Scandinavian décor, other than what I researched, so please don’t ridicule me if something is not entirely factually accurate with any of those topics.

From my understanding (thanks, INTERNETS/ann!), this is the translation of the more obscure French phrases:

Je t'aime et vos pêches: I love you and your peaches.
"Il faut aimer si l'on veut être aimé": "One must love if one wants to be loved."
Quelle horreur!: How horrible! (sarcastic)
La reine a du souci à se faire: Eat your heart out.
douceur de vivre: sweetness of life

Thank you to [livejournal.com profile] missdeviant for the quick beta, and assuring me my Taylor voice is not completely horrible. ♥

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