I can't remember a time when we were not friends. We've known each other since before kindergarten.
Twenty years later, you're a single mom and I'm just single. I listen as you complain that you wish you could find someone with whom you can share all of your secrets. You tell me that you want someone who doesn't laugh at you for wanting to be a dancer. You tell me all of your secret desires and dreams. (I already knew that you wanted to be a Rockette, you know.)
As you tell me of your latest dating disaster, I get Ronnie ready for bed. (Did you know she hates the Barbie pajamas your ex-mother-in-law gave her?) I hear you tell me we need to find me a partner so our children can grow up together and be best friends like we are. (You've been the only one to accept me as I am. You stood by me even when my parents disowned me.) Or, you suggest, I could just get fertilized and not bother with a partner. (You think I don't see how hard it is for you and Ronnie? How many times have you told me if I weren't around, you could never raise her by yourself?)
After calming Ronnie's excitement about her 3rd birthday party in a month, I let you give Ronnie her last kiss goodnight before I turn the light off. Since it's my night off and tomorrow is your day off, we talk well into the night. It's like we're 16 again. I comb your hair as the cleansing masks dry on our faces. (You know I always envied your curly hair.) You lament the fact that there is no one out there with whom you can share your life. (Haven't you noticed that you already are?)
As you wash the mask off your face, I make a mess of the chocolate martinis. Laughing, you tease me about my lack of "wifely" skill. (When did you ever make a martini as a wife?) As you fix the drinks, I remind you how we paid for college. You were safe behind the bar mixing drinks while I danced for a bunch of drunks. I never did learn how to make drinks right.
You tease me back. "While you were having men you didn't want fall at your feet, I had to work to find my own rich husband." Not wanting to remind you that your ex is neither rich nor husband material, I hold my tongue. You already discovered he was cheating on you and now that he doesn't want to see Ronnie, I leave that barb alone.
"Let me braid your hair!" I know a demand when I hear one. Bringing our drinks, I settle onto the floor so you can sit on the couch behind me.
You tell me that I have wonderful hair -- sleek and straight. Too straight I tell you. You laugh and tell me that everyone has something that's straight; mine just happens to be my hair. (If everyone has something that's straight, does everyone have something that's gay?)
As you run your fingers through my hair, I put my drink on the coffee table and just enjoy the sensation. You stir goose bumps on the back of my neck. I try to distract myself.
Ronnie is upstairs safely tucked in bed. I can hear her soft breathing through the baby monitor. You pull out the French braid you created out and weave my hair into a complicated pattern. Suddenly you jump up and tell me that you have just the thing. I use your absence to remind myself that we are best friends, only friends. I quickly gulp my drink.
You come back with dried flowers and white ribbon. Gently you brush my hair out again. Your long fingernails stroke the back of my neck. (You know what you are doing to me.) The news prattles on television. I try to focus on it – anything to remind myself that I haven't known an intimate touch in over two years.
Quickly you bind my hair, entwining the ribbon and flowers. I don't know why you waited so long to become a hairdresser. You make the most lackluster locks lovely. (Alliteration, I must really need to distract myself.) As you finish, I make up silly haikus. You laugh at my musings. (Your laughter fills me, with one thousand little joys, when will you be mine?)
Handing me a mirror, you tell me that I'm ready. (I have to admit, the baby's breathe and white ribbon contrast nicely with my black hair.) "Look at the back," you demand. Instead of letting me up to go to the bathroom mirror, you turn my head and hold another mirror for me. If people could store hairstyles in museums, you'd have your own permanent exhibit.
Without any warning, you begin rubbing my bare neck. Giving into the relaxing pleasure, I lean against your legs. Your hands move under my bra straps, pushing them down.
All I can concentrate on is your touch. As my breathing becomes heavy, you giggle. (I try to ignore that you're you. I try to pretend that I'm watching CSPAN.) Using your fingernails, you fondle my bare flesh. When I ask you to stop, you want to know why. (What can I tell you? You're my best friend, that I've loved you for as long as I've understood love, but you ARE my best friend?)
