I Know Where Your Tongue Has Been

She had her hand between her legs. I stared, mesmerized, at the junction between her palm and thighs where the parcels of flesh mixed and disappeared. I had seen all of it yet somehow, I was now more excited by the hidden treasures than I had been by the open chest box for the past few days. As one of her digits retreated a bit then dove back in, my blood rushed like a mad race driver between my cheeks and my lower abdomen, thumping against my ear and heart on the way.

I silently let out a sigh, frustrated to be unable to see more, then resurfaced to hand her the phone. Her eyes shone with a wickedness I had never seen before. What game was she playing now?

"You should taste this blue cheese dipping," she said, as she raised her hand from under the table and put a finger in the sauce. "It's dee-li-cious, here try it," she continued while stretching her finger at me. Was she seriously offering me that? In front of her friends? In a packed restaurant?

"Oh yeah darling, try it, it's the best in town," Jimmy, one of her friends, concurred.

You wouldn't believe, I mentally joked. Well, if she wanted to play, we might as well have fun. I was starting to gain my composure and I had to have the upper hand. I leaned in and grabbed her whole index in my mouth. My tongued played with every bit of it and I reveled as her tantalizing musky flavor subtly let itself out through the blue cheese. I felt a moan build in my throat and barely caught it before it escaped.

"Best in town?" I shrugged at Jimmy after reluctantly letting the finger go. "I've had better."

I could feel her eyes shooting daggers at me. Oh well, we were playing, right?

"Better?" she scoffed. "Where is that exactly?" she asked in a tone that easily betrayed how offended she was at me liking other ... blue cheese dipping.

"Well, several other places, like nine maybe. Not that I remember their names. I tend to be a bit forgetful with this kind of thing." I could see her anger as it rose to her cheeks and I smiled inwardly. Little did she know that I was preparing a similar surprise for her.

"But this guacamole," I pointed at my quesadillas dish, "now this, I'd say is the best in town." I offered her my finger, coated with guacamole and a little free bonus I had just collected from my very threatening arousal.

She raised one eyebrow, inaudibly asking if I had treated the guacamole the same way she had the dipping. I smirked. She grabbed my finger with her teeth while she cleaned the sauce off it. "Meh, had better," she tried to shrug nonchalantly.

"What?" her other friend, Carmen, exclaimed. "You love their guacamole here!"

"No I don't," she lied. This was turning out better than I had anticipated.

"You once said it gave you a foodgasm," Jimmy added, as I held back a chuckle at the clueless comment. I knew for a fact a different kind of gasm that my guacamole could provoke in her.

"Haha, admit it, you love this guacamole," I teased her, while stretching out the O in love.

"OK, I do, I love it," she blurted, her cheeks reddening, her eyes lowering yet still glancing at me several times. I stared at her embarrassment, unable to understand for a few seconds until the idea started blossoming in my mind.

She loved my guacamole. She had said, almost ashamedly, that she loved my guacamole. Loved.

As I gaped questioningly at her, she excused herself to the ladies room and a few seconds later, called me.

"I've thought about it," she said. I asked, "and?" then repeated, "and?" then heard the click as she hung up.

I wanted to run after her, harass her for that answer, but instead, I sat in silence and waited for her to get back. I also sat in silence as she picked up the dinner, slightly taken aback, but yet as if nothing had happened. I still sat in silence as I fought to hold my promise that I'd give her some time and space. And I kept sitting in silence as the woman I loved in her resurfaced and she joked, talked, smiled, laughed, while her foot gently played with mine under the table.

And every time I looked at her, I dreamt in silence of a near future where we wouldn't need a table to hide underneath, although, I had to admit, this was a lot more fun than I ever imagined.

---

"I know where your tongue has been," I stammered in a half drunken state, letting the lift door close behind me.

She stopped suddenly, "why do you keep saying that sentence?" She leaned against the door, trying to keep her calm but with a frown on her eyebrows that easily betrayed her anger.

"What?" I fully understood the question, but needed a few seconds to wipe the inebriation out of my mind and focus on the situation.

She repeated herself then added, "it's part of the deal, it's not like I would do it if it was my choice."

