Everyone in the room is looking at us. We’re turned on by our own spectacle, but we don’t notice the stares. We move across the dance floor—smiling, giggling, gently tugging at each other’s clothes—pulling our bodies closer to one another as our lips touch. Lola breathes warm breath into my ear:
“Wanna go to the bathroom?”
I wonder if people think we’re about to fuck. I wonder if we’re about fuck.
“Yeah. I have Adderall.”
As if snorting my medication is what I’m looking forward to.
She leads me into the bathroom, closing the door sharply once we’re inside. She pauses a moment, her face to the door. I wonder what she’s thinking about. She’s my best friend—I usually know what she’s thinking about. But right now, I haven’t a clue. We’ve made out before. We’ve been drunk and silly and fooled around—my hand has brushed her zipper almost accidentally. Hers, less so.
I’ve thought about what she would be like in bed. I think about it often. Ever since that night back in junior year of college when we got wasted on Long Island iced teas and rolled around in my bed for hours in our underwear—always almost about to fuck, but never feeling more than a zipper, or maybe a nipple. Ever since that night, I’ve wanted to make her come. To feel her warm, soft body sweat under me as her legs shake without pause. And we’ve talked about our fantasies—I don’t keep all of my Lola-thoughts private. But whenever we talk, we’re quietly overcome by that girlish embarrassment—that repressed fear that we’ll overshare. That we’ll freak each other out. We talk—I can talk to her about anything, and I do—but we never tell the whole story.
Lola’s more feminine than I am—she’s assertive in life, but passive in sex, I think. And in my fantasies, she naturally assumes submission; I’m the dominant, she’s the quiet. But tonight, when she turns around—her hand still hovering on the bathroom doorknob—she’s got a fiery twinkle in her eye. She looks hungry—ascendant. She blinks a few times—her long, dark lashes moving in slow motion—and peels herself off the door. She grabs my belt, and pulls my body onto hers.
Without a word, she unzips my jeans. Tracing my right leg with two fingers—lingering when she reaches my crotch—her hands fold under my blouse, stopping to press my stomach and hold my breasts before they slip my top off, too.
Saying nothing still, she nestles her left hand in my hair, pulling my head towards hers, brushing my lips for a few moments before she starts to kiss me. Then, she slides her right hand down my side. Her thumb is on my clit, her middle finger circling my vagina. She bites my bottom lip and sends a violent buzz through my body. Without purpose, my head sways.
She reads me like I want to be read—she responds to every twitch, every moan—every tiny signal of pleasure, she notices, and doubles it. I’m sitting on the sink now, my legs wrapped around hers. Standing in front of me in her underwear—her boots still on—she takes my index finger into her mouth, and leads it down to my vagina. We touch me me together.
With her fingers inside me—swirling around with soft, deep pressure—she kisses my collar bone. My nipple. My belly button. My hip bone. My inner thigh—
“I have to take a fucking piss!”
Someone’s knocking on the door. His tone suggests he’s been knocking for a while. I hadn’t noticed.
But Lola doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pause. She certainly doesn’t stop. Instead, she pushes me back, and keeps sucking on me. Until my legs shake. Until I feel myself pulse and my lower stomach contracts and my head swings back and my hands clutch the sink and she has to put a hand over my mouth so I don’t scream too loud. And not until she sees that buzz leave me—exiting through my toes with one, final shake—does she stop touching me.
Then she stands up straight, wipes her lips, gives me a kiss, points at my clothes, and says the first words she’s said since we stepped inside:
“Let’s go back to the party.”
So we do.