Hesitant Heat

Fumine snorted. "So selfless."

I shrugged.

"We both know nothing gets you off like eating pussy."

I shivered and tried to control my breathing. I'd said it. I'd convinced myself that everything was over at the seven year mark. I'd convinced Fumine that I was over James. I was a liar, and worse, I'd been my own worst victim. I'd believed myself.

Fumine cracked a smile, then stepped over and hugged me tight.

"It's okay to like eating pussy."

"Not the reassurance I need right now."

"It's okay to like L." I opened my mouth to object, but she stopped me with a finger. "If she's into it, if I'm not in the picture, you can eat her."

My ears were still buzzing when she opened the door and let James back into the room. I turned away from our host, blocking the tent in my jeans with my body.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

Without facing her, I couldn't tell which of us she was addressing. My heart hadn't raced this fast in seven years. This isn't to say Fumine didn't excite me, that I didn't love her. I'd been deeply attracted to her from the moment we met, and I'd been happy with the course that attraction had taken over the last seven years. But our relationship had never scared me like James scared me. Our courtship had been mature, intentional. There was little spontaneity, uncertainty. And that had been good. But this giddy panic welling in my chest now was also good.

"We were just chatting," Fumine said, "about nothing too important."

"Important enough to lock me out of my own room," James laughed.

I noticed I still had the empty Mike's in my hand, and decided that was the prop that would let me rejoin the conversation.

"What should I do with—"

James wrenched it from my hand. "I got it."

I managed a weak chuckle, and briefly made eye contact with her. The panic crescendoed. She knew me, knew my internality. From my first confession to my last. She could see what was on my mind from a mile away. That was why I had bottled myself up.

Fumine saved me. She was already on the spare bed, rearranging pillows. "Honey, you want to hit the bathroom before we turn in?"

I did. I needed to pee. And—"Crap. We don't have any dental stuff with us."

"We've got a stash of unopened toothbrushes and so on in the supply closet on the first floor," said James. "You can use whatever you find there."

I nodded, and excused myself. I found what I needed and made my way back up to the second floor bathroom. Once there, I was confronted by a choice. Soft now but still turgid, my dick struggled for space inside my underwear. When I released it to urinate, just touching it slightly excited it again. Would I be able to settle down and sleep comfortably with it complaining? Or would indulging it be worse? Even as my fist balled around it, images of James rushed to mind. Her smile, her sardonic frowns, the softness of her cheeks, the fullness of her body. The images felt skeevy, so I dismissed them and packed up.

Back in the room, I found Fumine and James sitting side by side on James's bed, on top of the covers, bent over something on one of their cellphones.

"Welcome back," Fumine said without looking up.

"Hey."

I sat down a little too heavily on the edge of the spare bed. I should have been tired. We'd been going nonstop all trip, and it was late. But I couldn't have felt more awake. With the women's attention on the phone, I allowed myself more than a glance their way. James had changed into a loose-fitting black camisole that showed a tremendous amount of cleavage and a pair of burgundy shorts so short and tight that they must have been underwear. Fumine had ditched James's pjs, and sat crosslegged in her crop top and panties.

It was hot in the attic. In my long-sleeved tee and jeans, I'd be sweating profusely if we used the blanket on the spare bed.

I got my own phone out and pretended to check something on it. I didn't want to ask when we were turning the lights out. I didn't want to get closer to the long night ahead, to the hours of pretending to sleep while scenarios played themselves back to back in my head. Despite my best efforts, eventually my silence itself drew Fumine's attention to the time.

"Honey, if you don't have much party left in you, we could do lights off."

I didn't have much party left in me. I did my best to suppress the sigh, and then I nodded.

"Okay, here I come!"

Fumine bounded off James's bed, hit the light switch on the wall, and ducked in beside me, arranging herself to spoon me. James put her phone down and flopped over, dimly visible in the faint glow from the skylights.

"Thanks for reaching out," she said as Fumine and I got settled. "This has been a really nice evening."

"Thanks for hosting," I responded, the automatic decorum completely ruining the moment.

Fumine's hand settled on my crotch.

"You're a good friend," she whispered, and then three of us pretended to go to sleep.

