In the Mood for Love

by Harper Bliss

  Her fingers knead the flesh of my back and shoulders. Up and down they roam for minutes on end and—despite myself and the feverish thoughts crashing through my brain—I’m about to reach that state of zen-like calm, of shutting off the world and just returning to myself. But then it happens. Her finger brushes against the side of my breast, which protrudes a bit as I lay on my belly.

  Amy doesn’t apologise, she simply continues, but it feels as if my life has just changed considerably. As if the world has shifted and new possibilities have been born. This happens all the time during massage therapy, of course. The number of times Raj has accidentally brushed his fingers along my breast equals the number of times I haven’t cared an iota about it. But the furtive skating of Amy’s finger along my skin there feels more like a promise. An opening. Maybe a declaration.

  Both of her pinkies glide along on either side now, and I never before realised how sensitive my skin is there. Maybe this is just the way she does her job. Or maybe she has a few buried emotions rising to the surface as well.

  Every time her fingers dip a little too low, a flash of heat tumbles through my bones, all the way from my spine to my toes. Goosebumps have made way for hot flashes and then—oh no—an involuntary moan escapes me. I snap my mouth shut as soon as it happens, but it’s too late. I’ve given myself away. I lay there dying a little bit, my face pressed into a hole, my eyes fixed on Amy’s toes. Her nails are painted a deep red and—I may be losing my mind by now—it’s the most beautiful colour I’ve ever seen.

  But Amy is a true professional and she pretends nothing happened. She must have heard though, her ears are not that far removed from my over-enthusiastic mouth and the volume of the music is high enough to make a point, but low enough to easily fade into the background when not given any attention.

  She moves her field of action more to the middle of my back again, with long kneading motions of her hands. She covers a lot of ground and drags the heel of her hand all the way down to the curve of my ass, her fingers slipping briefly underneath the edge of the towel. This expansive movement also causes her belly to sweep against the top of my head every time she stretches forward, which does not help with the hot flashes I seem to be experiencing at regular intervals now. So much so, in fact, that I can’t distinguish the flashes anymore from the fire that has started simmering beneath my skin. How long can I hold off the inevitable explosion?

  I never officially told Amy I’m a lesbian. She probably read about it in a gossip magazine when it went public a few years ago. Maybe this is her revenge. But we were sixteen back then, and while the knowledge of something being different was always very present within me, I hardly had a clue myself. Twenty years ago the word lesbian was not one you heard often. I knew I had a mad crush on Amy and sometimes I simply believed that it was completely normal but just not outspoken, while other times the sheer strength of my feelings for her obliterated any notion of it being different. All I knew was that I loved her and that, in the end, she could never love me the same way.

  After a last soft caress of my back, Amy pads to the middle of the table. Without saying a word, she removes the towel. At first, I think she’s just adjusting it—that touching me underneath it has made it slip—but she doesn’t put it back. That’s something Raj never does.

  The conditioned air of the room breezes across the skin of my buttocks and a new onslaught of lust rips through me. If this is revenge, or a test, I don’t stand a chance. But I don’t move and let Amy carry on wordlessly. Adam Duritz launches into ‘Anna Begins’ and I still know the lyrics by heart so I try to focus on those instead. They’re complicated and quick so that works for about thirty seconds, until Amy drizzles oil on the back of my thighs and then, all the way up the burning cheeks of my bum.

  Whatever happened to a simple neck massage, I wonder, when her fingers hit my skin. They’re soft and warm and I melt again. But this time, after the brushing of her fingers against my breasts and the exposing of my butt, I melt differently, as if the wetness of my centre has spread throughout my body and has liquified every bone beneath my skin.

  When her fingers dip a little too low the first time, I have no doubt she knows exactly what she’s doing. She still applies pressure to the muscles in my thighs, but it’s as if I can sense her focus shifting. She doesn’t pay nearly as much attention to the outside of my legs as to the inside, but every time she’s on the verge of touching me really inappropriately, she pulls back.

