“I meant, like,” I continue, struggling to get the words out, “when you tell me what you’re feeling on more of an… emotional level.” Phew! Got it out. It was awkward. I just couldn’t think of any more subtle way to put it.
“Well, I feel happy around you.” That’s a little closer.
“Yeah? Is that all?”
“That’s not enough for you?” he teases with his usual chuckle. I blush and lower my head.
“Sorry,” I say shyly.
Maybe I should just come right out and ask him how committed to me he is? Then again, I don’t want to seem pushy or put any kind of pressure on him that might make him run away or freak out or think I’m getting “too serious”. I want so badly to tell him that I just need to know that he’s really committed to me. But it’s tricky and I’m scared to lose him if he’s not there yet.
Maybe if I make myself vulnerable first, he’ll know that he has the go ahead to tell me he loves me, and that I won’t reject him when he does. Here goes…
“I just meant, like, what level of happiness are your feelings at? I mean, for example, my feelings for you are pretty strong, you know?” Even though it’s true, I still feel a little embarrassed having said it. He smiles sweetly.
Then, he takes my cue and kisses me tenderly. No!!!! Kisses don’t tell me anything. They just tell me you want to sleep with me, which I already know! I need words or clear signs to sleep with you! I need to hear that you love me. Oh man, that feels good. I could do this all night. And before we know it, he is laying on top of me on the dirt ground, rubbing and gyrating, and making me lose my mind a little bit.
“There’s no one around,” he says, “we could make love under the night sky. I can’t think of a more romantic first time.” Neither can I. I’ve gotta get out of here.
I force myself to yawn.
“I’m so tired. I’m gonna go rest up for tomorrow’s hike back,” is my escape. I get up, and he looks severely rejected. I hate doing this to him, but all he has to do is give me three little words, and I will turn around and fuck him right in front of that coyote over there.
“Ahhh! A coyote!” I scream, realizing that it’s no joke. I run into the tent. John sees it and screams, following on my heels.
We quickly zip up the tent and burst out laughing, as we shush each other to avoid attracting the coyote any closer.
“Why did we think this whole backpacking thing was a good idea,” I laugh, finally getting an opportunity to speak my truth.
“I screamed like a little girl,” he says, also still cracking up. “Did you hear that?”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”
We giggle together like third graders at a slumber party. I get into my sleeping bag and zip it all the way up over my head.
“I’m gonna hide in here, you need to stand guard and protect me.”
“What if I wanna hide, too?” he retorts, still laughing.
“Then I guess we’ll both hide, and one of us will find out we don’t taste very good, when we wake up in the morning to find the other one eaten.” We both giggle.
“I should be fine then,” John says, “you smell way better than I do. I’m sure he’ll eat you first.”
“Too bad for you, survivor’s guilt is a fate worse than death.” We laugh, before I warn, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.” Hopefully he will actually give this some thought, leading him to the realization that he loves me and his life would be awful without me.
But he’s still thinking about the coyote, “Hopefully that fire will keep him away. I’ll get up in a bit to put it out so we don’t burn down the whole mountain.”
“Yeah, let’s not do that. That would be embarrassing.” We giggle some more.
Finally, we calm down, and I try to sleep, but that whole coyote thing has got my adrenaline pumping. And John’s warm body next to mine isn’t gonna help me sleep either.
~
In the morning, John spoons me, again cupping my breasts with one hand, while the other holds firmly onto my butt cheek. Mornings are vulnerable times for me. I’m half out of it, and cuddling feels extra super-duper good—especially the part where his hands gently pulsate around my butt and boobs. I accidentally respond physically, by shoving my body parts a little harder into his hands. Turns out, he’s not sleeping. He allows his hands to move a little more. Slowly rubbing in circles and squeezing softly with his fingers. I’m not thinking right now, I’m just feeling. I’m not even alert enough to be sure if this is a dream or reality.
He runs his hands from my butt down my leg, and on the way back, he runs it up the inside of my thigh, just missing his final destination. He repeats this caress a few more times, each time getting closer and closer, teasing me until I find my body trying to meet him half way. Oh God, I just gave him the signal. That’s as good as the go ahead.
On the next pass, he gently touches me, almost tickling my nether regions. I hope he didn’t notice the moisture down there.
He did. He decides to go inspect the situation further, slipping his fingers into my panties. At first he just caresses my pubic area, teasing me. I want him so badly, please tell me this is a dream and I don’t have to stop him because he doesn’t even know of the things we’re doing exclusively in my mind.
Soon, his fingers find their way inside of me, and I open my eyes to see that it’s not a dream. This is the furthest we’ve ever gone (on this cycle), and I have to regain my wits about me and stop him before I give in and he disappears from my life all over again.
Lucky for me, a man’s fingers don’t have the same effect on me as his tongue. Sometimes they even hurt a little. This is in part because most men don’t know how to use them, but also because their hands are often dirty, and the vagina is a delicate balance of flora, which can easily be disrupted by unwanted strains of the wrong kinds of bacteria, like the kind found under a man’s fingernails after he’s been living in the dirt and playing with ashes and soot for two days.
