I clocked her as soon as I entered the room; and to be honest I have no recollection of who else was at that party. Of course the most striking thing was her pink crew-cut, with its oh-so-deliberate blonde roots. She sat slumped, so cool, one leg under her, the other draped over an arm of the armchair; wearing a baggy white t-shirt over a green khaki vest, tight blue jeans, and flip-flops: one strewn on the floor, the other dangling from her toes.
It took me a little longer to recognise that she was tiny; and athletically muscular. She constantly shifted position; a ball of furious energy, often arching forward with laughter or to emphasise a point with her small, expressive hands. I must have been away with the fairies to anyone who talked to me during that first hour or so; because most of my mind was occupied with stealthily watching her, and daydreaming.
You see, while I was most definitely publicly out (my friends all knew, and a drunken night entangled with a curious first-year had seen to everyone else), I had no idea how to actually chat up a girl. I had never come across someone so obviously playing on my team, and the rules of the game were a mystery.
But luck was most definitely with me that night. The mood of the party was very chilled out, and its vagaries brought us close together near the door just as a trendy massage meme rippled our way. Even the loud music played to my advantage, because my hesitant query was drowned out, and all she saw was my proferred hands.
She smiled coolly and nodded, and I shuffled somewhat behind her to better reach her shoulders: this also saving me from having to engage in the dreaded flirt. The dynamic shifted again and she was immediately engaged in conversation with another party-goer, as befitted her effortless sociability.
I was no expert in massage, but I set about my task with determination. Her shoulders were well defined and reached up in stages to her neck, which was gloriously naked up and into the fine gradation of her hair. Her muscle tone, haircut and the smallness of her head conspired to make her neck appear endless, and the wide opening of her T-shirt meant I could drink in her skin on one side with my eyes and fingers.
So it was certainly inevitable that my feelings should leap from fancy to arousal in pretty short order. But also being convinced of her sexuality, and still being rather highly strung about my own, I had simply assumed way too much about her assent to the massage. So when her companion moved on and she temporarily relaxed into my touch, I found myself kissing that incredible neck without any conscious decision to do so.
I certainly detected no complaint (although by now I was shaking with excitement and probably couldn't have correctly interpreted a slap in the face). We must have been quite an exhibition, my body almost blocking the door as I leaned down to her. But I was completely absorbed in my first exploration of a woman’s body, and oblivious to anything else. The stretch of her skin over tendon and muscle, responding organically to the touch of my lips and fingers. The fine juxtaposition of underlying power and overlying softness, tickling as my nose pushed through her hairline and tucked behind her ear. So much tantalising detail to take in, and such feelings in me!
Perhaps too soon I allowed my lips to explore her ear, and with gentle pressure I turned her towards me. Her face stayed down for a moment; but I could not be denied, and ratcheted it upward with urging lips and nose. Looking back I recognise that these early steps all came from me; but at the time I thought nothing of it.
When our lips finally touched our kisses were immediately deep and breathless, as though neither of us could be bothered with a tantalising escalation. I pressed against her, bodily; she must have been on the tips of her toes, back against the wall, to accommodate my height. My whole world was her mouth; and we stayed that way for who knows how long.
I don’t know how we ended up back in the armchair, but the next thing I remember she was curled in my lap, our tongues still relentlessly exchanging caresses. My left hand had found her shoulders again, as though I could claim it was all part of the agreed massage; but my right hand had dropped, inexorably, to her breast. It was tiny, but with such sweet tenderness. So different to the firmness of her shoulders, and yet part of the same whole.
I could not resist, but nor could I quite believe, tucking my hand under her vest to find that same shape there, but silkily warm and so, so real; enrapturing. So it was a moment before I realised that her free hand had also found its way past defences of button and zipper, into my knickers.
Perhaps I should have noticed the unsubtlety, and the hesitancy of her touch. But the fact was that a girl had a finger in my vagina, I had my hand on her breast, and any number of heavens could not have distracted me.
Again, we seemed to have reached an equilibrium. There was too much sensation to take in, too much to experience before anything could change. My consciousness seemed to be paralysed, unable to decide whether to concentrate on the overwhelming detail in the wet textures of her tongue, the supple warmth of her breast, or the vague but ecstatic pressure down below; and over all, the raw power of a line crossed, a wish granted.
But the next step came from elsewhere than my mind. Suddenly something was rising, like a tsunami. I knew what it was; but so different to my previous furtive simulations! So much greater in magnitude that I gasped with surprise, disengaging from her lips. My face must have frightened her because her hand immediately began to recede... and the sea began to subside.
‘No! Please!’ I cried, grasping her wrist. I pressed down hard (I hope I didn't hurt her), and when her finger was back in place I tucked my own hand around the crotch of my jeans, holding her there. I pushed down and round, rhythmically, unable to control myself, and her finger slid deeper, the cusp of her hand pressing hard against me. Her face was right there, inches from mine, her green eyes at once shocked and curious.
The wave returned, with unbelievable force.
*
Later, I walked her home. She was silent the whole way, and when we reached her room she was quite clear I should stay out of it. I asked her if I could come back the next day, still blind to the writing on the wall. But then she said, quietly but with finality: ‘I’m not gay.’
I went through many emotions over the following days: regret, of course; guilt, when it dawned on me just how much I had steamrollered her; shame, at what the others at the party must have thought. And anger that both she and I had allowed it to happen. Somehow the joy of it seemed to be lost.
But at the end of that term, as I was packing up to go home, there was a knock at my door. It was one of the girls from my hall, whom I did not know very well. She jumped forward mischievously and planted a startling peck on my cheek. 'That's from Angie,' she said brightly, turning to go. 'She misses you.'
I never did see her again. But at least I had found out her name.
No comments:
Post a Comment