  I can hear her inhale and exhale quickly over the music and I try to determine if this is the breath of a woman performing a massage or foreplay.

  Then, just when I think I’m about to dissolve in a puddle of my own wetness, her hands move to my calves. Every single one of the cells between my belly button and my knees throbs wildly. A sensation I could probably cope with if this was a stranger venturing into the territory of a massage with a happy ending, but this is Amy Waters, the girl I wrote bad poetry for in high school. The girl who once told me that the two lone freckles on the left of my nose were the cutest thing she ever saw, after which I spent at least two sleepless nights thinking up ways to grow more.

  Amy’s nails trail along my ankles, but they don’t stay there very long. Up they come again, and the closer they get to the massive erogenous zone every inch of skin within an arm’s length distance of my bum has become, the more moisture I can feel trickle out of me. Can she see? The room is dimly lit and my face—with cheeks as flushed as a blazing fire—is safely hidden in the hole of the table, but is my excitement visible to her at all?

  The answer comes in the shape of her finger tracking the line where my butt becomes thigh. I know enough about massages to realise this is not standard procedure in respected establishments. When her bold finger meets the wetness spreading from between my legs, it doesn’t waver. Instead, it dives lower and lingers there, barely moving. Instinctively, I find myself spreading wider. I didn’t mean to, but if I try to close my legs now it could be perceived as disapproval and I don’t want this to stop.

  Amy takes advantage of the better access I offer her and now traces the tip of her finger along my pussy lips. Up and down it goes, skimming my lips, which are swollen and soaked and ready to be parted. Has she ever even touched a woman like this?

  Her fingertips continue to play with my pussy non-intrusively, almost tickling, but it’s enough to send wave after wave of smouldering heat through my blood. I’m afraid to make a noise that will break the spell she’s under. I’m afraid to face the consequences of having her stop now she’s gone this far.

  Her fingers start probing deeper, sliding between my folds and I inadvertently press myself against them, meeting her lazy strokes. It feels as if my entire body has transformed into a slithering mass of want. I’m close to abandon, close to asking her to please fuck me, when her fingers retreat.

  My heart thunders so furiously beneath my rib cage I fear my torso might pulse upwards with every beat.

  “Turn around, please,” she says as if this is the normal midway point of any massage therapy session. But there’s a strain in her voice, a slight tremor informing me she might just be as turned on as I am.

  And I want nothing more than to flip over, but then I have to face her. How can I meet her gaze after she has touched me like that? But I’m not the one who started it. I only came here for a massage.

  I free my head from the hole and push myself up slowly. Before looking up, I try to swallow away the nerves bunching up in my throat. There are a lot of things I want to say, but I don’t want to ruin the moment by speaking.

  Amy is fumbling with something at the sink when I finally turn around. She has her back to me and, silently, I lie down and wait for her.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispers as she approaches.

  I do as I’m told.

  The process of sprinkling oil on my skin is repeated. A drop crashes down on my erect nipple and I can sense Amy’s hesitation before her fingers descend on my flesh and spread the loti
on. She stands at the head of the table, her belly close to my scalp again, and I can hear her sharp intake of breath as her fingertip brushes my nipple.

  It’s different lying on my back, all exposed like that. I try to keep still as Amy’s fingers knead my breasts, but it’s impossible. She’s watching me now. She’s seeing the emotions running across my face and the way my skin crinkles into goosebumps as she touches me. I only came to town to celebrate my dad’s birthday and I had no way of preparing for this level of intimacy. I decide there and then I have two choices. Shut off my brain and enjoy the physical bliss Amy’s hands provide—no matter the emotional fall-out later. Or do as I did years ago. Work myself into a frenzy over how she makes me feel, decide I can’t deal with it anymore, and leave.

  But this is now, and Amy’s hands have already ventured much further than I ever dreamed they would. She’s the one who slipped her fingers between my legs and whose nails are now tracing circles around my nipples.

  “Oh god,” I groan as she pinches my nipple and leaves me with no choice at all.

