Sympathy Sex | When Comfort Turned to Heat - By Herman Kingsley - Edited By Roselyn A St. Claire

It was only a few days after the passing of my spouse. 🕯️

Strangely, I wasn’t in much of a somber mood. We’d been falling apart for some time — mutual infidelities, mutual disappointments — and when the end came, it felt more like a legal formality than heartbreak. “Irreconcilable differences,” they called it. She’d gone her own way, into another toxic entanglement, and when COVID came for her, it was almost surreal. No fault of mine — just the consequence of her constant need for noise, for new faces, for the wrong kind of company.

Two weeks later, my phone rang. 📞

It was Erica — my A-1 from day one, the last person I ever expected to cross that line with. Over the years, she’d been my voice of reason, my cheerleader, my soft place to land when things fell apart. And though I’d always felt something for her — that quiet spark you try to ignore — I never imagined the moment would come.

That night, her voice was soft. Reassuring. She told me everything would be okay, that my only focus should be on the kids. 👨‍👧‍👦 Then she invited us out — her children, mine — to the local ice-cream shop. Simple. Kind. Needed. 🍦

While the kids laughed and made a mess of sprinkles and syrup, Erica and I sat on the patio. She reached across the table, held my hand, and let silence do the work. That one gesture — her thumb brushing over my knuckles — said more than a thousand condolences ever could. 🤍

When she paid the bill, I felt lighter.

For the first time in weeks, I actually smiled. 🙂

A few weeks later, with the kids staying at their Nana’s, another call came. Same voice.

Different tone.

She sounded softer this time — warmer. I could hear the hesitation and the hunger layered in between. “You home?” she asked. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Hell yeah.”

Within minutes she pulled up. 🚗

I tied the dogs, unlocked the gate, and there she was — framed by the porch light like some summer fantasy. 🌙 A flowing evening dress, sheer enough to tease, with hints of black and red lingerie peeking through the fabric. My favorite colors. ❤️🖤

Inside, I dimmed the lights, rolled a joint, and cracked open a bottle of her favorite wine.🍷💨

I didn’t drink — weed was my only vice — but I poured her a glass anyway. We sat by the pool, passing the joint, sharing slow laughter that sounded too easy for two people carrying so much history.

Before long, the bottle was empty and she was a little tipsy — or maybe just high on the moment. She giggled, said the wine wasn’t her thing and maybe the weed hit faster than expected. When I got up to grab her some water, she followed me inside.

By the time I reached the ice machine, her hands were already on me.

Firm. Bold. No hesitation. 🔥

I turned to face her. Our lips collided — hungry, reckless. 💋

Tongues tangled, hands wandered, clothes started losing relevance.

Her dress slipped off her shoulders as I unzipped the back, revealing the lace and satin that had been taunting me all evening. The sight alone had me smiling like a sinner. 😈

I lifted her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around me, her breath hot against my neck.

For a second, we just stared — like two people who knew this was inevitable.

She slid down, walking toward the bedroom with that deliberate sway women use when they know they have your full attention. I locked the door behind us, hit the alarm, and followed. 🚪💫

When she knelt on the bed, I remembered a conversation we’d once had — something she’d mentioned shyly about what she’d never experienced before. So I took my time. Moved slow. Let curiosity meet confidence.

What started as gentle exploration turned into something deeper — heat, hunger, release. 🔥

She moaned softly, her body trembling as she surrendered piece by piece.

When I finally entered her, she turned and whispered for me to take it easy — that she’d handle the rhythm. And she did.

For the next hour, we moved like two people who’d been waiting years for permission.

Hands, tongues, whispers — everything honest, nothing rehearsed. 🕯️

When I told her I was close, she only pressed harder, breathing out, “Inside. Don’t stop.”

And so I didn’t.

That night, there were no boundaries. No grief. No guilt. Just two souls rediscovering what it meant to feel alive. 💞

It was sympathy, yes — but it was also release.

And somewhere between the smoke, the sweat, and the silence after, I realized maybe that’s what healing looks like — messy, human, and real. 🌹

---

💭 Closing Thoughts — by Herman Kingsley

They call it sympathy sex, like it’s some accidental comfort exchange. But for me, it was more than that. It wasn’t about filling a void — it was about remembering that I still had a pulse. ❤️‍🔥

Grief has a way of stripping you down to the bone. It makes you question if you can ever feel anything real again. That night, Erica reminded me that I could. That desire isn’t always dirty — sometimes it’s medicine. Sometimes it’s the body’s way of saying, you’re still here.

