by Mimi Strong
On Friday night, Steph invited me to go clubbing. I couldn't think of an excuse, so she and a couple of our other girlfriends came over to my place to get glammed-up and have starter drinks.
Our friend Kat was back in town, and she was smoking again, despite being paranoid about getting those vertical smoker lines around her mouth.
She stood directly under the fan in my bathroom, blowing smoke straight up, which in her opinion, was better than smoking on my patio with the door open, because “the smoke just drifts back in again, and this way it's gone, see?”
I applied liquid eyeliner to our other friend, Marnie, and tried not to argue with Kat. My house was made of glass, anyway. I'd also smoked for a few years, because it was such a convenient way for me to punish myself for not being more loveable, second only to an eating disorder, of course. I'd only dabbled in the latter for a few months, and then I'd met Steph, and we started kissing boys at parties, and I didn't want to have vomit-breath.
“Ow,” Marnie said in regard to my eyeliner-application.
“Sorry. My mind was wandering.”
She pushed my hand and turned to admire herself in the mirror.
Steph crowded her way into the mirror and got the four of us to pose for some photos.
“We look hot,” Kat said, giving herself a sexy look through her fringe of blue-black hair.
Marnie giggled. “We should have our own show.”
Kat said, “Marnie, you need to change that shirt. It makes me feel sad. You are making the whole group look five percent less attractive.”
Marnie rolled her eyes. “But it's comfortable. And it's on my body, not yours, Kant.”
We all giggled at the addition of the letter n to Kat's name. It was a juvenile thing to make her name sound like the c-word, but Kat seemed to enjoy it more and more each time. She took pride in being a c-word the way some people take pride in having a fancy car.
“Marnie, there's a reason Kat is putting pressure on you,” I said as we squeezed out of the bathroom. “There've been studies that a person's attractiveness goes up or down based on the attractiveness of the group they're in.”
“Huh?” she said. “In English?”
“You might think that being next to schlubby people makes you look hotter, but … if it's perceived the schlubby people are your friends, then you take on a score closer to the average of the group.”
“That's mean,” she said.
“Science is mean.” I put my arm around her. “So's Kat. You're a cutie, and I adore you, but this sweatshirt screams cat-lady. You're going to pussy-block us at the club if you wear it.”
We gathered together again in my kitchen, where we ran the blender to make another round of party beverages.
“Feather, you're full of shit,” Marnie said.
I shrugged. “Fine, don't believe it.”
(See, this is what I mean when I say clients value your advice because they're paying for it. I've never given a scientific fact to a client and had them tell me I'm full of shit.)
We got to the bar and ordered another round immediately so we didn't lose our buzz and start to complain about our ridiculous shoes being uncomfortable. Once the feet go, the evening is shot.
Marnie wore something from my closet, and the tight dress had transformed her. Even her posture was better, and she was showing off her moves on the dance floor. Marnie was enjoying was the kind of costume-effect you can only get from borrowed clothes.
Over the course of the evening, a few guys came over and chatted me up.
The first was drunk and strangely angry at my hair, saying it was too “yellow and straight” to be real.
The second guy smelled like the heavy mint air freshener they put in concrete stairwells to mask much worse things.
The third was really cute, well-dressed, and leaned in to ask me to kiss him so that—wait for it—his friends would think he was straight. I grabbed his red necktie and pulled him in close.
“How often does that line work?” I asked.
He grinned. “You'd be surprised.”
“What happens next?” I asked. “The kiss turns into a longer kiss, and then a little groping in a dark corner?”
He put his palm against the wall behind me and leaned in. “Maybe.”
“And then they take you home with them and try to cure you of your gayness?”
He grinned. “All's fair in love and war.”
I whipped my phone out and snapped a picture of his face before tucking the phone away again.
“All's fair in love and war? What you're describing isn't love,” I said. “It's war. And you should be ashamed of yourself. A lot of people in this world go around feeling shame over things that aren't that bad, but a man who lies to trick women into bed? I hope your dick falls off.”
He called me the exact word you'd expect in this kind of a situation, and took off with his tail between his legs.
Not long after this, the other girls wanted to go to another bar up the street, but I fibbed and said I had a client meeting in the morning, and needed to go home and sleep. The truth was, between Mr. Angry, Mr. Stinky, and Mr. Scammy, I'd decided to be single forever.
Outside the club, Steph gave me a big hug.
“Want some cab money?” She squeezed me tight.
“I've got change for the bus. I'll be fine.”
“I love you, girl,” she said.
I pulled back and laughed. “I love you, too,” I said, then I put my hand over her mouth and pretended to make out with her, which made Kat and Marnie laugh until Marnie was in danger of peeing her pants.
Once on the bus, I sat quietly and read all the advertising posted along the ceiling: debt consolidation loans, depression counselors, unplanned pregnancy help, and cheerful ads for junk food as “fuel.”
And the city wonders why more people don't take public transit.
Before my next Tuesday night session with Devin, I paced the apartment like a cartoon character in suspense.