  “Don’t move,” she says, her voice hoarse and throaty above my head.

  And I stay still but I have to open my eyes. I have to see her. Just as our gazes lock, her hands squeeze my breasts.

  I could cry for the teenager I was once was. A young body filled to the brim with an inexplicable burgeoning lust for Amy. If time is supposed to heal all wounds, what is it doing now? Coming home is always a fleeting exercise in dredging up the past, no matter who you see or don’t see. But then you leave and forget about it all over again, a bit more with every departure. How will I ever leave this behind?

  Amy’s eyes seem to tell me everything I need to know—in this moment, anyway. Because what really happened to us are the things that didn’t happen. The conversation we never had. The feelings I never shared. If this is her way of saying we’re okay, then I’m fine with that.

  She gives my breasts one last gentle squeeze before abandoning them. Her left hand trails downward along my chest as she walks to the side of the table. She leans her hip against it and I follow her with my eyes. Her face is tanned, but I can easily spot the blush below her cheekbones.

  She searches for my eyes again, and arches up her eyebrows a fraction, as if asking for permission. It’s a little late for that, I think to myself, but I know what she means. The time for foreplay has ended.

  I want what’s going to happen next so much, my body breaks out into a shiver. She puts her hand on my belly to calm me down, but it hardly has the required effect. Her fingers already point south, to that moist mess of a pussy of mine.

  Shouldn’t it have been the other way around, I wonder? Should I not have been the one seducing her? But this role reversal—if you will—turns me on more than the prospect of Amy’s fingers inside of me.

  It reminds me of hot summer nights alone in my bed. I left the curtains open to see the last of the light fade away, while I dreamed of Amy’s face before she kissed me and told me it was all real.

  It can’t be more real now. Amy’s one hand travels lower, while her other one stays on my belly, driving her nails into my skin. I spread wider, because it’s all I ever wanted to do for Amy.

  Her eyes are on mine when the first fingertip enters me. Something shimmers in the chocolate brown of them. As her finger slips all the way in, I realise it’s lust. The same lust shaking my bones.

  It’s more shock than anything else rattling through me as Amy starts to fuck me slowly, almost leisurely. A hint of a smile plays on her lips, as if this was the only possible outcome of us running into each other the way we have.

  All the years of friendship we shared flash through my mind in that moment. The time I almost kissed her. The day we took dozens of pictures at a photo booth, my face drawn into a serious frown in all of them because Amy was sitting on my lap.

  But Amy has her finger inside of me and, as she slides it back, I feel the tip of another one getting ready to slip in. And yes, this is sex—unmistakably so—but it’s also much more than that. My pelvis bucks upward to meet Amy’s thrusts. Her gaze doesn’t waver and I feel moisture build behind my eyes. Because this is too much. The essence of what is happening right now has been with me as a fantasy for more than twenty years.

  In the silence between two Counting Crows songs, I can make out the sucking noise Amy’s fingers produce between my legs. It stokes the fire in my belly even more, and when her other hand starts to travel south as well, her fingers tickling the trimmed hair down there, I’m about to spontaneously combust.

  I know she’s going for my clit and I know that when she reaches it, I’ll be lost. The moment will pass forever. Confusion, nostalgia and years of pent-up lust descend from my mind into my blood.

  Amy thrusts deep with the two fingers of her left hand as her right index finger brushes the side of my clit. My muscles contract at the touch of her finger against my swollen bud. I want to pull her close and kiss her, but Amy is calling the shots, and I don’t want to break the spell she’s under.

  She finds a rhythm with her hands. A deep stroke with one hand, while the fingers of the other circle my clit. It’s more than enough to send me on my way to the deliverance I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever.

  Amy in her mum’s high heels. Amy in boxer shorts and a tank top at her cousin’s sleep over. Amy by the pond, careless and with the promise of everything shimmering in the darkness of her eyes. Amy right here, right now. Eyes blazing and fingers on fire inside of me. Her muscles working underneath her skin as she takes me.