We didn’t plan it. We didn’t name it. We just felt it — and for once, that was enough. 🌙

---

The Addiction Named, JR| By Roselyn A. St. Claire

It’s not just lust. It’s an obsession. It's comfort. It’s JR. And no matter how many times I leave his arms, I find myself aching to return. This isn’t a love story—it’s an addiction I don’t want to quit.

High on Him: The Addiction Named JR

By Roselyn St. Clare

Everyone calls him Junior.

But to me, he’s JR—the secret I crave in silence, the ache I don’t want cured.

I can chant affirmations, meditate, pray—hell, even try to exorcise these wild thoughts he stirs in me—but it’s useless. I’d turn blue in the face before I ever find relief. Because this man... this JR... is an obsession. An addiction. And I’m not ready to let him go.

We leave each other’s arms and slip back into our separate realities. For days, we stay away. On purpose? Maybe. Maybe not. We become something else to someone else. Playing other roles, carrying other lives. Still, we check in—just enough to keep the flame alive, but never enough to satisfy the craving.

Sometimes, when I’m with my significant other, my mind is screaming his name.

My body remembers how he touches me—craves the taste of him, misses the way he sees me like I’m the only truth left in his world.

And the crazy part?

These moments with him—they’re stolen. Borrowed.

His touches aren’t just physical—they awaken something wild, soft, and dangerously alive inside me.

I always leave his arms wanting more. Not wanting to leave at all.

He’s more experienced than I am. He likes to remind me.

But age has nothing to do with this—whatever this is.

It’s the sensuality of his presence. His voice alone makes me shudder.

It’s like every time we’re together, he’s spent the days apart plotting how to break me open in the most delicious ways.

JR has entered the pores of my soul.

He’s seduced my spirit.

He’s imprinted himself on my body, my mind, my energy—and I can’t seem to untie him.

He’s a drug, and I’m not ashamed to take it.

The supply only lasts about twenty-four hours—but oh, what a high it gives me.

I think we both understand how intense this connection is. Maybe that’s why we only indulge in doses. We take what we need—when we can—and then go back to pretending we can function without it. Until the craving returns. And when it does, if our schedules align—we lose ourselves in each other without apology.

Because this isn’t just sex.

It’s intellectual.

It’s emotional.

It’s spiritual.

When we’re together, we strip away everything. Every mask. Every inhibition.

Our conversations are erotic in their depth—laced with innuendo, tension, and unspoken promises. Every word drips with intention.

I tell myself I can control it. That this thing between us is manageable.

But every time he calls, I lose the argument with my better self.

When I drink him in, I always crave more.

This addiction to JR—it’s dangerous.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.

I don’t even know if I want to.

Why would I?

He brings me joy. He makes me laugh.

With him, I’m calm. I’m alive.

I’m... me.

Who walks away from something that feeds your body, your heart, your soul?

Not me.

Not yet.

Final Thought | 🌹

I won’t apologize for wanting him. For needing him. For letting his presence be the place I exhale. This may be a borrowed high—but it’s one I’ll keep choosing, as long as it calls to me.

Scented Sheets | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A friend once told me about a night when silence filled the room.

Calmness. Deep thought. That quiet space where your mind runs faster than your heart can keep up.

She had gone to visit the man she loved — a man she understood deeply, maybe too deeply. While folding some clean sheets on his bed, her eyes caught the way they looked. Not like they usually did when he’d slept on them alone. Normally, there’d be one-sided creases, pillows stacked neatly on his side. But this time, both pillows had been used. And one of them… had marks. A scent.

Immediately, she said, her body reacted. She stayed calm, but inside, she was burning.

He was talking to her while she was lost in thought, trying to process what her eyes had just seen. She stopped folding and asked if she could change the sheets. She changed that pillowcase first—the one that betrayed her peace of mind. It carried a scent that wasn’t hers. And it wasn’t his either.

After that, her mood shifted. He noticed right away. He pulled her close, kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips—softly, deliberately. But she said nothing. She stayed silent. Because all she had was instinct. No proof. Maybe it was just his head that left the greasy imprint. Maybe it was nothing at all.

Still, there was an extra towel hanging on the rack. His t-shirt and shorts draped over the bed frame. A second pair of slippers in the bathroom… her mind couldn’t help but take notes.

But she refused to ruin their last night together before his trip. He’d be attending a series of conferences in Washington, and she wanted that night to be magical.

She told herself: when she’s there, it’s her. When she’s with him, it’s them. Nothing and no one else matters.

Because she knew who he was. And to her, he was hers.
They weren’t her. They’d never be her.
What they shared went beyond the physical—it was rhythm, connection, understanding. Whatever anyone else might give him, it wasn’t what she offered. And she wasn’t threatened.