That sentence totally slapped me out of my happy drunken state. Here I was, starting to consider altering all my previous life choices for her, and here she was, regretting it and willing to completely drop me if she had a choice. That fact stung, like a million snakes releasing their venom inside me.

"So why do you keep saying that sentence? Is it blackmail, is it..." her angry tone was rising, but I couldn't take it any more.

"Sorry. I didn't know you've hated these five days this much," I was about to turn away and leave when I saw her loosen up the frown and rush to hug me. I grabbed her hands before she could put them around me and dropped them. Her sympathy was the last thing I needed.

"You know me better than to accuse me of that," I flipped the guilt ball back in her court.

"I didn't mean to say it like this. I'm tipsy and not thinking straight."

I saw this as my opening, and the alcohol, her smell, her closeness, and my gut helping, I finally admitted, "I haven't been thinking straight ever since I met you," gesturing air quotes while pronouncing "straight". "And I know you enough to say that neither have you," I let out in a low husky voice as I got closer to her.

She looked up at me and asked what I meant, in a mumble, too shy to let the words go louder or clearer than necessary.

"I've seen the way you look at me."

I paused and took a step back to let her assess that statement. I then continued, in an almost didactic tone, "there are two categories of women who look at me. The first, the majority, they eye me because they're envious of my looks, and they eye my clothes to take notes for their future wardrobe."

"The second," I stared intently in her eyes, "they eye me because they're envious of my lovers, and they eye my clothes because they want to rip them off and have their way with me in twenty five different positions."

"And you think that I," she began to ask, with a little assurance and a hint of anger making their way back to her tone.

"I don't think, I know. Just like I know that you have already had your way with me, in twenty five different positions."

I grabbed her head and leaned in, my mouth playfully hanging as close to hers as I could without touching it. Her eyes shut, her lips parted, she inhaled sharply as if trying to suck me closer. In that half inch that showed her white teeth, I could see all her defenses begin to crumble. I could see her hurtful words being erased. I could see her anger dissolving into a beautiful surrender. Try as she might, that brief moment of utter abandon, between my arms, told me all the details of the story that she desperately struggled to hide from herself, and me.

I did not kiss her. I couldn't take advantage of her momentary weakness. No. I wanted our real kiss to happen with the strong, witty, beautiful, self-assured woman that I fell in love with. I needed her to be completely agreeing and aware of her feelings. And right then, she was just beginning to grasp the impact we had on each other.

I leaned away from her lips, into her ear, and confessed, "the one position though, that I crave with you, is looking into your eyes, kissing you, passionately entangling my flesh with yours, and giving you a pure, unadulterated, unscripted and uncontrolled pleasure."

I felt her heartbeats quicken against my skin, synchronized with my last words. She was still holding her breath, and I stifled again the impulse of temptation. "I'll give you some space and time, think about it." I walked away.

It wasn't until I started climbing down the stairs that I heard her breathe out. I smiled as I remembered that five minutes ago, she was convinced she could avoid me, if she had a choice.

---

"I know where your tongue has been," I stated, matter-of-factly, "but I don't know much else about you. Tell me."

She chuckled at my comment as she sipped her coffee. It was a calm morning, a few hours before work, and we were enjoying a brunch after the crazy night we had the day before. She was wearing a white blouse, carefully unbuttoned to the most decent extent, and tight jeans. I trembled, recalling how she had opened her shirt a lot more in front of me in the pub's ladies room, while plotting our devious lesbian pretend act. Her hair was still fixed, the way she had it, save for the few rebellious strands that had broken loose from the sweat and movement.

"It is my first time, if that's what you want to know," she slowly let out, while chewing her doughnut. I shrugged, pretending I didn't care, although I was more than ecstatic. As weird as it sounds, I felt relieved, as if I had needed her image to remain untainted in my mind.

"Why now?" I secretly hoped she had a grand reason, a logic I couldn't argue with, maybe like mine.

"I needed the cash, and I thought it would be a crazy thing to do. I've always wanted to have a deep dark secret," she winked at me. "Can I ask about you?"