“Wait, stop,” I finally muster the will power to say. “Your hands are too dirty. Can we pick this up after we’ve had a shower?” I turn to look at him. He’s bummed out.
“I want you now,” he whispers, trying to be sweetly seductive, and even adding a gentle kiss on the nose.
“I know, and I want you, too.” It’s not even a lie. “But I’m not quite ready yet.”
He sighs, “I’m just getting worried that we’re waiting so long, you know, I’m getting more and more attached to you, and what if—Are we ever gonna do it?”
He’s getting more and more attached to me? Well that’s good news!
“Of course we will,” I reassure him, “and the more attached we are, the more special it will be.”
“I know. You’re right. I’m just getting impatient.” Awww. That’s a nice way to put it. I really do feel compassion for him. I mean, if he’s struggling with waiting half as much as I am, he’s in serious blue-ball land, so if it’s any more than that, he’s probably on the verge of accidentally killing a patient on the operating table from the sex-deprived shakes he’s most likely getting.
But maybe this is it? Maybe that was his way of letting me know that he is really into me. Should I just do it with him now?
“Let’s pack up and get going back to the car,” he says as a truce gesture. With that, he takes the pressure off me, and my heart rate instantly slows down. That’s how I know that waiting just a little bit longer is for the best.
“Thanks for understanding, John.” I love you. I don’t say that second part out loud. Instead I peck him passionately on the mouth. Then, so as not to fall back into his web of intimacy, I get out of my sleeping bag and roll it up.
We’re not out of the woods yet, though!
Chapter 21
On our way back down the hill, I notice John admiring me a little more than usual. After his little staring and smiling thing has gone on for too long to ignore, I finally ask.
“What?”
He laughs, �
�You’ve got a lot of stamina. You’re quite the little ‘routard’.” Did he just call me a retard?
“Boy, you sure do know how to make a girl feel sexy,” I snark sarcastically, knowing full well that there is no context in which calling me a retard works for that sentence.
“No, ‘routard’ is French for backpacker,” he explains with a chuckle.
“And of all the words that language has to offer, that’s the one you learned?” I tease.
“Colette and I used to backpack a lot. She’s French. From France.” Ah ha. “Colette”. That explains quite a lot. He’d told me a lot about his ex, but never that she was French.
“So is that why you’re so into French—everything?”
“No, I’ve always been a Francophile,” he justifies. Adding, “Which is probably why I was so into her.” This is a good example of an emotion he’s had that I don’t want to hear about.
“And it was lucky for her, too,” he goes on enthusiastically, “because when you decide to date a foreigner, you have to know if you want to get married within the time it takes for her visa to expire.” He kind of laughs at the memory.
“How long did you have?” I ask, wondering if we’re there yet and wishing I were foreign.
“We were married within four months. The wedding was a total rush job.”
“So it wasn’t romantic?”
“It kinda was, in a spontaneous way. We just ran off to Vegas with a handful of our party friends, and had an impromptu reception at the Pink Taco afterwards.” Eiw. I do not want that! “Okay, it was pretty low class,” he admits, laughing at himself.
“I’m sure your parents were very proud,” I say, mocking him.
“They were pissed! Mostly because I didn’t invite them.” We laugh. “That’s why the next time I get married, I have to do it right. I want a big wedding. Make it up to my mom.”
The next time? Big wedding?
“So you’ve thought about it?” I pry, just learning for the first time that guys think about what their weddings might look like, too. “What do you want it to be like?”
“I don’t know, like you see in magazines, I guess.” Yes! That’s what I want, too! Then he adds affectionately, “Why don’t I just let you plan it.”
My heart drops into my stomach. His next wedding is to me! I can barely breathe. He wants to marry me! It’s not exactly “I love you”, but it’s better! It’s, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Which no one wants to do with someone they don’t love. He loves me!
I can’t even try to hide my happiness. I’m panting to catch my breath—and not because I’ve just hiked 6 miles with a heavy backpack on—because I feel like I just won the lottery, or a game show, or anything else that would make you freak out inside, in disbelief of how freaking lucky you are.
John notices my delight and says, “Have I ever told you that backpacking makes me horny?” He knew what I was waiting for all along. He remembered when I joked that he should tell me when he feels something. It’s time. I can finally sleep with him now!
“Have I ever told you that wedding talk makes me horny?” I retort making light of what an incredibly momentous occasion this is.
“Does it? Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” He lifts me up like he’s taking his bride over the threshold, and he continues to create our fantasy wedding.
“There are rose petals on the ground.” He kisses me deeply. “All eyes are on you, in a beautiful white gown, glowing, as you walk down the aisle, toward your loving groom.” He kisses me again. “Flowers everywhere. Matching bridesmaids and groomsmen—“
I am so into him that I have to interrupt, “Get me off of this trail and strip me naked!”