Still, she was upset. She had always wondered how she’d react if she ever found something that made her question him. Now she knew—and she was proud of how she handled it.

“You know what I did?” she asked me, smiling faintly.
“I played him a song—‘I Stand Accused’ by Isaac Hayes. The same one he once played for me.”

While he showered, she sat on the couch, trying to process the storm inside her.

Later, they packed his luggage together. They talked about her work—he even helped her draft a closure letter for a client. He kept pulling her close, sensing something was off, but she didn’t fuss. She didn’t ask. She just stayed calm.

“It wasn’t acting,” she said. “It was choosing peace. I wanted to feel him, not fight him.”

Later, she gave him a massage. Her hands needed to remember him. He rolled a joint, said he’d smoke only if she joined him. So she did. Then she poured herself a Tanqueray with coconut water, took a slow sip, and let the gin soften the edges of her thoughts.

They made love—differently that night. She took charge. Kissed him with tongue and teeth, let her desire speak in movement and sound. He groaned, whispered that she was making him hard. It was slow, sensual, real—the kind of connection that quiets every doubt for a moment.

Afterward, they fell asleep tangled up in each other.
And when morning came, they talked like nothing had happened. She made tea for both of them. Quiet. Easy. Like peace after a storm that never really left.

She said she remembered that time vividly.

Because it taught her restraint. Strength. And how silence sometimes says more than words ever could.

Sometimes silence says everything we’re not brave enough to admit out loud.

Have you ever chosen silence—just to keep the peace, or to protect your heart?

Tell us about it below. 💭 

---

Jumping to Conclusions: The Ex, The Silence, and the Mind Movies I Can’t Stop Directing | By Roselyn A St. Claire

As I get older—perhaps I should say as I mature (though I still believe there’s a distinction between the two)—I’ve begun to recognize something important. Some people argue that age and maturity are separate concepts. It's possible to grow older without developing emotional maturity, and I've observed this in others. I've also experienced it myself. Anyway, what I do know is that I’m growing. And part of that growth means seeing how often what we perceive as reality is actually a carefully crafted story we tell ourselves—one shaped by past experiences, trauma, our upbringing, our values, and whatever silent wounds we haven’t yet faced.

It’s wild how the human mind works. We don’t just see—we interpret. We don’t just feel—we filter. And sometimes, that filtering is more harmful than helpful.

---

Reacting vs. Responding

One of the biggest lessons I’m still learning is the difference between reacting and responding.

Reacting happens right away—no space, no breath, no pause. You feel a thing, and you let it spill over. It’s raw. Emotional. Often impulsive.

Responding? That takes awareness. It’s that sacred beat between the trigger and the choice. It’s when you stop, think, maybe even pray, and then decide what your energy is going to do next.

And in my relationship with Mr. Bigs, this difference has become crystal clear.

---

The Toothbrush Incident(s)

Let’s take something as simple as a toothbrush. Yes—a damn toothbrush.

It’s happened twice now. The first time, I was away from him after our very first disagreement—something I take full accountability for. After two long weeks of what I’ll call “distance discipline,” I went back to his place… and my toothbrush was gone. It had always been in the bathroom cabinet above the sink, right next to his. But now? Poof. No trace.

I asked about it. He didn’t flinch—just gave me a new one.

That should’ve been sweet. But my mind started spiraling. Where is it? Who replaced it? Who stayed here while I was gone?

Then, it happened again. I had been away, and when I asked for my toothbrush, he went into his closet—not the bathroom—and handed me my familiar green one.

But when I opened the bathroom cabinet to grab toothpaste, I saw a yellow toothbrush… sitting beside his.

Now, here’s where growth showed up. I paused. Could it be an extra brush? Or was it… hers?

The imaginary lover my mind has designed—a version of his ex—who still lingers in the shadows of my insecurities. She’s not just any woman. She’s the woman. The one who had him before I did. The one who, in the back of my mind, might still be making herself available to him, slipping into places I can’t see.

I stood there brushing my teeth, brushing off the chaos in my head, wondering which story was true—his, mine, or neither.

---

The Office Drive-By

The next situation was less subtle.

It was a Saturday. I had just finished grocery shopping and happened to drive past his office. And there she was—his ex—pulling up to his building. No sign of his car, but hers was undeniable.

My stomach did a thing. My car did a U-turn. I passed by to catch one more look. She was just getting into her car and driving off.

What the hell was she doing there on a weekend? Was she hoping to catch him? Were they meeting?

And the irony of it all? I had once shown up at his place unexpectedly, too. The pot was calling the kettle black—but I was still boiling.

---

Truth, Slipped In Over Breakfast

Days passed. I sat with the questions, even planned how I might casually bring it up. But something told me—don’t. Not yet.