  I throw my head back because her glance is too much for me to take in that moment when my body surrenders. It all crashes through me, lightning quick fireballs reaching the end of my fingers and my toes at the same time. The walls of my pussy clamping tightly around her fingers. The pleasure that shoots up inside of me through her hands, which are, in the end, mere extensions of her eyes and what I’ve seen pool in them. I had to wait twenty years and maybe that’s why it feels so good, life-changing even, but definitely shattering the world as I know it for a brief instant.

  Amy doesn’t slide her fingers out of me immediately. She leaves them inside to linger for a few seconds as I find her eyes again. I know that mine are filled with tears of release and a slew of other emotions I don’t have the presence of mind to identify.

  “Jesus,” I say, because, at times like this, it always seems like the only appropriate thing to say.

  Amy looks at me in disbelief, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. As if she’s just slipped back into her skin after an out-of-body experience. Gently, her fingers leave me and I have as much a clue of what to say as she has.

  Mute, she stares at her hands and I know, despite being the one naked on a massage table, I have to step in.

  My muscles are weak and soft from the massage and the climax, but I pull myself together. “Hey,” I say, while I push myself up. I shoot her a reassuring smile. “You really do give a mean massage.”

  She seems to snap out of her trance and starts looking around the room. I hope for the towel she took off me at the beginning of our session. I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel more naked than I am, but I do.

  Thankfully, Amy locates the towel on a chair behind her and, instead of simply handing it to me, she steps toward me and wraps it around my bare skin.

  “I wish I knew what to say,” she whispers in my ear as her arms fold around me.

  For all the intimacy we just shared, this unexpected hug touches me more than Amy’s fingers inside of me.

  In response, I curl my arms around her waist and hold her. I realise this is the first time I’ve intently touched her this way.

  “Whatever it was you wanted to say, you’ve said it loud and clear.” My cheek is pressed against Amy’s chest and I can hear her heart hammer away at a ridiculous pace.

  I can’t help myself, because the next thing I know, my fingers snake down her back, finding the hem of her tank top, wanting desperately
to feel the skin underneath.

  She gives me one last squeeze before freeing herself from our hug. She doesn’t pull completely away though, and in the motion, my fingers wander to her sides. I look up at her and I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more going on here than two old friends reconnecting in an unexpectedly physical way.

  “Eli, I…” she starts. Her fingers play with the white towel that’s slung around my body. “I really don’t know what came over me.”

  “I’m not complaining.” I slip off the table so I can stand tall and face her properly. The towel starts sliding down, but Amy catches it and fastens it with a tight fold above my breasts.

  Again, it’s an intimate gesture. There’s only one way I know how to acknowledge it. My hands are back on her waist and I pull her close. The short, ragged puffs of her breath travel across my cheeks. Slowly, I slant my head to the side and lean in for that kiss I should have gone for years ago.

  Amy doesn’t display any signs of hesitation as our lips meet. I figure it’s a little late for doubts after her fingers brought me to orgasm mere minutes ago.

  My fingers travel the length of her arms, all the way to her face, where I cup her chin. The towel slips off me anyway—and Amy lets it—but I’m past caring. I’m ready to be naked with Amy again.

  Amy’s nails trail along the skin of my back as our tongues dance with one another. The kiss seems to freeze time and I have no idea how long we’ve been at it when we finally break apart.

  “We should talk,” Amy says, but her breath comes out in chopped puffs and her body language doesn’t exactly signal a talking mood.

  But I probably need this conversation more than Amy, and I’m dying to hear what she has to say, so I nod before ducking down to grab the towel again.

  “That thing obviously does not want to stay on your body,” she jokes. “I can see why.”

  For an instant, I’m flabbergasted, and a flush rises to my cheeks. While I’m still grappling to come up with a response, Amy moves in again and pecks me on my burning cheek. “There’s a shower through there.” She points to a door behind me. “Take your time. I’ll wait for you at reception.”