Sex is an amazing thing. It’s so primal. It’s so natural. You can be a totally different person during sex than you might be in your regular waking world. You can be shy, standoffish, secretive in your normal life, and then toss that all to the wind when you’re being intimate with your lover. The trick is you need to trust that they aren’t going to judge you, and that trust is hard to come by. Just because two people are together doesn’t mean they have that trust between them. So when you do find that person that you can truly trust, you need to hold on to them tightly, you need to care for that flourishing vineyard, you need to give in to the rawness of it. If you do, you will be reward both in your regular life as well as when you let yourself melt into the beauty that is your sexuality.
Dasha’s tongue wetly ran over me and I couldn’t help but bring a hand to my own chest, holding onto myself, feeling my beating heart. As she lapped at me, I felt one of her fingers begin to probe between my crevice, her fingertip moving up and then moving back down, massaging my inner pinkness and causing me a shortness of breath. You’d think I’d have a much more relaxed control of my breathing with all the swimming I do, but the frenzy I felt for Dasha must have made my body forget all the training.
With my eyes closed, my mind running all over the place, I succumbed to the pleasure. It was wet, humid, sopping, slick. I could feel the pressure of Dasha’s finger slowly enter me and then just as slowly retreat, her mouth pushing against my bud and humming. I was making little sounds with my mouth that I couldn’t control, little squeaks of joy, notifications meant to convey to Dasha that she was spectacular.
Then I felt it and I began to giggle. Dasha had moved a finger down a little bit further and was rubbing my rear in subtle little circles. I loved that. I was so sensitive back there and I loved being touched. I squirmed, smiled, tittered, still trying to hold myself as Dasha orchestrated amusement between my thighs.
“Is that all right?” she said and then kissed my cherry with a moist suction sound. Then another kiss.
“Mm hmm,” I whirred brightly.
I eased into the pressure of Dasha’s finger, taking long, slow breaths as I relaxed, felt myself open just slightly in back, and her fingertip press inside. Meanwhile, Dasha lapped at my wetness above, licking, suckling, pushing her lips against me and offering every little nerve ending in my womanhood its own individual lick.
I loved sex with Dasha because I loved losing control. I mean, it was like a controlled loss of control if that makes any sense. I stressed about control in my life so much that it was so mesmerizing to give it up in the bedroom. I was happy to disappear into the sheets, open myself up, give myself to my lover, and let her touch me in anyway she liked. Everywhere else, I was a control freak. Here, I was submissive. It was always such a well-needed respite from the stress that needing to be in control can take on a person.
My belly was quivering, clenching and releasing, as were my muscles below. I felt the mounting shockwaves winding through my figure. My breath was hot, my mouth was open, I was drooling just the slightest bit. I was almost shivering, my skin feeling hot and then cool and then hot again, the sticky sweat that was covering my flesh evaporating only to be replaced with more sweat. I felt slightly clammy between my legs and under my arms. It was dazzling. I felt like a tea kettle shaking atop the stove, threatening to scream out as it came so close to its heated climax.
Then I burst. My legs started kicking, my arms flailing and trying to grip onto the haphazard blanket, grunts expelling from my mouth. I tell you, I loved it. I was suffused in ecstasy, and although I wasn’t completely cognizant of my Gold Medal hanging there, I’m sure the weight of it on my chest, the fulfilled pressure of its heft mixed with the tickles between my legs from Dasha, the amalgamation of these sensations filled me with concluded angst as I orgasmically erupted. I sat up, doubling over at my stomach, and began to laugh in unbridled happiness.
Dasha looked up at me, a please grin on her wet lips, and watched as I negotiated my way through my lusty spasm.
Collapse. Reprieve. I held my hands overtop my breast, eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling, my chest heaving up and down as I felt the little sparkly tingles of electricity in my body, my toes feeling slightly numb. It was like there were stars over my head, or little birds fluttering around and issuing bemused tweets. I was so present, so attuned to my body in that moment. I could still feel Dasha’s lips against my pleat, still feel her finger in my bum, even though she was now crawling up my body and preparing herself to cuddle into me.