At some point, I must have actually fallen asleep, because I woke up. Fumine was whispering something about blood amounts and dizziness, and another voice was coming in intermittently. I cast about and saw my wife huddled in the corner on her phone. She made eye contact with me and waved her hand as if to say I needn't concern myself. I waited a minute for the call to end, and then I raised an eyebrow.

"Rose is worse, had a bad vomiting spell and thinks she tore her throat. I'm going to meet her and accompany her to the hospital." She leaned in close, whispering softly and directly into my ear.

"Right now?" I asked.

"Jesus, honey, her throat's bleeding right now. Yes."

"Oh." I didn't mean it like that, I was just looking for clarification. "I'll come too."

"Nonsense." She pulled her jacket on, sitting on the covers resolutely, pinning me to the bed. "Imagine if James wakes up and we're both gone. You get a good night's sleep, and we'll reconvene when it's light. Keep your cell on."

Somewhat groggy, I just nodded.

The panic only resurfaced when she was gone and I was alone with James. Between having effectively just enjoyed a nap, worrying about Rose, and thinking about Fumine's earlier comments, I knew I wouldn't fall asleep again anytime soon. I turned over, toward the wall, and tried counting my breaths.

"Is your friend okay?"

At first I didn't recognize the voice. It was almost meek, a word I'd never use to describe James.

"I hope so," I replied.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I think she just got a bad flu or something."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Are you still writing anything these days?"

I tensed at the question. Back in the day, I'd fancied myself a writer. I liked James in part, I always told myself, because she was a writer. A good one. Turned out she really was a writer, went on to continue being a writer. I wasn't anything.

"No."

"That's too bad."

"Is it?"

"I liked trading chapters." Fabric swished and her bed groaned. She was sitting up. "Can we do that again?"

"I don't have anything to show you," I said. I felt pathetic.

"Why do you always lie to me?" she asked, her voice back. Annoyance. I shivered.

"What do you mean?"

"You must have told me you were over me ten times."

Touché, but. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Fumine showed me some of your recent stuff."

She what? I had written recently, weird fetish smut for Fumine's eyes only. "I'm sorry she did that."

"Fucking hell. Don't be. It was cool. I mean, it was really, really good. And it was enjoyable, from what I saw."

"What do you want?" I asked, wishing the wall would swallow me.

"Did I stutter? I want to trade chapters."

"No, I mean what do you—"

"I don't know. Is that not okay?" Her voice trembled. I'd never seen her emote like this until tonight, crying about her sister. "You always try to wrap things up. Why do you decide everything? When you're interested, when you're over it, when you contact me, when you're silent. You decided everything."

"You decided some things," I said softly.

She hadn't stuttered when she told me she didn't see herself entering a relationship with me. Not once, not twice, not thrice. The signals had been clear.

"Fuck that. I liked our friendship."

"Me too," I said. "But you never-"

"I was so scared of giving you false hope," she said. "I knew how you felt, and I was terrified of making things worse for you."

In seven years of obsession, that possibility had never occurred to me. I'd always been confused: why had she enjoyed our time together so much, yet never once started a conversation with me? Was I totally off, incapable of reading her mood?

Of course I was.

I laughed.

"Why the fuck are you laughing?"

"I always knew it was my own fault."

"What do you mean?"

"My feelings weren't your fault. They couldn't have been your fault. You could have done or said whatever you wanted, and ultimately, the unrequited crush was on me. I never begrudged you anything."

"That's... surprisingly nice to know."

"By the time I sorted this out, I'd already decided you didn't need more apologies, more confessions. I wanted to leave you alone."

"Another decision."

"I'm... sorry?"

"You still haven't said it, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry I shoved my feelings down your throat." This felt good, too good. I knew it would. That's why I'd never said it. It was for my own benefit, not hers. What was the point? "I'm sorry I was dramatic and awkward. I'm sorry I overshared and demanded."

"And?"

"And?"

"And what else are you sorry for?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I cut you out of my life."

"I don't forgive you."

"You shouldn't."

"Stop telling me what to do."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

I wasn't. "You're right."