Then one morning, over coffee and casual conversation, Mr. Bigs dropped her name. No hesitation. No secrecy.

“She’s my Accountant & Auditor.”

That simple. Everything made sense. The way he once mentioned that she seemed to miss him… The meetings. The sightings. The vibe. It all had context now.

And instead of feeling relief, I felt… exposed. Silly. Ashamed.

---

When the Mind Makes Movies

That’s what happens when you live in the land of overthinking. You direct whole dramas based on half a glance, a missing item, or a slow reply.

I remembered the time I told him I’d drop something off at his office. He showed up at my place instead, almost too quickly. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But now… it plays differently in my mind.

Especially because she still hasn’t replied to the message I sent weeks ago. And that silence? It cuts deeper than I expected.

We weren’t strangers, she and I. Before I even knew about their history, we had our own intimate connection—light but undeniable. A few private moments, flirtations that blurred into more. Soft laughter tucked inside secrets, a kind of closeness that lingers on the skin. The kind of intimacy that makes silence feel heavier when it suddenly arrives.

But now? Nothing. Not a word. Not even a read receipt.

So I’m left wondering… Did he tell her about me? Or did she figure it out on her own? Maybe my name slipped out in conversation, the way hers once did over breakfast. Maybe she connected the dots and decided silence was safer than honesty.

Either way, something’s changed. And I can’t tell if it’s distance… or quiet disapproval.

---

But Then There’s… Us

Here’s the thing, though. When I’m with Mr. Bigs—when we’re just in our space—none of that matters. The questions fade. The insecurities dissolve. We laugh. We play. We connect. There’s a calm, magnetic, sensual rightness that silences the noise. No one else exists there—not without permission.

And maybe that’s what keeps me holding on… Even when the toothbrushes don’t add up. Even when drive-bys ignite doubt. Even when the silence feels louder than words.

Because those stolen, indescribable moments we share? They're real. They're ours. And in them, I feel found.

---

💭 Reflect With Me…
Do you jump to conclusions when your heart feels vulnerable?
Are you reacting… or responding?
Is your intuition whispering, or is your fear screaming?

We’re all just trying to trust what we feel without letting fear rewrite the script. But sometimes… it’s okay to pause and rewrite our own stories first.

When Love Looks Like Losing Yourself | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A Friend’s Reflection

I watched my friend become a shadow of herself.

She wasn’t always like this—there was a time she knew her worth.

But then he came along. Attached, but playing single. “Bound, but free,” he claimed, like that made it any better. And she believed it, like many do.

Believed his soft words, his sweet lies, the convenient honesty that only showed up when it served him.

She gave him the best of her—her time, her secrets, her body, her heart—and he gave her crumbs wrapped in romantic excuses.

She'd sit by the phone waiting for calls that came when his schedule allowed.

She dressed up for moments squeezed between obligation and deception.

She lit up when he arrived and dimmed each time he left.

It wasn’t just that he was attached. It was that she was convinced she was different. That somehow, she could love him into choosing her.

But what kind of man cheats on a partner, lies to a lover, and expects to be called a king?

I saw her wilt. I saw her apologize for wanting more.

I saw her silence her own voice so she wouldn't seem "too much."

She thought it was love. But love doesn’t come in halves. And it damn sure doesn’t come with guilt and secrecy.

The saddest part?

He never needed to be better—because she never made him.

And I wanted to shake her, but all I could do was stay close and pray she'd wake up one day and realize:

She wasn’t the problem because she loved him.

She was the problem because she forgot to love herself.

---

Have you ever watched someone you love give themselves to someone who didn’t deserve them?

How did it make you feel—and did they ever find their way back to themselves? Share your thoughts below.

The Lover Who Stays in My Skin | By Roselyn A. St Claire

"Wrapped in Him. Slow Mornings with the Lover I Can’t Get Enough Of"

Image by SoraAI

The April morning was just wonderful, especially when I woke up to kisses from my late-night lover. 💞

Mr. Digs had swung by to pick me up the night before, just after I got home from carpool duty—dropping off the kids and their friends to a sleepover. As I walked toward the truck, I noticed he was already seated in the passenger seat. That was his quiet way of saying, You’re driving tonight. I smiled. Typical Mr. Digs. 😉

The moment I got behind the wheel, I was in my safe space. That’s exactly what being with him feels like—safe, warm, familiar. Maybe it’s the years of life experience he has over me, or maybe it’s just his energy—intentional, mature, but still playfully unpredictable. 🛋️✨

We stopped for ice cream on the way home. 🍦 I’d mentioned a craving earlier, and he remembered. He suggested caramel and coffee—classic flavors with just enough edge to feel indulgent. Then came a spontaneous detour to the late-night bakery. 🍞 He picked up some bread, and I couldn’t resist asking for a currant roll.