“Oh God,” I moaned automatically as Dasha snuggled up next to me, her arms wrapping around my naked body. “Okay, that needs to happen again.” Dasha laughed.
“But you’ve got to do me,” Dasha asserted, tracing a single finger up my stomach through the light coating of sweat.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head quickly. “Okay, I can do that. Phew!” I blinked a few times dramatically, like it was my first time seeing. “My pulse is racing.” I felt my own wrist and shook my head.
Dasha laughed again and kissed my cheek.
I think I’ve read that love is a chemical reaction that happens between two people. You can try to theorize or quantify love until you’re out of breath, but if you just accept that sometimes it simply happens without your consent, without you analyzing it thoroughly or weighing your options, I think you’re more likely to find what’s right for you. We’re not in control. That’s the lesson here. I know we want to be in control, I’m living proof that human beings fight for control of their life, but I’m here to tell you that control is just a silly preoccupation. Love happens, death happens. And between that somewhere, life happens. Once you start giving in to chaos, once you really start to see the synchronicity in every day life, it all gets so much easier.
Dasha and I lazed in her bed, post-coital smiles on our lips, both of us completely nude and cuddled tightly together under the sheets. My Medal had been plucked off during our tumble, it accidentally knocking Dasha in the head resulting in some laughing and wrestling. But I didn’t care. The only medal I needed to wear was Dasha. She was the prize I wanted.
Although we should really have resolved to drift off to sleep, a couple of orgasms between us gave us some energy and we stayed up to talk. Dasha absently fondled my hair as we snuggled, often punctuating our love with quick adoring kisses. I intertwined my leg with Dasha’s and tried to crawl closer against her. My flesh against her flesh, warm and sticky and comfortable, our bodies slack and tender and unwound.
“Dasha?” I said softly.
“Hmm?”
“You know, I’ve been wondering,” I said. “You’ve never really told me much about your sister.”
“That’s right,” she admitted. “I haven’t.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I said with trepidation. “I mean, you don’t have to. I just feel like it’s part of you, a part of you I’d like to know more about.”
Dasha took a long breath and released a sigh. I didn’t know what she going to say and in that moment I felt kind of foolish for asking her about it. It had just surprised me, though, that throughout our budding relationship, with the times I’d talk to her about my tragedy, even taken her by my old house, never had she expanded upon the tragedies in her own life. Usually people, especially lovers, like to commiserate because it makes you feel closer with each other. But Dasha never did that. She had been pretty tightlipped about her sister’s disappearance.
“It’s painful to think about,” Dasha admitted after a moment. “I was just a girl, you know.”
“I know.”
“My father and mother had planned to defect to the USA,” she said. “They did not believe what the Soviet Union was doing was good for Ukraine, their homeland. But as my father was an Olympic star himself, they were determined to keep him.”
I could really sense the sadness in her voice. I held her tighter and pushed myself closer to her still, trying to convey my adoration for her with my closeness.
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“They gave him a final command,” Dasha continued. “Stay in the Soviet Union or you will regret it, your family will regret it.” At this, Dasha started to tear up. She raised her hand to her face and wiped at her eye.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m sorry for asking, Dasha. I know it’s hard to recall.”
“My sister was very strong,” Dasha said. “That I knew. She would have made a great swimmer, better than me. Better than my father. But, who knows,” she said nebulously. Her face looked blank, a strange coldness washed over it.
“Do you know… what happened to her?” I asked carefully. “I mean, she could still be alive.”
“She could,” said Dasha. “It was very mysterious, her disappearance, and you’re right. She might still be alive.”
“If she was an athlete,” I said. “Maybe she was sent to a training camp as a, I don’t know, ward of the state. Maybe she’s still an athlete in Russia, maybe a coach and trainer like you.”
