Burning With You

#

"Maaaaan." Tokui smiled at his co-panelists. "They really went for it."

Triendl and You burst into giggles as the couch reacted to the latest indignity on Terrace House. Yamasato glowered at us from the wall.

"I'm bored," he said simply, prompting more laughs in the studio.

"I'm bored," Hesther echoed, fidgeting with the remote.

The sage and citrus candle sputtered.

"We really did just grind through most of this episode drop," I pointed out.

It was getting late; we'd been watching Terrace House nonstop for something like five hours. Hesther paused Netflix and looked at me.

We were friends, and this was my eternal fear: that Hesther would become bored of my company. She'd never said it before, only made me feel it with subtler cues. But now, three weeks into our confinement in my Seven Hills studio apartment, there were the words. I deflected too fast, trying to paint Terrace House the cause. I looked desperate. And I'm sure I literally looked desperate, too. I wore my heart on my sleeve, I'd been told. That's why I never bothered telling Hesther how I felt. She knew. Everyone knew.

Another thing we both knew, from our time together as undergrads, from our lengthy debates at parties about which of our departments was the more useful or virtuous, that people say things for reasons. Hesther's utterance ("I'm bored") had an occasion, a context, a purpose, a goal. As did my response ("We really did just grind through most of this episode drop"). She was expressing actionable information and I was trying to point her attention in a particular direction. This was our dance, always.

Hesther was always astute, but in the past she had left many things uninterrogated, for both our sakes. This time was different. Maybe it was that three weeks is just too long to spend in isolation with a friend who has a crush on you, or maybe it was the knowledge that we were going to die—if not this time, next time, or the time after. Stewardland was doomed. The utility diabolists were winning. Whatever the reason, she didn't leave it alone this time.

"No, dude, you know why I'm bored?"

She was looking straight at me with those hazel eyes that infallibly pushed my own gaze away. As I'd done countless times over the last six years, I looked off to the side. Yamasato's displeased face, on the TV, provided a perfect focus.

I didn't know what to say. I'd offered my take—or at least, the take I was comfortable offering. My mind raced through alternative at a furious pace. She was bored of my apartment, bored of my canned tuna, bored of my attitude, my overenthusiastic ass-kissing company.

"I don't get bored easily," she said, when I didn't respond. "We've talked about this, I think? I always have stuff to think about, scenarios to run through, past interactions to obsess over, yada yada. Leave me alone with my thoughts for a few hours and the concept of boredom's pretty far away still."

I nodded. She'd gone into this before. I'd related, unsure if I just had a good imagination or some kind of undiagnosed anxiety.

"Thing is, I'm out of things to think about." I felt her gaze intensify in my peripheral vision. I mean, that's probably impossible, but feelings are just like that sometimes. "Maybe it sounded like a complaint, when I said I was bored just now. But actually, it's a kind of quietude. I feel good. With the world ending, my life's become so much simpler—solvable."

If she felt like elaborating, I wasn't going to stop her. Letting Hesther talk was my favorite thing to do. Sometimes she said things I didn't like hearing, like who she was dating, but for the most part Hesther talking meant we weren't parting ways yet. I clung to her utterances.

"I've played out every scenario in which you finally tell me how you feel about me."

I shivered. My heart did that thing it did whenever I considered confessing, that unpleasant thing that so far had discouraged me from ever saying anything. As far as my words went, I had no untoward thoughts regarding Hesther, no unfulfilled desires. But I knew I trembled visibly in these moments, and Hesther was a good friend, and Hesther wasn't dumb. She knew. She had to know, I'd always thought, but now it was more than obvious. There was no playing things off.

"I'm sorry," I said, unsure what value the apology held.

"You apologize in every single one," she said, a hint of levity in her voice. "And I reassure you that I'm not offended, that I don't feel cornered or put upon."

I couldn't see Yamasato's face anymore. My eyes weren't closed, I just, like, couldn't... focus?

"What next."

"Next you surrender to the idea that I'm psychic, and that I was right all those times I told you philosophy was better than rhetoric, because I can reverse engineer good-enough psychology from my understanding of understanding, and call every shot you take."

I snorted. "And then?"