That night, Monday faded into Tuesday with the quiet ease of people who know each other’s rhythm. 🕯️ We stayed mostly in bed, letting the night take its time. There wasn’t much chatter—just a peaceful vibe filled with long kisses, slow touches, soft caresses, and even softer laughter between spoons of ice cream.

There was licking, yes—and tasting, and the kind of closeness that isn’t measured by words but by breath and heartbeat. 💦 Eventually, he slowed down the tempo, pulled me into his arms, and we drifted off. I fell asleep to the gentle sound of his snore—one of those soft, rhythmic ones that feel more like background music than disruption. 😴

He’s asked me before if he only snores on his back, but I’ve learned it happens on his sides too. It doesn’t bother me. His snoring is the soft kind, nothing like the heavy bass-drum types that make you want to grab a pillow and muffle the noise. (We’ve all known that kind of snore.) 😅 His is more like an intermittent whisper, a reminder that he’s right there. 💗

We woke up on Tuesday morning still wrapped in each other. 🛏️ I didn’t have any early Zoom meetings, so we stayed in bed for a while, letting the birdsong outside lull us deeper into the moment. 🐦 At some point—neither of us really remembering who said it—we decided to get up. We made the bed together, something we often do. It’s quicker that way, but it also gives us a little shared ritual.

Usually, he tells me a story while we do it, but today, it was just quiet. I joked that he should work from home and let me be his very willing assistant. 💼😉

We made our way to the kitchen in search of breakfast. 🥭 On the menu: thick slices of ripe pawpaw and some juicy, bold-flavored mangoes that needed to be peeled with care. 🍽️ Coffee, of course, and flavored oatmeal—just a few of the simple pleasures we both enjoy.

After breakfast, we lingered in the morning haze, talking about the night before, smiling over little flashbacks. 🔁 I could tell he wasn’t quite ready to face the day—and I wasn’t ready to let him go either.

Eventually, he slipped away to give his assistant some updates on his schedule. I listened to the sound of his voice in the distance—measured, commanding, thoughtful. 📞 Then I joined him as he got ready. It’s become our thing: I help him select his outfit for the day, right down to the socks. 🧦 He’s a quiet perfectionist, the kind who makes everything seem effortless even when it’s calculated. I love that about him.

Last Friday, I managed to convince him to go casual—his first attempt at Casual Friday. 👔➡️👖 He resisted at first (“Casual? Ew.”), But with a little coaxing and a lot of charm, he found the perfect linen and khaki combo. He sent me a photo from a lunch meeting later. He looked absolutely delicious. 📸🔥

Then there are the small, quiet things—like how he hums in the shower. 🚿🎶 He didn’t even realize he did it until I told him. But it makes sense. That’s his peace space, his daily ritual. I love watching him after he showers: the way he carefully dries off, the order in which he applies his lotion and cologne. Everything about him smells divine. 🌿🧴 I get high off his scent—clean skin, subtle spice, something earthy that stays on my clothes and in my memory.

By the time he was fully dressed and almost ready to head out, I was already daydreaming. My body was still in the kitchen, but my mind was wrapped in moments from the night before, replaying the way he touched me, kissed me, held me. 🌀

He may have been talking to me, but I couldn’t hear a word—just the thrum of my own desire, that quiet ache that comes from wanting someone who makes you feel so damn alive. 💘

Call me biased. I’ve had a crush on this man for what feels like forever. But when I’m with him, everything slows down in the best way. Time stretches. Words melt. And I’m reminded again and again: this right here—his presence, his energy, his intimacy—is something I want more of. 🔥💫

---

The Day She Took Control — A Memory He'll Never Forget | Edited by: Roselyn A. St Claire.

After years of marriage, I’d sometimes catch myself asking if what we had was real love or just a contract we both signed under pressure. We had a home, some stability, and a rhythm—but the sex had always been flat, almost obligatory. And in the back of my mind lingered an old doubt: she hadn’t been faithful when we met, so had she ever really been mine?

Funny thing is, our paths always seemed to cross. Jogging track. Supermarket aisle. Even near my workplace. Like the universe was determined to keep us bound together. Eventually, marriage just… happened. Not from fireworks, but from a checklist. She wanted boxes ticked; I provided the pen. But my heart never stopped scanning the exits.

And at work? Flirtation lived in the air. Nothing serious—until her.

