Read Online The Interloper by Antoine Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Antoine Wilson
Tags: Adult
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(rotated fifteen degrees to mark my spot), dropped the ones I was after onto the top of the dresser, and lowered the remaining stack onto the “marker” pair, careful to maintain—as I had done long ago with my uncle’s
Playboy
magazines—correct orientation so that Patty would not notice the stack had been disturbed.
The panties I had extracted were indeed lavender and indeed stretchy, but they also had a characteristic I was not expecting. They were thong panties. Reluctant to go digging around again lest I disturb my wife’s perfect stacks, I settled on them anyway. I removed my pants and boxers and stepped into Patty’s underwear. I threw my boxers in the hamper and pulled on my pants.
The last of the afternoon’s light came through the trees and shimmered on the grass in that dappled way that remindedone of life’s little miracles. (Nature uplifts. Cinderblock numbs.) I was no longer the failure I thought I was, even after I reentered my office to face the mess I’d made earlier. I left those papers on the floor and made my way straight to the desk. I had committed myself to being Lily for a while, so I decided to explore her. That evening I wrote something I can only describe as a fictional autobiography, an act of writing through which Lily would tell me about herself. I reproduce it here verbatim from memory.
My Life
by Lily Hazelton
My name is Lillian Echo Hazelton and I was born in Central California in 1970. My mother died in a hospital when I was very young and my father showed no interest in raising me, so before I even started school I came to Southern California to live with my mother’s sister and her husband, who had a son a little older than I was. From then on my family life was stable in that we didn’t move and no one died. But the sting of my early childhood in Central California never really left me. So I know what someone means when they say that trouble tends to follow them around. I am wearing a lavender thong. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, built in the 1950s and decorated by me. I like to cook but don’t seem to do it that often. I have many acquaintances, a few of whom I would call close friends. I workat the local elementary school, as a teacher’s aide, so I know children. I believe in a God but do not attend church, finding it too wrapped up in the affairs of man.
I had a short-term sexual relationship with my cousin when we were both in our teens. He was my first true love. Before love could be broken down into categories, we had the real thing together, the pure thing. But he was my cousin, and we were discovered, and now he is no longer with us. I am a liberal until threatened. Sometimes I forget to eat lunch. I rarely drink alcohol alone. I go months without masturbating and then diddle myself twice a day for a week. I want to know that you are not going away. When I’m in trouble, I call my aunt, who is difficult to talk to. When I need someone to talk to, I call my friend Francine, who despite her intense competitiveness usually provides a sympathetic ear. I have no one to talk to. My mouth moves, words come out, people nod and respond, but I never really get to talk to anyone. Since childhood, I have prayed for God to take my life. I have two cats and will not get a third because I do not want to be a single woman with three cats.
It was a thrill, creating her out of thin air, setting the trap for Raven. Life was going to be different soon. I was typing away under my desk lamp, the rest of the house dark, when I heard the familiar but unexpected creak and groan of the garage door. I looked at my watch and at my calendar. Tonight was a worknight. Patty was supposed to go straight to work after running her errands.
I heard her footsteps in the hall, and then she appeared in the doorway with a peculiar look on her face.
“I’m ditching work tonight,” she said.
I knew the look—the tight smile of a very responsible person doing something barely
Playboy
magazines—correct orientation so that Patty would not notice the stack had been disturbed.
The panties I had extracted were indeed lavender and indeed stretchy, but they also had a characteristic I was not expecting. They were thong panties. Reluctant to go digging around again lest I disturb my wife’s perfect stacks, I settled on them anyway. I removed my pants and boxers and stepped into Patty’s underwear. I threw my boxers in the hamper and pulled on my pants.
The last of the afternoon’s light came through the trees and shimmered on the grass in that dappled way that remindedone of life’s little miracles. (Nature uplifts. Cinderblock numbs.) I was no longer the failure I thought I was, even after I reentered my office to face the mess I’d made earlier. I left those papers on the floor and made my way straight to the desk. I had committed myself to being Lily for a while, so I decided to explore her. That evening I wrote something I can only describe as a fictional autobiography, an act of writing through which Lily would tell me about herself. I reproduce it here verbatim from memory.
My Life
by Lily Hazelton
My name is Lillian Echo Hazelton and I was born in Central California in 1970. My mother died in a hospital when I was very young and my father showed no interest in raising me, so before I even started school I came to Southern California to live with my mother’s sister and her husband, who had a son a little older than I was. From then on my family life was stable in that we didn’t move and no one died. But the sting of my early childhood in Central California never really left me. So I know what someone means when they say that trouble tends to follow them around. I am wearing a lavender thong. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, built in the 1950s and decorated by me. I like to cook but don’t seem to do it that often. I have many acquaintances, a few of whom I would call close friends. I workat the local elementary school, as a teacher’s aide, so I know children. I believe in a God but do not attend church, finding it too wrapped up in the affairs of man.
I had a short-term sexual relationship with my cousin when we were both in our teens. He was my first true love. Before love could be broken down into categories, we had the real thing together, the pure thing. But he was my cousin, and we were discovered, and now he is no longer with us. I am a liberal until threatened. Sometimes I forget to eat lunch. I rarely drink alcohol alone. I go months without masturbating and then diddle myself twice a day for a week. I want to know that you are not going away. When I’m in trouble, I call my aunt, who is difficult to talk to. When I need someone to talk to, I call my friend Francine, who despite her intense competitiveness usually provides a sympathetic ear. I have no one to talk to. My mouth moves, words come out, people nod and respond, but I never really get to talk to anyone. Since childhood, I have prayed for God to take my life. I have two cats and will not get a third because I do not want to be a single woman with three cats.
It was a thrill, creating her out of thin air, setting the trap for Raven. Life was going to be different soon. I was typing away under my desk lamp, the rest of the house dark, when I heard the familiar but unexpected creak and groan of the garage door. I looked at my watch and at my calendar. Tonight was a worknight. Patty was supposed to go straight to work after running her errands.
I heard her footsteps in the hall, and then she appeared in the doorway with a peculiar look on her face.
“I’m ditching work tonight,” she said.
I knew the look—the tight smile of a very responsible person doing something barely
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