“What are you doing?” may not be the sexiest thing to say to the guy who just kissed you, but yeah, I said it.
As your hand slides up my thigh, your chest presses against mine and your heart is beating so fast that I’m worried you’re going to have a heart attack and die. Also, you woke me up. I’m meeting a friend for breakfast tomorrow. My iPhone alarm is set for 6:00 a.m. What the fuck time is it? And if we’re doing this, why isn’t your tongue in my mouth?
I should probably mention that I only stayed the night because I was exhausted and down for the count after two whiskey drinks. You took the couch and let me have your bed. Now you’re in it with me.
“Why aren’t you on the couch?” I manage to mumble somewhere between your mouth and mine.
I was so vulnerable right then. PMSing, three pounds overweight because I was bloated. We all have our moments.
Your answer is to let your hand dip under my shirt, but I bring your arm back over the cotton and put it on my waist because you’re my friend’s friend. We’re not ‘together,’ but thanks for those drinks and holding my jacket and for calling me cute and the awkward cuddling tonight that I didn’t ask for and come to think of it, definitely didn’t want. You’re so much taller than me that I’m wondering how this whole thing is even working.
I also notice now that I’m sweating my guts out. It’s not that cold, but I’m positive your heat is on. I was sweating out the bed in a way that only girls can sweat out a bed; with so much sincerity and horror that I wake up looking like I’m dying of diphtheria. This didn’t seem to matter to you though, and you snuggled up to me like we were three months into this thing and already knew each other’s biggest fears. Although, if you had known my biggest fears, you’d know that one of them happened to be getting cuddled by a guy who works at Urban Outfitters.
In your defense, I was absolutely treating you like my weekend boyfriend outside of bed. The way I let you order my drinks for me or how I let you take my waist as we walked down the street from the bar and back to your apartment. We were with friends, but too liquored up to really notice. It was nice, and frankly, though I have a membership to the Boyfriend of the Month Club, I hadn’t reupped yet, and this free limited-time trial hadn’t been too shabby. So, I’m letting you kiss me.
You said, when you were drunk earlier that night at the bar on Oak Street, that you’d been with ten girls (so really twelve), but you’re performing like a bat out of high school right now. You move your legs between mine and my suspicion about the dry humping is actually confirmed. It feels so much like being fifteen. If I had ever gotten action when I was fifteen. I am deducing purely by what I had read in my Judy Blume books, primarily Deenie.
What I don’t understand, is how a guy who looks like you (handsome) could possibly be this bad at kissing. It’s like you never had to try to get girls and then when you fooled around they either didn’t know or didn’t have the heart to tell you what was up with your ‘skills.’ I just keep thinking of my old choir teacher in elementary school, which is weird and definitely not helping the mood. He was overweight and balding and had a closet full of Easter egg tinted polo shirts. To a group of seven-year-olds he would shout, “Open your mouth wide!” before we started singing something like, Fifty Nifty United States. I wish he were here right now to say the same thing to you. I struggle to get you to match my rhythm, but it’s late (assumedly) and I’m exhausted (definitely) and I’m losing steam over here.
I really thought you’d be better at this.
I guess I should have known what kind of kisser you were when you bought that cap. That really stupid baseball cap. That cap that you thankfully lost for forever the night you left it at the Greek restaurant where we split the bottle of wine and the check. Which is why when your hand reaches into my pants, I remove it and it put it back on my upper thigh. Shoulda paid, son. Your thumb is braced by a thumb ring that I know also doubles as a bottle opener. For a moment, my insides wilt and I’m sure that my ovaries are probably completely useless. I try not to expose my counter-intuitive feelings of pure pride and shame because you’re so attractive but oh my God you are wearing a bottle opener thumb ring and we are twenty-five.
I’m not wearing make-up, I took that off before bed, so this feels weird. And by that I mean, “relationship-y.” All that’s missing is the act of alluringly removing a retainer from my mouth while telling you how bad I want you or something. But my retainer is at home along with my dignity and really, that’s more of a five-months-in move anyway.
I’m clothed in what seems like sixteen different layers of very, very un-sexy oversized men’s pajamas featuring tiny cartoons of Yoda that I borrowed from you, but yet, your hand manages to find my vagina, my Miley Cyrus if you will, and you’re really rubbing like crazy in a way that an Eagle Scout might rub two sticks together to try to spark a fire, which, by the way, I have never ever seen work in real life ever.
Though, I regretfully admit that whatever you’re doing is kind of working for me. If you’d just move a little to the left.
I keep one hand pressed against my chest, stuck because your body is pressed against mine, and the other in your hair because, that’s hot right? Guys like that? I move my hand from your hair to block you (in like, a sexy way?) from diving between my legs, but every time I have to do this, I have to touch your thumb ring and I become acutely aware of what I am doing, so eventually, I just leave it, though I do adjust it, because if we’re gonna do this, at least let me get a little something out of it.
It’s not that I have a dead arm problem to correct, it’s just that I’m afraid to move my other arm because I find out I really don’t want to touch your boner. Thanks just the same. You started this. That’s your problem now.
Also, I might be pretending you are somebody else. Again, I’m sorry.
It’s not that you’re not cute. You have these big, wide eyes like Bambi before his mother is shot and I am almost positive that your eyelashes are longer than mine, but you also wear your button-down flannel shirts like someone in a telenovela. Are you sure you can’t button just one more button?
Again, thanks for the drinks.
And this whole thing, I guess.
You pull me closer and try to get things more heated, like this is the crescendo in your concerto. I angle my body away to reduce any kind of accidental touching. Schrödinger’s Boner. If I can’t feel it, it isn’t there and I don’t have to acknowledge it or remember what I’m doing with a guy who wears a thumb ring and dumb hats.
It’s not that I’m ashamed? It’s just that I’m ashamed. Weeks later at a mutual friend’s birthday party, I’ll see you showing off photos of your brand new niece on your iPhone. There will be a short video of you singing (in key) to her and I will swoon minorly and feel better about this moment, but I don’t know that. Not yet. I will also not point out to myself that immediately after I manage to justify this very make out session, you’ll ruin everything by using that thumb ring of yours to open a Miller Light, destroying minutes of hard work and a quick debate about whether or not it would be appropriate to fool around on the back porch at the party.
The ring is located on the thumb that can’t stop fiddling with my lady bits right now, and I’m ashamed to say, gave me one of those embarrassing high school orgasms from all the rubbing. We’re like two backwoods sixteen-year-olds who aren’t entirely sure what to do. When I have to make the uncomfortable decision of letting my orgasm show or not, I make the executive choice to hide the fact that I received any pleasure from this episode. It seemed right at the time, but my therapist might say I’m afraid to let go and enjoy myself. Hey, at least I didn’t cry afterward.
I try to slow down the kissing now that I’m finished. You kind of get the hint and eventually roll back over to your side. “That’ll show your date tomorrow,” you whisper into my ear.
“It’s not a date!” I say louder than I should. I regain my beguiling whisper voice, “It’s breakfast with a friend.”
You kiss my mouth again before you get up, I assume, to go jack off in the bathroom. “Bet he can’t do what I just did,” you pad away, stretching by the window, the outline of your torso in the city lights. I was so tired, I hadn’t even closed the blinds. I say nothing. I might already be asleep again.
“You want anything while I’m up?” you ask. You’re kind. I’m feeling terrible.
“Water? Please?” I answer and you hand a water bottle to me.
Again, thanks for the drinks.
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