G The Hollowest Girl of Them All

The Hollowest Girl of Them All

Steven: The Challenge (Part 2)

Steven turned onto his back and squirmed a bit to get comfortable.  He was already beyond ready, his cock angry and red, leaking a bit on his hard stomach.

"Am I allowed to talk through it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Mmmm…. Lets see if you can manage without." I said, kissing him on the forehead. "Mmkay, dear. Tally-ho."

Steven stretched first. He flexed his arches, pointing his toes, and rolled his broad shoulders. He tossed some of his hair over his shoulders so the ends could brush against his already sensitive skin.  Then he closed his eyes.

It took a while.

But slowly, a brilliant soft flush rose up his chest to settle on his cheeks. He bit his lip and strained his head back, the long white column of his neck like an offering to a hungry god. As he pushed himself further into his fantasy, his hips shifted uncomfortably and his nipples rose, dark and pebbled from his chest.

I just watched in awe. He was really doing it.

He tossed his head from side to side, as he gripped the sheets tight in his fists and gave a breathy moan.  He oozed more furtively now, dripping down over the side of his thigh, the evidence of his desire glimmering wetly in the light from my bedside lamp.

Steven gasped and arched his back again. He breathed hard, then whimpered. Goosebumps spread up his arms and he shuddered.  Then, without warning, he reached up and pulled his hair, yanking his head back even further. He clenched his teeth so hard. So very hard.

But touching his hair was touching himself, so I reached over to pry his hands out of his hair, annoyed that he wasn’t following the rules.
      The instant I touched him, he screamed and came hard. 
He wrapped his arms around himself, like he was desperate for someone to hold him, and quaked with the force of it.

When Steven finally settled down, he didn’t say anything. He just scrambled into my arms, still dripping, and hid his face in the curve of my neck.

(part 1)

Zach: The sensualist

You’ve all seen Zach, and you’ve all seen me.

I’m not a thin woman. Actually, I’m quite lumpy and stretch marky, and unashamedly overweight. But I think, of all then men I’ve been with, he made me feel the sexiest.

He used to gaze at my face with something akin to wonder, and stroke the sharpness of my cheekbones. The first time he saw me naked, he looked at me like someone would look at a goddess, and just said. “Wow. You…. wow.”

Once while we were riding the train during rush hour, he told me my eyes were incredible. He said that they were how he imagined Cleopatra’s to look: dark and hooded and …. guarded. A woman behind him raised an eyebrow at us, and I just smiled back.

Zach was no flatterer though, he always said everything very matter of factly, like he was commenting on the weather.

Zach twined himself around me like a vine in public places, daring anyone to comment with his stare.

 He was just… magnificent looking. His body was kind of like a swimmer’s. All lean lines and symmetry. He was just so compact and graceful and flexible. His feet and hands were so perfect, like they’d been carved from marble by a master sculptor.

He kissed with playful enthusiasm,and snuck his hands places    like he thought he wouldn’t be allowed. I was a precious object to him. Lord, knows why.

Zach was like a selfish little prince. Demanding, and lofty, beautiful and gifted.

He had a habit of making me  paper cranes when his heart was too full, and presenting them to me like tokens of his favor.

I accepted them and kissed every one.

*Zach: Normal, Enough.

My favorite thing about him: His eyelashes were so long. They dusted his cheeks like branches from a willow tree. Things like that are best seen up close.

Anyway, Zach was always enthusiastic about everything, and gave amazing back rubs. Very kind, but easily offended and annoyed.

There were some things about him that I just couldn’t understand.

Just like there were probably things about me that my previous partners didn’t understand.

Zach made time for me, but didn’t go out of his way to convenience me, and he was totally about himself and his priorities. (like me)

We did have fun though. We went to museums, and he read to me in the park and we restaurant hopped and watched 90’s movies. He read the book I was writing and helped me with editing it. And I helped him with his painting and gave him…. inspiration.

He was a real art kid. Pretentious to the core; what hipsters wish they were, and pretend to be.

He watched documentaries and silent films and talked about Man Ray. I watched Adventure Time and Good Fellas and talked about Ender’s Game.

*Oh, and his tongue was pierced. Just thought I should mention it.

Eric: Month Three

By the third month I’d had enough. 

I wanted OUT.

Things I had learned about him

  1. He didn’t know how to kiss with tongue. (wtf)
  2. He didn’t understand, yet was still passionate about his religion.
  3. His mom didn’t think I was ladylike (though she liked me, I think).
  4. He was basically a carbon copy of another much more amazing guy.
  5. He wanted to date me long term (which I wasn’t into, because I like to be free)
  6. He was strange about homosexuality ( Ie. didn’t think lesbians were hot, but knew way too much about gay sex, yet kept insisting that he wasn’t bisexual)

So, there was no way in hell I was staying. I had chosen to break my pattern of dating attractive guys only, and this is what I have to deal with? That’s some trick ass bullshit.

But. Eric was very fragile and didn’t take getting his feelings hurt very well. So, being the kind girl that I am, I decided not to break up with him, but to do things until he broke up with me. Because I can take it much better than he could, and I understand and respect that.

My grandmother once told me to be sensitive to other people’s sensitivities and I’m pretty sure its the best advice I have ever gotten about anything.

So, After about 4 weeks of being the shittiest girlfriend I could possibly be without cheating on him or stabbing him or any other crazy thing, he finally let me go, and I was free.

Or so I thought.

We waltzed with each other through several months.