"And then I agree, philosophy forever. Then there's a branching pathway."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Sometimes in my head you defend rhetoric, sometimes well, sometimes poorly. And sometimes you just get excited and want to hear more about your own feelings from me, and eventually we fuck."

I could hear my heart beating, clashing cymbal-like in my ears.

"What?"

"Eventually," she repeated. "In most of the scenarios I mapped out, you can't process what I'm saying and need to take a beat to breathe, drink water, maybe put ice on the back of your neck to calm down."

Those all sounded necessary, and I took a deep breath, realizing that I was being railroaded. Or fucked with.

Hesther got up. I heard the kitchen tap. She came back with a glass of water and handed it to me.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"You know."

She laughed. "Dude, I don't. Why what?"

I frowned into my water. She knew what I meant: why was she saying all this? Why not just leave things alone? I didn't like Hesther's rhetorical questions. They gave her so much power.

"Seriously," she said, "sometimes, I get the sense you think I know you better than I do."

I didn't buy it, but I bit. "Why do we fuck?"

"Honestly, because we're horny and alone at the end of the world," she said. "And if we don't die, either I come to love you back or you come to accept that this was a fling of necessity and you let go. Maybe it gets messy, but we're adults, and we're probably going to die." This time, or next time, or the time after. Stewardland was—

I was buzzing, incapable of forming full thoughts. Hesther had the reins.

Still gazing into the TV, I gestured with my palm toward the ceiling, encouraging Hesther to continue speaking.

"You've loved me for years," she said. "I'm not exactly sure when it started, and you probably aren't either. Maybe when we sat next to each other in Philosophical Fantasies junior year. Disgusted with the nice guy playbook, you decided on your own that we'd only ever be friends, and tried to bury your feelings. You like my eyes, my smile, the confidence with which I defend my discipline. You're pretty good at not staring at my body, but I think you think you'll like my tits when you allow yourself to see them."

It was scarily accurate, down to the hesitancy with which I assessed her body through her clothes. I'd always told myself my attraction was purely romantic, almost asexual, and I'd managed to train myself not to scope her out or stare. But narratives were just narratives. I did like tits, and despite Hesther's typically conservative dress, I did think that I'd like hers.

"How long have you known all this?" I asked, genuinely impressed, slowly slowing my heart as Hesther's insistence on the topic slowly reassured me that I was not trespassing here.

"Honestly?" she laughed. "Back in college I assumed every guy I talked to wanted to fuck me. I was hot shit, slutty and cynical. But you never made a move, and your friendship felt so genuine. I thought you were gay for years, and stopped paying attention. I actually... maybe two weeks ago? Yeah. Two weeks ago, roughly. That's when I figured out you were into me, and it took a couple days of mulling over things to figure out the rest."

"What gave it away?"

"Nothing you did or said." Hesther sighed. I felt the couch shift under me as she leaned back against the armrest. "Just stuck in here, solving my life. I'm good at thinking things through when I try." She was. "'sides, the fires bring out my cynicism, and my cynicism brings out my sluttiness, and that's a pretty useful lens for this stuff."

Yamasato looked back at me from the TV, almost appearing to be mid-eye-roll, his boredom both a response to the present harmony among the members on Terrace House and a reflection on my passivity.

"Okay," I said, the resolve kicking my heart back into overdrive.

"Okay what?"

"Just, 'okay.' I'm being a little railroaded here, and I'm not going to complain." I wrenched my gaze from the TV, forced myself to meet Hesther's eyes. "You're right about everything, and you know what you're up for, so let's just go with your script."

There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. It reminded me of our late-night, alcohol-fueled arguments about the competing merits of truth and usefulness.

"Oh no," she said. "The fun of accurate prediction is in testing the predictions. I think I've given you plenty to go on."

I shivered again. "You're too much."

"You love it," she said. "Your move."

I thought about it, then extended my hand, palm up, fingers splayed. I wanted to hold her hand.

"Interesting," she said, before sitting upright, shoving her left breast into my startled grasp. Her sweater was soft, as was the flesh behind it. I recoiled, and she laughed. "Too slutty?"

I was pretty sure there was no such thing as too slutty; I just hadn't been prepared for this pace. Two facts became clearer with Hesther's latest words and actions, two things that I should have parsed much earlier in this conversation:

First, she understood and accepted my feelings, though she didn't reciprocate them.