She wasn’t much younger, but she carried herself with a kind of quiet fire. The way her eyes lingered. The way her hips moved when she walked past my desk. I’d glance, she’d catch me, and instead of being offended, she’d tease:
“You like what you see?”
“Hell yes,” I’d shoot back.

That was our rhythm for months—playful, harmless, or so I told myself. Until the day she asked if I was heading to lunch.

We strolled, browsed shop windows, and landed at a small restaurant. She laughed when she realized she hadn’t brought cash. I waved it off, told her I had it covered. The smile she gave me—part gratitude, part invitation—stuck with me long after.

Weeks later, she called on my day off. No agenda. Just: “Wanna hang out?” I said yes without thinking.

When I opened the door to her, something shifted. She was in a cropped workout top and skin-tight leggings that left little to imagination. Still, sex wasn’t on my mind. Not at first. But when she lay across the small bed in my office, biting her lip, I knew.

The kiss started slow, almost cautious. Then deeper, hungrier. My hands slid beneath her shirt, fingers brushing nipples already taut. Her bra was flimsy—gone in a heartbeat. She moaned when I sucked her breasts, and for the first time in years, I felt alive in someone’s touch.

Her tights fought me like armor, but I peeled them away, kissed her soft mound, and breathed her in. Her legs fell open like she’d been waiting all day. I went down on her, slow, steady, tasting every tremor as she came against my tongue. Twice, maybe three times.

Then she surprised me—pushing me back, eyes locked. “My turn.”

She freed me from my belt and wrapped her lips around me, deliberate and unhurried until my body begged for release. I reminded her I had no protection. She shrugged: “Bareback. I’m good.”

Her confidence lit a fuse in me.

When I slid into her, it wasn’t just sex. It was escape. Tight, warm, wet—her body welcomed mine like it had been waiting forever. She moved with me, not under me. Matched my thrusts. Claimed me with her moans.

When I warned her I was close, she pulled me deeper, whispering: “Finish inside me. I already took care of it.” Plan B, she explained. Hours ago. Like she’d known where this was heading.

I came harder than I had in years, buried in her, shaking, undone. She didn’t stop—flipped me, rode me with intent, placed her breasts in my mouth, and came with a cry that left us both collapsed and laughing in the silence after.

We showered together, steam and soft jokes filling the space. It wasn’t our last time, but it was the one that branded itself on me.

After that, things blurred. Skirted Sundays at work turned into stolen oral sessions in quiet corners. One wild afternoon, we drove to Jabberwock Beach, fogging up the car with our sweat and nerves.

She always led. I followed into something reckless, intoxicating, and too good to deny.

Even now, years later, if I close my eyes, I can still taste her. Still feel the shift in that moment—the line between loyalty and desire snapping in two.

---

Original Story by Herman Kingsley

Part Two: Behind the Curtain | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

Part Two: The Exam Room and Everything After

By late morning, I learned why the day was dragging—two nurses and two doctors had called in sick. No wonder the wait was endless. Nearly five hours after I arrived, I finally heard my name.

When they said, “Rose St. Claire,” I had just enough energy to unplug my charger, toss my things in my handbag, and shuffle to one of the few private rooms near the nurses’ station.

A few minutes later, a bearded man in glasses walked in. Let’s call him Dr. Ben. He listened closely as I described my symptoms. When I mentioned the urine test, he smiled gently:
“No, Ms. St. Claire, you’re not pregnant.”

I exhaled hard. Thank God. The thought of another ectopic ordeal was more than I could bear.

With pregnancy ruled out, we still needed answers. I described the pain in my lower abdomen wrapping to my lower back on the left side. He asked about fever, blood in stool or urine, vomiting—none applied. He decided to do a vaginal exam and went to get a nurse.

He handed me a gown and a blue pad (yes, those ones that look suspiciously like old-school cloth diapers). I climbed onto the exam bed, removed my underwear, and waited.

They returned. The nurse stood silently while Dr. Ben used a plastic speculum—thank goodness the heavy metal ones are retired. He followed with a finger test and, based on my discomfort, ordered an ultrasound.

Dr. Ben wrote the referral and personally escorted me to radiology, even stopping by to brief the technician. I was told to drink fluids, so I downed the rest of my juice and waited.

The Cuban technician from Guantánamo greeted me warmly, and we traded a few words in Spanish. She took her time—over twenty-five images from every angle. As I left, I spotted the printouts laid out like Polaroids. She said the doctor would get the results and sent me back to the ER.

A nurse came to draw blood—“Perfect veins,” she said, prepping like she might start a drip. Then another nurse approached with a second needle. I held up my arm, tubing still in place. “Nah,” she said, “this one’s for your thigh.”