I lit some candles, then decided that was too romantic and blew them out. I changed outfits. Then I re-lit the candles. This cycle repeated so many times, I was out of matches by the time Devin buzzed the intercom, and I was in the midst of re-lighting my candles from the gas stove.
As he walked in, he said, “Are you cooking something?”
“Ha! I don't cook! Ha ha!” Wait, that's not something you should admit to a guy. “Just kidding, I totally cook. I cook all the time.”
He took off his shoes and tilted his head to the side quizzically.
“That's a lie.” I hung my head. “I don't cook. When I buy pancake mix, I buy the kind you just add water to, not the fancy stuff that needs eggs and milk.”
He smirked.
I shook my head. “They're terrible pancakes. I don't know what they put in them so you just add water, but it can't be good for you.”
“Are you hungry? We could go out instead of staying in.”
“Is that what you want? Are you hungry?”
“No.”
We stared at each other for a moment, then he crossed into the seating area and sat on the red sofa, where he looked relaxed and comfortable.
I sat in the chair, with a pen and notepad on my lap.
“We should re-visit our goals,” I said. “At what point would you consider our work to be finished?”
“Do you not want to see me anymore?”
“Devin, I need to apologize for what happened last week. For two things, actually. I shouldn't have gone for lunch with you, and … last week I … Devin, I'm sorry I touched you inappropriately.”
“I didn't mind.” He smiled, looking angelic, and so damn handsome.
“But stepping inside your personal boundaries is not healthy for me.”
Now he looked sad. “Feather, didn't we talk about this? We were kissing, and the rest was just a blur for me. I guess there were some hands roaming around, but it was mutual.” He frowned at the polished concrete floor. “I'm so stupid. I shouldn't h
ave brought you those flowers that day. That was weird. I wouldn't have brought flowers over if you were a man.”
“I don't think you would have come to a man for ...” I fidgeted with my pen. “Are you bisexual?”
“God, no. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I like girls.” He flashed me a shy grin. “As you may have noticed.”
When I grabbed his gear shifter. Yes, I had noticed.
“Okay, so our work. The coaching.” I tapped on my notepad. “You seem to be over your fear of kissing, so I think today might be our last session for a while.” I looked up just long enough to see he wasn't disagreeing, then I blinked down at my notes and went into my speech. I'd given this speech a number of times over the previous year, letting clients know that even the end isn't really the end, because they still had two check-in phone calls for no extra charge. I told Devin, as I'd told a number of people, that he could call me in a few months' time, and if he had need of more coaching, we could set up an appointment down the road.
He was nodding, taking it all in.
“Let's not cut into today's session too much with this housekeeping,” I said, smiling my professional-life-coach-definitely-not-a-dick-grabber smile. “For today's work, I thought we could go down to the sidewalk and try a kiss in public, with people around. Does that bother you?”
He gave me a suspicious look.
You heard me right, I thought. Kissing on the sidewalk, where I won't be trying to make hotdogs using my hands for buns.
He said, “Can we warm up inside first?”
I pressed my lips together, annoyed by how reasonable he was being.
“Sure. Let's go to the door and pretend you've just arrived. You can kiss me hello.”
We both got up and went to the door. He didn't put his shoes on, but he did go out into the hallway and knock on the door.
I opened the door. “Hello!”
“I brought you flowers.” He stretched out and empty hand.
“You shouldn't have!” I leaned in for a kiss.
His lips landed near mine, but on my chin.
“Hang on, let me try again,” he said.
Back out the door he went, and in the pause I was alone, I noticed my heart was pounding.
He knocked, and we repeated the exchange.
For the kiss, he kept his eyes open until the last second, and this time we connected successfully on the lips. A funny thought occurred to me: The Mars Rover has landed!
He lingered, not moving. I could feel his breath coming out of his nostrils and onto my upper lip. His skin had a scent, like my own skin after a little sun.
As we kissed, I put my hands between us, one on his chest, over his heart, and one on mine.
His breathing was deep and calm, and his heart wasn't beating nearly as rapidly as mine.
I pulled away and asked, “How are you feeling? Numeric value?”
He blinked. “A ten—as in, that kiss was a ten. But I'm fine, maybe a two? I'm a little nervous, but I think it's just the regular amount of nerves.”
“Are you taking any new medication?”
“Nope.” He looked around the apartment. “Hey, pretend it's my first time here and give me a tour.”
I didn't like him calling the shots, so I hesitated, as though considering, then agreed.
“This is the kitchen,” I said, waving my arms dramatically.
“I see you have the new, fat-free bananas.”
I snorted. “What?”
He picked up the bunch of bananas on the counter and pointed to the blue and yellow sticker that read “Peel Me – I'm Fat Free!”
“Crazy,” I said.
“Do you think it's genetic engineering? How did they get the fat out? Are the bananas still tasty?”
I grinned. “Bananas are naturally fat-free.”
He smelled the bananas and made an mmm sound.
“Uh, you can have one if you want,” I said.