“Maybe,” said Dasha. “I just don’t know, Marie. I don’t know what to think.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” I said softly, craning my neck up and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “I didn’t mean to bring up awful memories. I just… I wanted to be with you on a deeper level as well.”
“I know,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
I imagined a world where Dasha’s sister still lived. Perhaps she had been a swimmer, perhaps she was now a coach for Russia and she was staying here in the Olympic Village, taking her team to greatness, just as Dasha was doing. It was too perfect of a story. In my mind they reconnected, revitalized their sisterly love, brought their family back together.
But I only thought like that because there was possibility. It was simply a reflection of my own life, my own family, a scenario I knew could never be recovered. There was the finality of death in my tale, while Dasha’s could still hold out for a happy ending. I don’t know. I guess that’s the romantic in me. Or even the controller in me, wanting to pull a couple puppet strings and make things whole again. It was naive. But sometimes there’s a comfortable happiness in naivety. Sometimes you’ve got to hope for the best and believe in possibilities. Otherwise, you might just spend your time writing your own tombstone.
Dasha was silent after that and we continued to cuddle, limbs snaked into one another, bodies tacky together, the blankets shielding us from the light chill of the air conditioner in the room. I wanted to speak again but I couldn’t find the words. I simply expressed myself with touch, with tender kisses, with devotion. It was what Dasha needed. It was what I needed. And it wasn’t much longer until I felt my eyes slowly shutter and my breath ebb. I swore I could feel my and Dasha’s heartbeats sync up but that was probably just the romantic in me again. Whatever. I meditated on that lovely thought as I allowed myself to drift off to sleep in Dasha’s arms. I knew the next day would be yet another action-packed competition and I needed my rest.
To wake up next to Dasha, that would be a dream fulfilled. And if I could wake up every morning to her smiling face, I knew that things were going to be just fine.
I sat outside of Olympics Aquatics Stadium, the natatorium built in Rio specifically for the Olympics. It looked out on the Lagoa de Jacarepaguá, a serene lagoon that had gotten a bad reputation prior to the games due to it being polluted but had since been cleaned up for the rowing and kayaking events. On the other side of the lagoon from my vantage point were more city buildings. My time in Rio was flying and I felt like I hadn’t really gotten to see any of it. We were in a little bubble, really, the athletes and the tourist spectators pretty well cordoned off from the real Rio de Janeiro. As someone who had spent some time traveling, it made me a little morose that I didn’t have a chance to explore the city further. But I was here on business, after all.
I had a lot to meditate on. There was my reconciliation with Amber, which I was still a bit uncertain about but happy nonetheless. There was Dasha, of course, our night of passion rekindling everything I had been feeling for her. And there was my final swimming event, the 400 meter freestyle. I had never really thought about what drew me to enjoying and succeeding in the event. I think I was just good at distance over speed, but I was probably also attracted to it because it was an event my father enjoyed and swam as well. I guess that’s how it works, doesn’t it?
After helping my team win the Gold in the medley, I had been brought on for another handful of interviews like I had done when I first arrived in Rio. I tried my best, but I always found the interviews strange. They were all so surface level, so basic. After doing them, I began to understand why you see so many professional athletes giving the same type of answers. “We’re just here to play hard, we give credit to the other team for playing so well, we just try to go out there and do our best.” Sometimes the answers are almost comically vague and meaningless. But after just doing a few interviews, I understood it. There’s really not much more to say when it comes to questions you’re asked.
But the interviews did teach me one thing. I was an American favorite to win my event. I mean, the media loved my story. They ate it up. “Marie Mullally’s parents died and she had to drop out of the previous Games, this year she’s back for redemption.” That sort of thing. The interviewers were always somewhat cautious in asking me about my parents, but it was exactly what they wanted to talk about. It made good TV, I guess. And in a way, it was helpful to me as well. I hadn’t talked about my parents that much in the past couple of years and it was good to acknowledge that, yeah, there was a bit of trauma in my life.