Excuse me? Apparently, the first needle was too thick for my arm. I braced myself and took it like a big girl.

Back in the ER, I waited as results trickled in. Around me, chaos continued—an army vet accused staff of racial bias, others complained about being skipped. A mini staff meeting was underway too; judging by the tone, not everyone had been pulling their weight.

Finally, Dr. Ben returned: fibroids and ovarian cysts. That explained the pain. It could have been other things, but we’d ruled those out.

By 4:30 p.m., I was discharged—tape and tubing removed, prescription in hand. It took another stretch to get through the cashier and pharmacy, but by the time I had my meds, the relief outweighed the frustration.

Cost? Five US dollars.

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Final Thoughts

Ladies, get your physicals. Don’t ignore unexplained pain. Fibroids and cysts are more common than we think, and they don’t always shout for attention. Advocate for yourself. Ask questions. And when your body speaks—listen.

It might just save you… even if it means an eight-hour shift in triage.

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Part One: Triage and Truths | By Roselyn A. St Claire

If you’ve ever sat in a hospital waiting room for hours, you know the feeling—time slows, patience thins, and you start bargaining with yourself: If they call my name in the next ten minutes, I swear I’ll stop complaining.

That was me on a Monday morning at the University of St. Bart’s Medical Centre.

Before I even left home, I’d asked my Google Assistant, “What does the word triage mean?”
He replied: “Triage is the process of prioritizing patients based on the severity of their condition, especially in hospital emergency rooms.”
Thanks, Gemini AI. Foreshadowing much?

It had been years since I last set foot here—back when it was MSBMC. I debated following local wisdom: Get there early to beat the rush. But in St. Bart’s, with one main hospital, there’s never a “good” time to go.

Still, I made it by 8:30 a.m.

For most working-class folks, the hospital is the only option. Private doctors start at USD 75, and depending on the name on the door, that number climbs fast.

When I arrived, the waiting area was nearly full. I gave my name, number, and date of birth. Standard stuff. Then I sat, watching the room fill with coughing, sighing, and silent patience.

Around 9:30, I heard my name. Finally, I thought. Silly me—it was just triage. A nurse in blue scrubs took my blood pressure, asked a few questions, then handed me a plastic cup for a urine sample. I followed instructions, returned it, and went back to my seat.

By 12:36 p.m., I’d finished a book, eaten my snacks, charged my phone behind my seat, and quietly observed the slow build of frustration. Some people had been there since 4 a.m. The cursing started. I thought, WTF. When will I get seen? I have rehearsals later. That’s when I started writing this.

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The Waiting Room: A Character of Its Own

If you’ve never experienced a Caribbean hospital waiting room, picture this: strangers becoming comrades in discomfort, united by boredom, pain, and impatience.

I kept to myself. The man next to me sipped hot tea. We shared hours of silence. He tried conversation once or twice, but my body was speaking a language I didn’t understand.

Triage isn’t a straight line—it’s a living puzzle. Someone with chest pains goes before someone with a sore toe. One man, furious, announced he’d been there since 7 a.m., his leg too swollen to fit in a shoe. He hadn’t seen the seven ambulances arrive while we were waiting.

He ranted about his army and police service, his taxes, and how he “deserved better.” And maybe he did. Maybe we all do. But triage doesn’t care about résumés—it cares about urgency.

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By 1:58 p.m., I was finally called.

Dr. Ben—a soft-spoken, bearded gentleman with streaks of grey—handled my case. Questions, observations, and a physical exam. My urine test came back negative. No pregnancy—thank God.

Then came the vaginal exam and finger test. Professional, thorough… and never my favorite. That’s when I remembered what my gynecologist had once mentioned: small fibroids. Now, they seemed to have company—possible ovarian cysts.

The ultrasound that followed was the longest I’ve ever had. But thorough. And for that, I was grateful.

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Educating the Public

The issue isn’t always staff not caring—it’s that patients don’t understand how care is prioritized.

Yes, you’re in pain. But so is the person next to you. And the man in the ambulance. And the woman delivering her baby.

Behind the curtain, nurses and doctors juggle nonstop decisions—who to see first, which tests can wait, which results are urgent. They’re under immense pressure. And they’re human.

What if we Googled “triage” before we complained? What if we asked a nurse to explain the system? What if we noticed the twelve-hour shifts they endure?

Today, all I could do was wait, watch, and wonder:
How many patients were treated? How many left unseen? How many, like me, learned that fibroids and cysts can creep up quietly?

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Coming Next: Part Two – The Exam Room and Everything After

I thought the hardest part was the waiting. But behind a closed door in a quiet exam room, I learned the real journey was just beginning. From unexpected tests to quiet revelations, Part Two dives into what happened after they finally called my name.