"You're happier now," James said, suddenly. "You move more easily through the world. I can tell, even though you hold back around me. I can tell from Fumine, from your writing. You couldn't have written that shit seven years ago. You were so unhappy, so out of place."

"Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?"

"You've probably pondered my moods and perspectives endlessly inside that head of yours, you can deal with it."

Fair was fair. I turned over and faced James. She was sitting with her back against her headboard, looking down into her lap, sheet drawn to her waist.

"It's not vanity to know you still have the hots for me," she said. "You probably always will. And it may be pathological, and you may have been awkward as hell, but you did try to be good about it. You say you shoved it down my throat, but you were a good friend. You really listened. The truth isn't always one thing—as you taught me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying what you've needed to hear for over a decade: I don't hate you."

I chewed on that for a bit. James looked over at me, eyes searching.

"I'll take it," I said, and she visibly decompressed.

"Would you..."

"Yes?"

"Would you want to talk more?" she asked. "I don't think I'll sleep."

"I guess it's a night of firsts," I laughed.

She clearly caught my meaning, sharing in the laugh. This was the first time she'd asked me to talk. I pushed myself up in bed and assumed a similar sitting position, back against the wall, facing her.

The moon had emerged from behind some clouds, and she was well illuminated. One of the straps of her camisole had fallen from her shoulder, and her left breast was almost free. She looked good. She caught my gaze, looked down, shrugged.

"This is me," she said, daring me to make an issue of it.

"I'm more interested in what's on your mind," I replied. It was true, but I also took her presentation as an invitation, and I watched the way her skin moved as she breathed.

She had way more to say about her sister. About her mom, her mom's campaign. About her friend who'd been killed by the nazi terrorist. I listened, coming in only occasionally. And now and then the conversation would swing back to me. My experience with disability, the ups and downs of my social circle. She was interested, engaged.

It felt like the old days: hours of conversation, never-ending topics, a deep rapport. Only this time, instead of our interaction being mediated by words on screens or cafe hours, we had a true expanse of time at our hands. The only deadline was my flight home the next day. And the only barrier between us was the space between the beds, a handful of feet between my errant heart and her nearly exposed breast.

"This is it," I murmured at one point, content in our intimacy.

"What?" she asked, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning forward slightly.

"Just... this is it. This is what I wanted. All those years, L, this is what I wanted."

She nodded.

"And this is what you wanted."

She nodded again.

"Then why didn't—"

"I can't answer that question." She shook her head. "Sorry, that was something you'd say. I don't want to answer that question. So please don't ask it."

I rubbed my face in one hand, easing tension out of my brow. "I won't." But I needed to say something else. "We have it right now."

Frustration flared across her face, quickly replaced by tender resignation.

"You leave in a few hours, Cinderella."

"I'll send you chapters."

"Good."

I didn't have anything else I felt I could say, so I fell silent. We looked at each other for a while. This was the longest we'd made eye contact ever. This was one difference between sixteen and thirty. I had nothing to be embarrassed of, anymore. She had nothing to fear. I was leaving in a few hours.

The pause dragged on. Neither of us looked away.

"I can't believe you needed company this badly," I said, finally. Her eyebrows went up. "Like, don't you have friends here? Lovers?"

"I do," she said, slowly. "It's... different."

Her nipples were hard. Noticing this, I quickly became hard as well.

"Different how?"

Her gaze dropped briefly, then she looked away. "They don't know me like you do."

"That seems unlikely," I chuckled. "We've known each other a long time, but—"

"No buts," said James. "Do you ever feel like you lost part of yourself in college?"

"All the time."

"Have you ever found that part again, maybe temporarily?"

"Yes." For me, it was my writing. I'd found it again writing smutty vignettes for Fumine.

"Then you understand."

I buried my face in my hands.

"What the fuck, L."

She didn't say anything.

Minutes passed. The moon disappeared behind more clouds. My palms were damp. The question I hadn't asked raged in my head.

"I like Fumine," James said quietly.

There was no non sequitur. My boner finished shriveling as I cried.

"I hope you'll visit again, together."

"Yeah," I managed.