Leaning next to my ear, you breath, "Don't you like it?" When I tell you I like it too much, you laugh again. I can feel your soft lips on my ear. Your teeth pull gently at my lobe. I give up. I give in. I may as well enjoy drowning. Your warm tongue traces circles on the back of my neck and I'm torn. Should I turn around and kiss you back, or just try to control my growing desire? You made the decision for me.
Pulling your leg over my head, you slide off the couch, around my body and into my lap. I run my hands over your course hair; the feeble braid I made quickly unwinds. Your hair is wild and your deep, dark, blue eyes smolder. Your cheek caresses mine as you kiss my neck. The touch ignites little wildfires in my body. Grasping the back of my neck, you pull my head toward you and kiss my forehead, my eyes, and my cheeks.
"Really, it's ok," you tell me. The conflict must show vividly on my face. I wanted this for so long, but don't want to risk our friendship. "Why do you think I've made sure you know I haven't had any good dates lately?" Any answer I could give is cut off when you kiss me firmly on the lips. My mouth opens to receive you. Unlike the hesitant touch I expected, you unfalteringly draw me into your mouth.
That I'm the hesitant one and you so confident and bold pleases me. You grind your hips against me. I can feel your warmth through your pajamas. Holding onto your round, tight buttocks, I kiss you deeper. (You may be acting confident, but I'm the one with the experience.) Holding onto you, I shift and slam you to the floor. For a moment I thought your intake of breath was pain. The floors are soft and I guided you away from the coffee table. (I couldn't live with myself if I hurt you. Gods, what did I do?) Then I notice, you are smiling and looking at me.
"Are you being shy or do you want me to beg?" Your small question becomes a big challenge as you hold me with your eyes. I pull your arms from around my neck, grab your wrists, straddle you and hold you down. (Are you breathing that heavily or is it me?) I kiss you roughly and press my body against yours. (How could your ex not know what he had?) You move against my body. Rubbing yourself on me, you arch your back.
Running my hands roughly down your arms, your throat, your shoulders, your sides, I want to make love to you quickly and roughly. But, you've never been with a woman before and I want to make sure you know how much better it is. I caress your small breasts through your pajamas. Your nipples are like Christmas candies, hard and dark. I pinch you gently at first until I hear your moans. I rip open your pajamas. (I'll buy you new ones. These were old and flimsy anyway.) I just stare at your beautiful, soft body.
"Oh, don't look. Even after two years I still have stretch marks." You are my Venus. How can I convince you of that? Instead of words, I begin painting you with kisses. Starting with your lips (You try to hold me tightly against to you, but I grab your arms again and pull them around me softly), I kiss my way down. I gently lip your shoulders. When you whisper "harder" to me, I use teeth.
Your breasts are rising and falling rapidly. I begin massaging one with my hand. I didn't think your nipples could get any harder, but they do. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I begin sucking on your breasts. My tongue traces circles around your nipples. The hand I was using to massage your breast moved downward. Through what's left of your pajamas, I can feel your hot, wet mound.
Clumsily, you fondle my breasts. Suddenly, I feel you opening my pants. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shivering. (How to warm you up?) I press on your clitoris; you press against my hand. You whimper as I stop rubbing you so I can remove my clothing. You've seen me naked before but tonight I see you comparing your body to mine. I've displayed my body for as long I've had to support myself. I've never been shy before, but tonight, I am.
"I can't believe you can look at me. You're so gorgeous." What can I say to you to rebuild what your ex- tore down? You are beautiful. If I were a master painter, all of my works would be of you? But the only thing I say...
"You are one of the most attractive women I know. Bar none." Hopefully you realize that I'm not exaggerating. Six nights a week I dance with woman who know they are beautiful, but none hold a candle to you. "Come here." I pull you up from the floor and we go into the downstairs bedroom. (How many times have I masturbated down here knowing that you were only ten feet above my head?) I guide you toward the bed planning to lay you down.