I twitched in my seat. I preferred if we didn't talk about me. What would she think if she knew I had done this for almost a year now? I considered dismissing the answer, but a voice deep within me told me that I had better be honest with her.

"It'll be a year in a few weeks. This is my tenth job, but also my last."

"Why?"

"Why did I start, or why am I stopping?"

"Both."

"I started because, much like you, I needed the money." I stopped, hesitating for a brief moment, wondering if I should tell her about my real life, outside the job. "I'm going to med school," I finally decided to admit, happily seeing her eyes sparkle with a new found respect for me. "I didn't get a scholarship, and seeing my friends struggle with countless shifts as waitresses, baristas or bartenders for a meager pay, then attend classes in a sleep-deprived state and barely find time to study for exams, was a wake-up call. I looked for something that would pay better and leave me with more time for my degree." I paused, assessing her silent gaze. "And I'm stopping because with this one, I'll have saved enough for all my studies and should even have some left for my internship."

"Impressive," she finally said, after taking a long sip from her coffee. "I didn't expect that."

We exchanged a smile and I found the courage to ask her, "What about you? Is it a one-time thing or do you plan on doing more?" I silently wished she was stopping, because the jealousy of picturing her in the throws of passion with another woman was overbearing.

"One-time, definitely." I beamed, unconsciously. "You're happy?" she raised her eyebrows at me. I felt myself blush then leaned in and held her hand across the table.

"This line of work, well, let's just say that it's not made for you." I half stuttered.

"Am I that bad?" She retreated back, adorably offended.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. You're quite good," I affirmed as the memory of every tingle she had made me feel resurfaced. "You're really good."

"Then what is it?"

I hooked my gaze with hers and disclosed, "you're better than all of this."

She began to speak but stopped, taking another sip of coffee and retreating to her own thoughts. I finished my croissant calmly, while my mind roamed across the hundreds of possibilities, analyzing the wide range of emotions and desires that she triggered in me. What I suddenly became conscious of, though, was that despite how much I had adored being with her the past three days, despite the sheer insanity of last night, it was this relaxed morning, sharing a brunch and a conversation, that I enjoyed the most. That's when I acknowledged that I was starting to fall in love with her.

"Do you wonder though, what would happen, if someone you know came across your work? How would they react?" she asked, a few minutes later.

"I used to. Until a friend of mine once saw it and started gushing over the art and beauty of it. He didn't recognize me."

"That's what I thought. I mean, before agreeing to the job, I had researched his work. He focuses on the hedonism and complicity, with tiny, intimate details, which makes it impossible to identify a full face or body."

"Exactly. Why do you think I consented to work with him, and ten times at that? I'm going to be a surgeon, I need to keep a clean reputation. Besides, you have seen how rigorous he is. The controlled atmosphere, the rules, the professionalism, that's what keeps it all from turning into the vile garbage you find elsewhere."

She nodded. "How do you think ours will turn out?"

I fell silent, struggling to swallow. Oddly, I hadn't considered it before. That no matter what happens between us, there would be a constant reminder of the time we had shared, a burned memory of where her tongue had been and what it had done. I tried to picture it, through someone else's eye. Would the genuine connection between us shine through the carnality of it all? And what if the physical proof ends up spoiling my mind's beautiful impression of it?

She saw me stumbling in my own reflections. "I'm pretty convinced it will be gorgeous. I mean, look at you and look at me. There's no way it doesn't end up spectacular. Plus, you know, there's a reason he picked us for the Valentine's special," she winked again.

"You're right," I admitted while slapping myself internally, "and we did experience yesterday, first hand, what effect we have together on outside spectators."

Just as she giggled, I sensed the tinge in my heart that convinced me of an inner spectator who was feeling that effect more than anyone else. And through the awkward silence that suddenly followed and the exchanged gaze that lingered with unspoken words, I figured the need to loosen up my tongue and let that inner spectator's honesty flow.

---

"I know where your tongue has been," I kept repeating in my head, the words desperate to get out, rolling over my throat then getting cowardly swallowed back with each shot of vodka and strawberry.

The way she sat on the bar stool with her legs crossed and her arms floating and gesturing freely, the way she spoke with class and maturity even when tipsy, the way she joked with a slight lack of inhibition that grew with every drop of alcohol ingested, there was no escaping being engulfed in her presence.