Second, she was horny, feeling slutty, and wanted to fuck me.

Too wrapped up in my fears, in my anxiety response, I'd not fully believed these things until now. But as it clicked, as my mind adapted to these facts, all the unnecessary scaffolding of emotion and propriety crumbled away. If the woman I loved wanted to fuck me, I was not going to cock-block her. I returned my hand to Hesther's sweater, gently but firmly cupping her tit.

"Good," she said, and then I was kissing her, our noses rubbing and bangs intertwining, my lips marveling at the softness of hers, tongues rapidly joining the action.

She put a hand on the side of my head, fingers stroking my ear, and pulled me close, pinning my hand between our chests. Hesther was soft everywhere, all thick wool and thick woman, her body's receptiveness and the oxytocin released by our embrace providing me the final reassurance I needed to go for it. We kissed for minutes, hands running through each other's hair, my cock growing against her belly. We broke, breathless, and for the first time since I realized I was crushing on her, I held her gaze painlessly.

"I think you were distressed when the lockdown hit and I was still here for our movie night," she said. "But I was happy. You've always been a good friend, dude. Honestly, no one better to greet the apocalypse with."

"With whom to," I almost said. But we weren't drunk undergrads yelling about Kundera and Barthes. Not anymore. Instead, I wordlessly pulled my shirt off. I let Hesther take in the long and sloping curve of my side and waist, the downy trail of hair from my chest to my pjs, my hardening nipples, the scar on my belly. When I was younger I'd spend hours crying over my body, hot frustration coating my cheeks over its femininity. My body image problems had improved since middle school, but as Hesther looked at me they all but vanished. Her face belied nothing but lust. Emboldened, I ran a hand over my chest, squeezed myself. A moan escaped Hesther's lips.

She mirrored my movements, playing with her tits as I fondled my own chest. Her mouth hung open lewdly, and her hips gyrated slightly as she ground her thighs together. My pjs were tented in the front.

"May I?" she asked, one hand leaving her tits to point at my cock.

I nodded and my hands wandered to my waistband.

"Me," she said, catapulting forward onto her knees and hooking her fingers behind the elastic.

I changed tack, letting one hand play with her short curls, returning the other my chest. She freed my cock and leaned further forward. I shivered again as her tongue flitted around the tip. Next thing I knew I was in her, burning in the heat of her mouth.

The physical sensation wasn't fully novel. I had some experience, here and there, over the years. But there was something overwhelming about this moment, that the mouth engulfing me was the same mouth that had held its own against me through years of overindulgent intellectual wankery. That this was Hesther, not some other woman but Hesther.

I couldn't keep my balance, propped up on my knees on the middle section of the couch, and I slowly slipped backward, my ass leaning on my feet. Hesther didn't miss a beat, advancing with my retreat, never losing contact with my cock.

"Fuck," I moaned.

She vocalized something in response, something nonlinguistic with my cock fully in her mouth, but something with an encouraging tone, and I closed my eyes and let her pleasure me, and pleasure me, and pleasure me. At some point I opened my eyes again, surprised at my own endurance. I was hard, and Hesther's technique was excellent, and I was more than aroused, but I felt no closer to coming than before she went down on me.

Sensing the shift in my attention, she pulled back and looked up at me.

"Wanna come in my mouth?" she asked.

"I don't know if I can right now," I said.

"Not good enough?" she teased.

"No—"

"No, I know. It's our first time. You're a bundle of nerves." I was. "Listen, you don't have to come, obviously, but if you want to, let me know and I'll keep working at it. Sorry to say, still can't have pain-free PIV so my pussy's off the table for now."

I was naked, Hesther was still fully clothed in the sweater and jeans in which she'd turned up at my door three weeks ago. I pointed this out in silence, then added, "maybe I can do something for you?"

"I'd love that," she said. "No fingers or penises in the vagina, please, but anything else is fair game."

I undressed her slowly, delighting in every inch of skin as I exposed it. She was full, luscious. The first thing that occurred to me as I lifted the hem of her sweater was that I wanted to bite her side, that indelible zone where hip becomes waist, so I did. She laughed and swatted me away.

"No tickling, either."

I adjusted to firmer, smoother touches, tracing the curves of her body as it came into view. She wasn't wearing a bra, and when her tits plopped out I couldn't resist telling her she'd been right.