Instead of answering, he put the bananas down, walked up to me, tilted his head to the right like a pro, and kissed me. Now his hands were on my hips, and he pressed into me with his whole body. To say this was pleasant would be an understatement.
Since he didn't seem scared, I kissed him back, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and keeping his face near mine.
For someone with no experience, he was a great kisser. He seemed to be following his instincts, and his instincts were good. He kept putting his hands exactly where they'd turn me on, pressing his body against mine until I was backed up against the kitchen counter with nowhere to go. I stood still as his warm body pressed against mine, the unmistakable shifting of something growing inside his jeans.
My naughty hands tried to grab for his package, but I moved them around to his butt.
As I grabbed his sweet, firm ass and pulled him in closer to me, I realized that the butt-grabbing was probably just as naughty. My pulse pounded between my legs, and I wanted him so bad. Now I was breathing heavily, sucking on his lips and tongue.
He pulled away and raised his eyebrows. “You're right,” he said. “I think maybe you have fixed me.”
I caught my breath and looked for somewhere to go, to escape. Without thinking, I stepped on the bottom rung of the spiral staircase and raced up to the sleeping loft.
His feet clanged on the metal as he came up right behind me.
“Good idea,” he said. “Let's continue the tour.”
“And this is where I sleep,” I said, ducking my head and trying to dodge past him and back down the stairs. “Now I'll show you the bathroom, and the closet where I keep the vacuum cleaner.”
Devin caught me with one arm and pulled me toward him.
His voice husky, he looked down at me with those chocolate-brown eyes and said, “Not yet.”
And then he kissed me.
I stepped backward slowly, perhaps trying to get away, or perhaps leading him to my bed.
The backs of my calves struck the low mattress and I fell back. Devin let out a panicked sound and fell down on top of me.
Both of us laughed and rolled to our sides to face each other, then we stopped laughing.
His face was serious.
He reached over and tugged at the hem of my shirt. I held my arms over my head and wiggled to help him pull the shirt off.
His eyes were glossy, his expression still serious, and he kissed the tops of my breasts, above my black lace bra. I reached for the clasp, which was at the front, and slipped the bra off. The apartment was always warm during the summer, and the upper loft area was the warmest zone, yet my nipples were firm.
Devin leaned over me, his breathing audible, and he traced the tip of his tongue around one nipple. I sighed and closed my eyes as his touch sent an electric current through my body, straight to my most intimate area. I hadn't been with a guy in a very long time, and I'd never been with someone as wonderful as Devin. I'd never wanted someone like this. It was almost unbearable.
He sucked on my nipple as he fondled my breast, and I sighed with pleasure.
From that point, the awkwardness disappeared, and we were simply two people, doing what came naturally.
I lifted off his shirt, so he'd be topless as well, and pulled him to me, enjoying the first flesh-to-flesh body contact. He was between skinny and muscular, and I could feel his ribs on mine, his body hard next to my softness.
We kissed some more, him still wearing his jeans and me in my shorts, and he pushed his hips into mine, his long hardness on my lower stomach. There was heat in my belly, fire.
I reached between us, to his jeans, and frantically undid the top button.
He pulled back from me, but he didn't run away this time. He finished unzipping his jeans and pushed them down and off, then kicked off his socks.
He wore only his boxers, and when he lay back down beside me, he picked up my hand and moved it to his hardness. My fingers traced the outline of his cock through his boxers, and then, when he pushed harder against my hand, I slipped my hand u
p and then down the waistband of the boxers.
He gasped as I grabbed his cock with my bare palm, skin on skin. The head was slick with his beads of pre-come, and my hand slipped up and down.
Then he was unfastening my shorts and pushing them down.
And then my panties.
As I stroked his hard member, running my fingertips over the head and then up and down the sides, he explored me with his free hand, both of us still on our sides facing each other.
He started high, on my stomach, and moved his hand slowly down, over my tuft of pubic hair, and then into my intimate crease. He found the wetness, and he fumbled around like a guy who was aware of the area, and knew the basics, but had no practice.
I patiently waited until he ran his finger over my clit—possibly by accident—and I moaned into his lips as he kissed me.
He took the hint and relocated his efforts, sending so much pleasure through my body in waves that my own hand stopped moving, but he didn't seem to mind.
I felt the welcoming tingles of an orgasm approaching, but I didn't want it like this, not with his fingers—not unless that was what he wanted.
I pulled away, making him look concerned. I opened the bottom drawer of the tiny nightstand and grabbed the never-opened box of condoms I'd bought ages ago, on a whim.
“It's up to you,” I said.
He tipped his head to the side, his expression questioning.
“Oh, it's all on me, is it?”
“I'd like to have sex with you,” I said. “But only if you're ready.”
In answer, he took the box from my hands.
He turned around and worked on the packaging, his back to me, then he slipped off his boxers and hunched over.
I did that awkward one-minute wriggle, where you roll from side to side on your back, trying not to freak out about what's going to happen or not happen.
“Got it,” he said proudly, then he turned around and crawled toward me, all wrapped and ready to go.