"I feel bad to keep you here while your friend is sick," James said. Her tone had changed again. Her voice was soft, but the words were harsh, forced. "Fumine's too nice, having you stay behind. You can go whenever you want."

I looked up at her.

"You're kicking me out?"

She seemed taken aback. "What do you want to do?"

What did I want to do? The same thing I'd wanted to do all night. I wiped my face on my sleeve and took a deep breath. It was 2021. I was thirty. Sanders was President. All the lies had been exposed—his, mine. The world was shot to hell, but the left was finally pushing back its opponents. A crescent of areola was visible. The giddy panic was gone. The turmoil in my stomach wasn't unlike that first night with Fumine. Some worries. No fears.

"I want to eat you out," I said.

In the dimly lit room, I could only imagine the blush. Her eyes were locked on mine. I accepted their probe. The gears were turning. She was making calculations I couldn't fathom. There were no more questions to ask, no more evidence to offer. She wanted to make her own decisions, so I left the request in the space between us and said nothing more.

Finally, she nodded.

The panic didn't return. My heart swelled, but didn't jump. I wanted to do this, for her, for me. Some worries. No fears.

I eased myself forward and stood.

Wordlessly, she flung off the covers and pushed down her shorts. My eyes had adjusted to the light level, and what little light there was gleamed on her thighs, her belly. She was bigger than Fumine in most directions, thicker and fuller. Swollen with promise. I loved what I saw. I'd stopped trying to figure out years ago which of her beauty and personality had preceded the other in my esteem, if I loved how she looked because I loved her or if I loved her because of how she looked. It had never mattered, and in this moment, it couldn't matter less. However I had arrived at this point, her shape was my ideal.

I knelt down on the floor, encouraged her to swing her legs off the bed and over my shoulders. She lay back and presented her vulva to me. I didn't read deeply into its moist sheen. The room was hot, and she'd been holding her legs together. Still, I was happy to see it wasn't a dry desolation. Unlike Fumine, James was clean-shaven. This surprised me, somewhat, though what really surprised me was that I felt disappointed. That was inappropriate. This is who she is. Who she chooses to be.

I strengthened my grip on James's shins and ran my hands up over her knees to her thighs. She shuddered. I leaned forward.

Wordlessness befitted the situation, but I spoke anyway.

"Don't hesitate to guide me."

"Mmhm."

With that, I engaged her pussy. Careful not to apply too much or too little pressure in the initial strokes, I covered her with broad licks before setting into her labia in earnest. I liked Fumine's fluffy pubes, enjoyed petting them, but the advantages to James's style became quickly apparent. I had access to everything; I didn't need to stop to extricate hairs from my mouth. I savored her flavor, running my tongue up and down the creases of her thighs, the spaces between her lips. Sweet skin, lightly salted, infinitely soft.

"More of that," James said suddenly, and I realized I'd lost track of what I was doing, adrift in her taste.

"Sorry, which?"

"Long and gentle between the labia minora," she said.

I complied, and she sighed. "Maybe not. Just do whatever."

Not to be deterred, I stirred up her lips with some circular licks, then sucked them into my mouth, eliciting a groan of pleasure. In that moment, I felt something lift from me. A shadow of doubt, a conviction that I'd never made anything better for James. Fumine could tease me all she wanted—and she could even be right, I loved cunnilingus and my cock was straining to reach full mast in my jeans—but as James had said, the truth isn't always one thing. I desperately needed to make her feel good.

"That's nice," she said as I lapped at her clitoral hood.

I ventured beneath it gingerly, and when she moaned, I pressed further. Her thighs came together around my head, squeezing me as I licked, lapped, and sucked. Her breathing grew heavier. Her labia swelled. Everything was warmer, slicker.

After a moment of tension in her legs, she spread them and put a hand on my head, pushing me back from her pussy.

"Moment," she breathed.

"You okay?" I asked. My face was sopping with my saliva and her juices. An incredible formulation. Fumine flitted temporarily from my mind as I absorbed the fact that I was just nose-deep in James.

She sat up, nodded. Even in the dark, her flush was visible, across her face, neck, shoulders, and chest. Her breasts heaved as she caught her breath. Somehow her camisole had yet to completely betray her. Her mouth hung open slightly.