"No," your sudden refusal leaves me confused until my brain registers the rest of what you said. "I want to be on top." Have I ever in my life refused you anything? I lay back on top of the covers. "Don't mess your hair ... that's for me to do," you continue shyly. I watch you finish undressing. Your eyes capture mine as you crawl up my body. You trail your hair up my thighs and over my bush. You push my legs apart as you reposition yourself next to me. Tentatively, you insert one finger. I wince as a hangnail catches me. At your stricken look, I comfort you, tell you it's ok, and take your hand to my mouth.
I gently clip your hangnail with my teeth. Then I suck on your fingers. I kiss the palm of your hand. Put your fingers into my hot, wet mouth. Running my tongue around your nails, I imagine how this would feel if your fingers were elsewhere. You close your eyes and sink into the bed. (Didn't he ever do this?) Cautiously, I finger your clitoris, which has become so engorged that I don't need to spread your labia to find it. As I see your body spasm, I tell you to lie down and you obey.
Releasing your hand, I shimmy down the length of the bed and put myself between your legs. You smell like the sunrise on the ocean. I've always loved the beach. Gently unfolding your lips, I see your glistening clitoris and watch as your juices run from your pussy. I begin kissing your clitoris chastely. You put your hands on my head. I feel your fingers grabbing my hair. Baby's breath falls onto the bed. Kissing your clitoris doesn't seem like enough. I want you to be wild and out of control, so I begin sucking. I wrap one arm around your hips so I can draw you closer. Watching your face, I see you biting your lips trying not to scream out. Knowing that Ronnie is a heavy sleeper, I want you to scream and moan and spasm.
I lap at you like a dog starting almost from your ass and ending at your beautiful, throbbing jewel. Your lips engorge with blood and become pillows for my face. I stop briefly and tongue the entrance of your cunt. You are so yielding that I can get almost an inch of my tongue inside you. You taste sweet and salty. I want you to cum even more than I want to orgasm myself. I want to hold you close and feel our bodies cool together, but tonight is for you to enjoy yourself. Watching you orgasm, feeling your muscles tighten involuntarily against my tongue is almost enough to bring me over the edge.
I insert two fingers into your waiting grotto. A whimper escapes your mouth. You are so pliable. Soon I have four fingers inside of you. Rubbing the rough spot, I watch you pull a pillow over your face and scream. I feel you pushing against my hand. You want more and I want to give it to you. I slowly stuff my entire fist into your pussy and I'm surprised that I'm able to enter you so quickly. I move slowly at first until you suddenly sit up on my fist, grab my hair, and begin grinding my fist deeper than I imagine possible. (You're hurting my arm and pulling out my hair, but you are so beautiful with sweat running down your face and dripping off your breasts; I can deny you nothing.)
After a few seconds, a loud, guttural, animal scream escapes your throat. You begin to spasm. Your legs shiver uncontrollably. Your arms jerk spastically. Your cunt grabs my fist like it's never going to let go. Then bonelessly, you fall back onto the waiting bed. After a minute or so, your body calms down. I pull my hand out of you and gently run it up and down your sides. Every so often you twitch and shiver. I throw off the sweaty bedspread and get you under the blankets. Your eyes can't seem to focus on any one spot.
"Is ... it ... al-always... l-l-l-like this," you stammer through chattering teeth.
"With you it is," I tell you with a smile.
"I, but, you, do you..." another spasm rocked your body. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. "You need? You want? Just tell me." You stammered. I just wanted to watch you. I wrap my arms around you and watch as you fall asleep surrounded by small white flowers.
Ronnie looks up at me. "Teacher says that we're supposed to draw about our families. She says you're not my real mommy. Will the baby be my real brother or sister?"
"Tell your teacher that you have two real mommies who love you and, yes, the baby will really be your real brother or sister." Rubbing my bulging belly, I scoot Ronnie over on to make room for you to join us on the couch.