His hands slipped through mine, clutching them sweetly.

His kisses were soft as they brushed against my cheek. He was too shy to do anything more. Burying his head in my shoulder, cheeks ablaze.


Became Nick.

Became Nicky.

      Sweet, darling Nicky.

He smelled of clove cigarettes, and cake and something else. Something heady and musky and very much boy.

We were the closest friends, as friends can be without crossing the line.

He took me everywhere, like I was his child, and bought me lunch and brushed crumbs off my shirt. At times, he curled inwards toward me when he was scared or insecure and I held him like he was mine.

I think of all my relationships, ours was the most innocent. The most decadent.

One day,I fell asleep next to him in the sun; in a garden of flowers. We napped for hours, then I woke up and made him a flower crown and he wore it all day. He smiled at me as he placed it on his head, like the purest rarest gold. Then he covered my hand with his in thank you.

So gentle. Like he was touching a baby bird.

Nick: A snapshot

Nicholas and I orbited each other like twin planets. We were in a marriage of convenience.

I couldn’t even tell you why we were friends, we had nothing in common.

When we met for a second time, I hadn’t known how long he’d thought about me. Sitting under a lab table in class, ignoring our physics teacher screaming at us to please please get back into our seats, he told me he had wanted to speak to me for three months.

Holding my hands in his, not looking into my eyes, he said that he wanted to be my friend so badly, but he was scared I wouldn’t like him.

I almost laughed, it sounded so absurd.

Nick was infamous.

He was invited to all the best parties, hung out with all the prettiest people. He got love confessions every week and there were more rumors about him than anyone else at school.

Like a sad kid trying to reach out, he awkwardly complimented my shoes and forced a smile.

My heart sprung open like a cage of birds, and every one of them perched on his shoulders and rested in his hands.


I met Nicholas the second week of my first year of high school.

I’m only mentioning her because she’s the one who introduced us. Nick and me.

It’s surprising that I didn’t notice him before we were properly introduced. Nicholas is rather hard to miss.

Nicholas looked like a martyr.He was a stick thin ragdoll of self destruction, his striking face smeared in gritty makeup. Nick was tall and thin, sinister yet vulnerable, magnetic but distant.
His eyes were tired and wise. It was almost like he was surrounded by violent electromagnetic static; something we were all instantly aware of once we step into its path.
Women and men looked at him and lusted after him, and I understood why. He was slinky, his lankiness bringing with it agonizing grace. Where we would amble, he sauntered, where we wandered, he’s stride.
It was effortless.
Everywhere he went, crowds of women followed, twittering like birds, lunging for his heart despite his insistence that he preferred men.

Girls like me scoffed at girls like them.

Before you wonder, I wasn’t in love with him, I didn’t fall in love with him, and I’m not in love with him now. Nicholas is one of those men who is surrounded by warning.

And unlike many other women, I actually heed it.

Emerita: She had no time for my devolution

I think she left me before junior year had ended.She was still there, but her heart wasn’t in it.

And it isn’t in my nature to push.

Still. There was a time when I loved her, and I wanted to share a poem with you all that I wrote for her when she still made my heart race.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

It is difficult to say when this started, but its something i have been thinking of for a while.
you know how I am.
I can only say what I need to say when I am in hiding.
its because I am a coward.
your cowardly child, dancing on too high heels
eyes heavy, lips wishing for a taste of yours.

you know I love you.
you know I do.
but unconsciously, without trying or seeing
and I’m wishing
that you would understand.

I am immature and scared and rightfully so,
I am common.
and selfish.
but your voice makes my heart open like
a flock of brown sparrows
flying for the first time.

how cliche
for me to realize it at such a time as this.

your worth

is incomparable.

and I want, most of all, to hold your hand.”

Emerita: The Beginning of the Hollowness.

She slid down the Kinsey scale and I slid deeper into myself. It was inevitable.

She wanted a big man to take care of her. I’m 5’4”, dickless and an artist. It didn’t bother me much. Honestly, I mostly missed the friendship.


Either way, I was getting more withdrawn, something Emmy never liked. I was less interested in people than I was interested in the  image…. the “character” of who ever it was who I let love me. Because, I haven’t cared about anyone else properly since high school. And I don’t think I ever will again.

Relationships are one way street now and I’m standing at the end. Like bait.

This ability to create characters that are so real does not come without a price. I see everyone this way. I don’t get a choice anymore.

The reason I call myself ‘the hollowest girl’ is because when it comes to people I am, inelegantly, hollow; Empty (in a non over-dramatic or negative way) and I fill myself up with bits of people I meet until I get full.
Then, I file the bits away for later and use them to haphazardly paste together characters to write about. Characters who are beautiful and worth falling in love with because, ultimately, I’ve fallen in love with them before.

Its like some sort of strange curse.

I wish I could share with you all some of the wonderful characters I’ve made. They’re all two drops fact and one drop fiction.  Nearly always male. And achingly lovely, every one.

But its never fun.

Because like I said, its a one way street. There is no grand journey at the end; just…. the end.  and once they get there, everyone involved gets bored. And eventually, someone will put up a sign that says “No Outlet, One Way Only”, and the street will stop getting visitors.

Even pavement gets lonely.

Why do you think it lets flowers poke through?

Instead of the proverbial notches on my bedpost, I decided to write about them instead. My loves. My experiences. I've definitely had enough of them to entertain someone out there.
"Cento" Copyright © Andrew Brinker 2011.