Come Undone by Obsidian_tresses

The Art of Solitude

A/N: This might be slightly confusing, but you'll get who "you" are in the next chapter. ENJOY!!

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There are moments in your life when you wonder whether you've had too much to drink, have had too many casual girlfriends and boyfriends, whose names you can't even recall now and whose faces seem to blend into one another, morphing from one to the next like one of those crazy kaleidoscopic visual effects in a Michael Jackson 'Black or White' music video.

There are times when you think that you've had too many one-night stands, too many toothing experiences to count, one too many nameless fucks, that you can almost force yourself to believe that you've done them all; that there is nothing fresh or sacred or new anymore that's left for you to try. Nothing and no one left for you to go crazy with, to experiment, so to speak, to indulge you or keep up with your raw sexual appetite.

There are even times when you wonder when you'd ever get tired of being alone, of jumping from one non-committal bed to the next, using sex as a way to fill the deep emptiness you've been feeling for a long time now – an emptiness that, as cliché as it may sound, can only be filled by true love.

Consequently, that thought would be followed by the next, and you wonder even more if you would ever settle down, find someone to love and love you in return, someone stable and appealing, preferably someone good-looking, but most importantly, someone who complements you in a way that makes you feel balanced, whole – someone you'd be willing to commit the rest of your life with.

Commitment.

You sneer at the thought and down another long swig of your beer, even as you've been unconsciously toying with a piece of business card on your right hand, flipping it casually between long fingers. You stop and look at the card at last, your eyes scanning the simple but bold script, reading over and over again what this reputable 'establishment' has to offer.

"Where Business is the Art of Pleasure," the card declares. Confident. Arrogant. Pretentious.

You snort critically as you finish off the rest of your drink.

Right.

Commitment is for those who are too afraid to take risks, too afraid to enjoy life on their own, too afraid that life would pass them by if they didn't immediately settle down with their proverbial 'one,' their soul mate, so to speak.

No...

You're much too young for that. You have the time, you tell yourself. There are still some pleasures left to be explored, sinful gratifications left to be discovered, savored down to the very last drop – pleasures such as the thrilling possibility that you now hold in your hand, just a simple phone-call away. And you're not going to let your fear of being alone steal that away from you right now.

"When I'm ready..." you tell yourself, then you'll commit.

But for now, you convince yourself that commitment is for gutless punks who've given up on their bachelorhood without so much as a goddamn fight, for cowards who don't know how or where to look for the guilty pleasures that the single, commitment-snubbing life has to offer – nameless pleasures that you're itching to try even at this very moment.

You set your bottle down and pick up the phone at last, hearing the familiar dial tone on the receiver, and you think that, apart from toothing, this is probably the boldest and most insane idea you've ever entertained. How desperate can one guy get, right?

No... you tell yourself that adventure is the name of the game.

And variety is the spice of life.

So, you shrug off all inhibition and dial the number on the card, anyway.

It takes you less than seven simple minutes to complete the pleasantly professional, yet nerve-wracking call. And when all is said and done, you take a deep, long breath and get up, decide to take a quick shower and freshen up, maybe even clean up the place just a bit. No sense in appearing sloppy, you reason. Might as well make a good first impression, just in case you end up enjoying this newfound experience...

Just in case you decide you want to try this again.

You shed your clothes quickly and step in under the warm spray. You close your eyes and slump your head against the cool tile, letting the water beat down on your back for a few seconds, trying to calm down your now-racing pulse. You remind yourself that you have about half an hour to get ready; half an hour to decide how you want your 'pleasure' packaged and delivered tonight.

The possibilities are near endless, and you smirk to yourself as your mind fixates on one delicious thought – a fantasy you've been considering, ever since you first got curious, but have yet to fulfill.

You open your eyes and finally move, showering hurriedly before toweling off. When you get out, you look at the clock, realize how much time has already passed since you stepped into the shower, and your heart races once again when you grasp that you now have twenty minutes left to get ready.

Nineteen minutes to brush your teeth and comb your hair.

Seventeen minutes to make your home halfway presentable.

Still clad in only a towel, you decide to straighten up your living room a little, throw your dirty dishes into the dishwasher, make up your bed, and shove your dirty clothes in the laundry. And with sheer determination, you manage to complete these tasks in four minutes flat.

You've never been one to multi-task, but your mother would be proud of you now.

You head for your bedroom, glance briefly at the clock on your nightstand, and see that you have about thirteen minutes left. You relax a little and take a deep, calming breath. You want to enjoy this moment, this experience, yes... but you tell yourself that it wouldn't be becoming of you to appear too giddy or nervous. That would not be good for your 'image,' you think.

And so, you slow down your movements a little and take your sweet time picking out a pair of silk, black boxers from your underwear drawer, the kind that you only wear on first dates and first nights when you want to impress. You put them on and walk into your closet, pulling out a new pair of casual blue jeans that would ride low on your hips and draw enough attention to your trim waist, your long legs, and the muscled curve of your ass.

You smirk to yourself as you slip one leg into your trousers, followed by the other. And you are hopping on your legs and zipping up your pants when all of a sudden, you hear the unmistakable ring of your doorbell. You glance at the clock and curse inwardly.

"Shit! What the hell?"

You think you must've miscalculated the time. But you're pretty damn sure that you're supposed to have ten minutes left to get ready. So, who the hell could be ringing your bell so early? You're about to entertain the thought that maybe it's your next-door neighbor's bell, when you hear it again... followed by four persistent knocks.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!" you curse loudly this time, one for every determined knock you've heard, and you hurriedly button up your jeans as you make a mad dash for the front door, trying not to stumble or stub any of your toes in the process.

You stop when your hand finally touches the doorknob, and you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths to calm the hammering beat in your chest again. You hear whoever's on the other side knocking persistently, almost impatiently, once more, and you swallow hard to push down the burgeoning lump in your throat.

This is it.

The sacred moment you've been waiting for, arriving ten minutes earlier than you're prepared to receive.

It is only then, when your shaking hand moves to turn the brass knob, that you realize the possible fulfillment of one of your long-time fantasies is finally here, standing just beyond your front door... and that you, yourself, are standing at zero minutes to sinful pleasure – zero minutes to what can be a most delectably decadent bliss.

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A/N:So this is the first chapter. Rate and Review!!