The tea was starting to wear off. It was the 4th of July (happy Independence Day, white man!) or Tom’s birthday or just another New York night, there was no way to tell, really. Perhaps three hours had passed—we weren’t really sure about that, either. All we knew was that from paroxysms of laughter, a bucket of ice (now melted, my fingers prunish) and Emma’s paranoia that she was somehow miraculously naked, we were being relieved of a wonderful insanity.
We sat in the humidity, smoking cigarettes, completely relaxed and finally clear headed. As others recounted the madness, I withdrew, briefly, into my own thoughts. I balanced on the edge of Tom’s bed, bodies strewn around me, when my eyes fell upon the backs of two girls perched on the opposite side of the bed.
They giggled, leaned into each other in covert whispers. Each of their soft, fleshy arms brushed against the other, and as one whispered into the other’s ear I could feel the sickly warm secret breath as if it were upon my own neck. A shudder crippled me momentarily; then I was completely still in the thrall of the gentle touches, the knowing smiles and furtive murmurings of the two girls.
They both had smooth, flawless skin, one slightly more caramel than the other. The darker girl had her hair in a bun on the top of her head and it fell about the nape of her neck in whisps, haphazardly stroking the bare skin that peeped from the top of her t-shirt. The other girl had long, frizzy hair that she would delicately pull into a bunch by the side of her face every so-and-so, hold it their briefly, before letting it fall back across her arching, feline back.
Everytime the second girl moved into the first girl, her shoulder blades would push into her skin, creating sensual undulations across her back and it was all I could do to not reach out and touch her. Her weight—shifted slightly towards her friend—fell gracefully into her ass, giving her a womanly, hourglass shape that was streamlined to feminine perfection. I was enraptured by the curve in her thigh, the way her short skirt clung to her and refused to reveal that most precious intelligence that, for perhaps the first time, I found myself hankering for.
There was something magical in their small touches. The way they reached out for each other, the absolute tenderness in the way they handled one another. I looked across to where my friend Rachel was sitting and watched her talking to a boy. Although they were friends there was a space between them that in that moment seemed more like a void. They were awkward, unsure. They lacked the innate sensuality of the girls who, even in friendship, invoked both an innocence and lust that was so unmistakably feminine.
I’ve never slept with a girl—but I found myself thinking about it. I thought about the soft grooves, the dips and wells and the supple skin on a woman. I thought about that closeness (the stuff that I was watching pass between these two friends) and the warmth of sameness. I thought about how effortlessly the girlish tossing of hair, the accidental brush of a thigh or absentmided stroking of finger against a lip could become so instantly sexual, even to me, a straight girl. I thought about the allure of girls, and in a rare moment, I was happy to be one.