He carries me off the path to a more private part of our already private mountain trail, and without wasting another minute follows my instructions. I am completely naked inside of thirty seconds. He has his shirt off and his pants around his ankles within another fifteen.
This is one of those rare times in life when foreplay in unnecessary. He sticks it inside of me and I moan like an animal in the woods. I could swear I hear my fellow mammals responding to my calls, in the distance. Soon I’m screaming so much they probably wonder if I’m warning them about a coming earthquake or other predator they should run and hide from.
Months of pent up sexual tension and emotional frustration all get released in the time it takes to cook a Lean Cuisine.
I finish first, making John feel proud of himself. Once I’ve regained consciousness, I get a chance to observe him finally getting what he worked so hard to earn. I can see what Lacey means about how stupid a guy looks in the throes of passion, with his face all droopy and his eyes rolling back into his head. But John is my stupid, droopy-faced guy, and that makes him beautiful to me.
After he finishes, John plops down on top of me, to catch his breath, and we smile in the afterglow. We lay there for a while, just resting and holding each other.
Eventually, he pushes himself up to look at me and says, “Wow… It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.”
That strikes me as a funny thing to say, and it actually hasn’t been nearly as long for him as he thinks, but none of that matters to me right now. I wanna talk about romance.
“You would really let me plan the wedding?” I ask blissfully on my little cloud in heaven.
“Sure,” he says casually, “if we decide to get married.”
If?! That’s not what he said before I had sex with him. Please don’t let him start pulling away already. This isn’t fair! This can’t be happening again.
He notices my fearful expression, and tries to explain himself, “Well, we’ve only been together a few months, and—you have to admit it’s still early in the relationship to know.” In his mind, that probably seems totally reasonable, and I seem like I’m overreacting. But he’s the one who brought it up!
“It doesn’t have to be too soon,” I say, practically begging him to change his refrain, “You married Colette after just a few months.”
“Yeah, because I had to, or she would’ve been deported. I didn’t want her to be deported.”
Maybe he’s not the romantic type after all. Even his first marriage seems like it was all business with a little spontaneity thrown in. But what’s so special about Colette?
“But you said you were getting attached to me, and I thought, when you said about the wedding… I thought it meant you were in love with me…”
John is perplexed by this assessment. And he thinks I’m the one who’s crazy? It’s not crazy to connect his desire to get married with the concept that maybe he’s in love with me. He’s the one who’s crazy to not put those together. Then again, he does already have a divorce under his belt, so maybe he’s just dumb.
“It’s possible,” he finally replies to my question about him loving me, “I don’t know. I definitely think you’re great. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump back into another marriage right away.”
I’m disappointed, so I can’t help but get a little mad, “Then why would you say I could plan the wedding?”
“Hypothetically,” he says calmly, as if it were the only logical thing in the world, “if we end up together.”
I’m so upset. I’m so confused. I poured my heart out to him, and he gave me “maybe”. I feel sick. I let him have me. After torturing myself to stay a sexual mystery to him, I gave it all up for this. I took it to mean, “I love you”!
As I get dressed, I’m totally stuck in my own head. John sees me grow distant, as he gets dressed, too. I’m not even sure whether or not I’m overreacting.
“How did this get so serious?” he says, triggering my greatest fears.
“Please don’t say that.” I don’t want to hear that bullshit again.
“I just don’t understand how it got so serious.”
“It got serious because you fucked me! And I thought you meant it!” But I always think he means it, because I want him to. And then he says I’m
too serious and he ends up dumping me.
“I really don’t understand why you’re freaking out right now,” John says. “What’s the big deal?”
“I just don’t understand why you always pull away after we sleep together!” There. I said it.
“I’m not. I don’t. I couldn’t. This was our first time.” Okay, so in this case, he’s rightfully confused. He doesn’t even know about his pattern, or the fact that I’ve been desperately trying to break it, so I guess considering the circumstance, there is a possibility that I am coming off a little nutty.
And I know it’s possible to love someone, and still think it’s too early to know if you wanna marry them or not, so there’s actually still a chance that he really does love me. Although I probably just deleted any positive feelings he’d formed, with my little outburst right then.
Shit! I’m so stupid. I worked my ass off to get him to fall for me, and I’m the one who threw it all away by acting like a lunatic. He probably wasn’t even pulling away. I was just projecting it onto him because he did it before. And it’s true that when we had sex after one night or three dates, he didn’t know me that well, and if I’m honest, he didn’t really owe me anything afterwards. Who was I? Just some girl he’d met a couple of times. He probably knows his barber better than he knew me at that point.
Yeah, this time is different. He’s not pulling away. Which means that I just messed up big time by yelling at him. I have to salvage this before he starts to question whether or not he knows me at all. I just hope he doesn’t think that was a fair indication of me. I hope he doesn’t think that that’s who I am, and it’s only just coming out now. I’m not that. I’m the girl who makes him laugh. I’m the girl who makes him happy. I’m the girl who puts all the animals on high alert when he makes love to her.
How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel Page 15