Because sometimes, the answers we don’t expect… are the ones our bodies have been whispering all along.

|| Red Flags & My Silent Heartbreak || By Roselyn A. St. Claire

🚩 You know how sometimes, after the fact, you wish you had a clear list — a handbook of what not to do?
Like a warning label across someone’s chest that says:
Here are my absolute red flags — cross at your own risk.

Well… I crossed the line.

We never sat down and listed our deal-breakers. We should have. Because what felt like a sweet, innocent gesture on my part — showing up unannounced — turned out to be one of his top three sins.

Let me list them now, for the record:

• Arriving without notice

• Revealing personal matters publicly

• Taking items without permission.

🌙 That evening, I committed one of the crimes 

I was missing him. Long day. Quiet house. Full heart.
So I did something I’d never done before:
I drove over to his house — no text, no warning. Just me, showing up.

The irony? I hate it when people do that. I’ve literally ignored people honking outside my door. But this time, I was the one acting on impulse.

And it didn’t land well.

🔇 The Morning After: Silence, Stories, and Subtle Withdrawal

Despite his disappointment, he never raised his voice. He didn’t scold me. But he told me stories.
Stories with an edge.

About a man who once showed up at his gate. He fired a warning shot from his porch steps.

About a woman whom he briefly dated who stole money. He didn’t confront her. He just cut ties.

The mood as he told me these stories? Cold. Unfiltered. Purposeful.

They weren’t just stories. They were cautionary tales.

💔 And Then… He Pulled Away

The next few days were hollow.

No warmth. No laughter. Just polite replies and dry calls.
He had pulled back. And I felt it in my bones.

He traveled the following week to Las Vegas for an IT conference.
We didn’t speak before he left. No goodbye. No "see you soon."
I tried not to panic. But inside? I was spiraling.

Was this how it ended?

📞 The Call That Made Me Breathe Again

After he returned, a few days passed. Then... he called.

His voice.
That calm, thoughtful voice I’d missed so much.

And just like that, my heart exhaled.

He missed me. He needed space to reset. We had moved fast — the chemistry had been intense. He had to step back, reorganize his thoughts, his heart.

And I understood.

❤️ Final Thoughts: His anger wasn’t loud — It Was Quiet
Silent pain. Emotional withdrawal. Reflection.

This was our first lovers' spat — and it wasn’t about raised voices. It was about boundaries. About recognizing what matters to someone else. About unspoken rules that, once broken, can shake a fragile connection.

But we’re still here.
He came back. And that matters more than anything else.

I missed him.
And he missed me, too.

J'ouvert.... in Plain Sight | Retold By Roselyn A. St Claire

She told the story like someone unwrapping a keepsake—slow, smiling at the memory before the words even formed.

“We weren’t together,” she began, swirling the ice in her glass. “But for those few hours, it felt like the road only existed for the two of us…”

I didn’t arrive with him.
But I knew he’d be there.

He’d mentioned a few days before: ‘I’m playing with your band this year.’
And just like that, J’ouvert promised more than the usual powder, paint, friends, rum, music. This year, it had him.

I saw him before he noticed me—posted up near the speaker truck, bass thumping through his chest. I walked right up behind him, gave his left ass cheek a quick squeeze, caught his eyes, smirked, and kept walking like it never happened.

He smiled.
That quiet, caught-off-guard smile that said, So this is how we’re starting the morning?

From there, we floated in and out of each other’s space. We weren’t glued together—that’s not how we move. I stayed with my crew, flinging powder, laughing loud, waistline on autopilot. But I kept him in sight. Like a compass. Or a secret I didn’t want the crowd to swallow.

Once or twice, from across the paint-slicked madness, I flung him kisses.
He caught them all.

When we finally crossed paths again, he asked, “You good dancing with me?”
I grinned. “Only if you’re good being seen dancing with me.”

It was never vulgar. It didn’t need to be.
It was sweet.
Intentional.
The way he held me felt like something promised between beats.
He didn’t pull. He followed.
He didn’t lead. He listened.

We swayed in rhythm—not just to the music, but to each other.
He stayed near the speakers—where the bass rattled deep in your chest—and I stayed with him. Pressed close. Moving slow.

Sometimes I drifted off into the chaos. Sometimes he did. But it was all part of the game. Being close enough to feel each other’s heat, just far enough to keep it ours.

He danced with others. Took photos. I did the same.
But every time we found each other again, it felt like a soft return.

The most intimate moments didn’t shout.
They lingered.

No labels. No hiding.
Just two people playing in plain sight—
Sensual. Untouchable.
And, somehow, perfectly ours.

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