This whole experience, it was finally helping me lay my parents to rest. I didn’t really think anything would change before I came to Rio, but I could admit that I was changing in being here. It didn’t quite feel like I was growing up — I already felt grown up — but rather I felt like I was coming to terms with who I was and accepting it. It made me feel a certain sense of calm.
I pushed my sunglasses up slightly and rubbed my eye and at the same time I saw Mitch Wagner mosey up toward me with his hands buried into his pockets, both of us clad in our team tracksuits. He offered me a smile, eyes obscured behind his own aviator sunglasses.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said with a smile, scooting over slightly on my bench and repositioning my sunglasses over my eyes.
“You couldn’t pay me to swim in that lagoon,” Mitch remarked. “Did you see the pictures from before the cleanup?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Awful,” he said. “Thousands of dead fish. It was a shit show.”
“That is awful,” I said. “But it looks okay now.”
“I don’t trust it,” said Mitch with a sigh. “No country ever really has it together when they host. Everyone putting on bandaids.”
“Yeah,” I mused, looking off into the lagoon.
“You ready for today?” he asked.
“Is that why you’re here?” I said, letting a smile creep over my lips, feeling good that I was being looked after. “Coming to check on me?”
“That’s my job,” said Mitch. “I’m your coach. I know they’ve been talking you up in the media and I don’t want you to let that get to your head.”
“It’s not,” I said. “I mean, it’s nice to hear. But I’m trying to stay focused.”
“You might not take Gold,” said Mitch. “It’s not a foregone conclusion. Amber might beat you. Or that Japanese woman Naoko Ando.”
“Is this your pep talk?” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I just don’t want you to rest on your laurels, Marie,” said Mitch. “I know how talented you are and I know what you’re capable of doing. But that can all be erased if you let a little bit of ego get to your head.”
“Thank you,” I said. Looking over to Mitch, I just simply smiled. It was sweet of him to have this talk with me. Our dealings in the past had all been professional. This conversation made me feel like he cared.
“Whatever happen
s, though,” Mitch continued. “However the chips fall, we’ll both know that you tried your hardest. It was a really tough road for you specifically to get here. You’ve earned it.”
With that, Mitch stood up from the bench with a groan and straightened himself out. He turned and looked at me.
“One question, Mitch,” I said. “What happens next? You win a couple of Gold Medals and then what happens?”
“Life goes on,” he said. “You’ll probably be a guest on some morning talk shows, maybe you’ll get a sponsorship deal from an athletic clothing brand, but beyond that life will just go on. This isn’t for all them,” said Mitch, motioning nebulously outward with a hand. “It’s for you. They’ll forget. But you never will. And nobody can take your achievements away from you.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
“See you inside.” Mitch turned from me and began shuffling off, his hands pushed back into his pockets. He had surely seen a lot in his coaching days. And I imagined he’d participated in 10 or more Olympic Games, either as a swimmer himself or a coach. He had worked with all the big names you’ve seen on TV. He’s seen people like me rise and then disappear. I couldn’t expect to become a household name like Paul Drake. He had a couple dozen medals over the last few years. And me, only 1 so far, possibly 2. What Mitch was trying to tell me was to get over myself, to do my best but don’t think that the rest of my life hinged on this moment. He was trying to keep me grounded and I appreciated that.
The natatorium was beginning to get loud. There were announcements over the speaker, the din of the audience was almost deafening. It really felt like a defining moment for me. I had already done a lot of swimming in this arena. The medley team had gone through our various rounds, as had we all done for our individual events. I was living here at the Olympics Aquatics Stadium and it had truly become my home in Rio. But as I waited backstage for the 400 meter freestyle finals, my heart racing, my nerves starting to get the better of me, it felt like a great culmination in everything I had worked towards.
Freestyle Flirting: A Sweet Lesbian Romance Page 13