Have you ever found yourself staring at someone's fingers or mouth, in public, and wondering about all the wonderful places they have been and thrilling things they have done? Once this thought occurs to you, it's the kind that taunts and haunts you, never fading away. And I fell prey to it. Gazing at her fingers, thinking that instead of holding a glass of scotch, they were buried within me an hour and a half ago. Gazing at her mouth and envying the air around it, because I knew exactly what it felt like, to "be" around it. And gazing at her face thinking that it was a lot more beautiful framed by my thighs than it was, just by itself. Gazing at every part of her and flashing mental images of how they had transformed to please me, to accommodate me, to tease me.

However, there they were now, parts that had unconditionally belonged to me mere minutes ago, but now parts of a human who retracted back to the confines of society and expected behaviors, and with whom my only connection was this invisible thread I was carefully knitting between our eyes, as our glances became more frequent and our smiles more talkative and suggestive.

"They're coming over," Jimmy whispered, without even trying to hide his discontent, "again."

From the corner of my eye, I saw the two men, who had been hitting on both me and her all night, rise from their booth. I liked their attention, but seeing them flirt with her as well was starting to get on my nerves, and I caught myself wondering whether my jealousy was logically directed towards her or, more accurately and awkwardly, them.

Her eyes snuck up a quick glance in their direction, and I could barely perceive her rolling them in disapproval before she lowered her head and started saying, "here we go, I wish I could be rude and tell them to..."

"Well, there is a way to get rid of them." As she and her two friends looked at me questioningly, I added, "simply tell them we're both more interested in women than men."

I fixed my eyes on her while finishing that sentence and saw, even in the darkness of the pub, her pupils dilate to double their size. She had asked me to keep the details of our work secret from Carmen and Jimmy, but I assumed this was a fair game of pretending.

Her friends giggled then Carmen said dismissively, "there's no way you can convince them of that," and Jimmy added, "no way, you two have been sitting and checking out every man ever since we got here."

"Bet?" I was feeling equally impish to the rising level of alcohol in my blood. Jimmy was right, we had ogled the men on display for almost an hour, but what he hadn't noticed, was that we had also been ogling each other for just as long.

"Sure, loser gets the tab," Jimmy agreed, and Carmen nodded along.

I turned my head towards her, lifting my eyebrow, letting the desire of my gaze speak for me and my crazy idea. It took a brief second for her to fully understand what I was planning to do, and her face slightly began transforming into a frown in an attempt to draw boundaries for my behavior. I prayed that she wouldn't have the time nor the will to stop me. I was craving her touch, her closeness, the exquisite feel of her skin beneath my fingers, the mixed scent of her perfume and innermost nectar in my nostrils. But most of all, I was lusting after the savor of her tongue in my mouth. I needed that pretend game to work.

"Ladies," the tall blond bellowed behind me. I jolted and as much as I hated everything about him, I was so grateful he came right then and not a few seconds later or earlier.

His friend, the slightly shorter dark-haired one, stood next to him, a grin on his face as he assessed me again from head to toes.

"We were hoping you could join us for this dance," the blond continued, his eyes travelling back and forth between her face and her chest.

"Sorry, but we're not interested," she blurted.

"What, don't you like grinding to Akon's songs?" He mimicked a grind and let his stare linger lower on her.

His unwanted presence, offensive words and invasive looks were simultaneously raising my blood pressure and her irritation. That was my moment, her vulnerability basically gave me a free card to do whatever was necessary to get rid of them.

"It's grinding to you that we're not interested in," I finally stepped in, setting the wheels in motion.

"May I ask why?" the brown-haired friend intervened.

I smiled at him, the cluelessness in his attitude transforming him momentarily into an adorably sweet man. For a brief moment, it occurred to me that just three days ago, I would have been quite attracted to him. Now, however, all my desire was directed towards the apprehensive woman, sitting three feet away from me, and eying me with an unnerving mix of dread and eagerness.

I got off my stool, made a step towards her, grabbed her hand, making a show out of it all, then smiled, "because we're together."