"You're fun," she responded.

I finished stripping her, with some assistance from her in removing her tight jeans. Her mons was prominent and covered in soft, curly pubes. I traced a finger through them, then cupped her vulva.

"Can I kiss you down here?"

"Fuck yeah."

Cunnilingus was a dear act to me, my favorite service to the various women I'd been with, something I fantasized about receiving. I was pretty good at it, by all accounts, and Hesther, writhing under my ministrations, didn't seem like she was going to disabuse me of that notion. I ran my tongue up and down along and between her labia, alternating between licks, kisses, and sucking her lips into my mouth. She moaned as I teased her clit, and then I applied more pressure, tracing shapes across her entire vulva with special attention to the more sensitive spots. She came in short order, mollifying my remaining unease, heaving breaths, sharp moans, and quivering hips proof that this was working well for her.

"Not bad, dude."

"It's what I like," I said.

"No shit."

She sat up and pushed me back down, then licked the underside of my cock and balls, a single, broad stroke up, then its mirror down. I felt myself open up, blossom at her touch, and I came unexpectedly, spurting messily into the space above Hesther's forehead.

"Whoa." She didn't flinch or complain. She reached for a tissue from the coffee table and set about tidying her face and hair.

"Sorry," I breathed, more shocked than she at the eruption.

"Don't be," she insisted. The mischief was gone, as decisively banished as her boredom. She just looked happy. "I enjoyed all that, and wouldn't mind doing more before the world ends."

She snuggled up against me, stroking my cheek. She felt so good on me, flesh against flesh, molding her body to mine.

"I love you, Hesther."

"Thanks," she said. "And sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry."

"No," she mumbled, "I suppose I don't."

She fell asleep like that. Absent her conducting, my automatic thoughts took over. I cried a little, unsure if they were tears of joy or pain. I'd experienced a strange euphoria at the tip of Hesther's tongue, something new and validating. I wasn't ready for the world to end.

#

"Maaaaan." Tokui smiled at his co-panelists. "They really went for it."

Triendl and You burst into giggles as the couch reacted to the latest indignity on Terrace House. Yamasato glowered at us from the wall.

"I'm bored," he said simply, prompting more laughs in the studio.

"I'm bored," Hesther echoed, fidgeting with the remote.

The sage and citrus candle sputtered.

"We really did just grind through most of this episode drop," I pointed out.

It was getting late; we'd been watching Terrace House nonstop for something like five hours. Hesther paused Netflix and looked at me.

We were strangers. She'd been stranded on my block, going door to door after the lockdown hit looking for someone to shelter her. I was the first person to let her in. I'd assumed, perhaps foolishly, that the Gullet wouldn't stay open too long, and I had half a year of earthquake supplies stocked up in my decent-sized studio apartment. I hadn't asked questions—that first night, when she cried in my shower and I later found a wedding ring in the bathroom trash, I'd gleaned all I needed to glean in order to feel good about being generous. Since, we'd entertained ourselves with Netflix, avoiding topics like romance or work. Just as well. I was freshly out of a job, what with the university burning down in Georgeville. The dog-eared Heidegger on the coffee table was an unpleasant but unimpeachable reminder of how needless the job's stress had been.

Hesther fiddled with the remote in silence for a moment, staring into my eyes, then dropped it on the rug.

"What if this really never ends?" she asked.

"The Gullet always closes eventually." It was common wisdom, the only thing preventing mass suicide across Stewardland.

"And it always reopens," she said.

She was right. Paradise, Lady Rose, Leather Valley, Moon Valley—and those were just the most recent hotspots in Northern Stewardland. The fires burned around Angels, too, two hundred days a year. Diabolists ran the private utility companies, it was said, using the grid to perform satanic rituals in an effort to merge our world with Hell.

Three weeks into our accidental friendship, I was still piecing together who Hesther was. She seemed like a deep thinker. It made sense that she'd be thinking about the future, the apocalypse. I saw my own feelings reflected in her expression: my uncertainty, my teetering fatalism.

"What's the point of eating another can of tuna and making it another day if this is what life is?" she asked.

We'd avoided the topic until now, somehow, a true feat of will in the face of circumstance, but now there was no avoiding it.