Roger and Naomi

I class this story as romance not because anyone walks off into the sunset holding hands nor because any hearts are broken, but because the feelings the people involved have for each other are meant to be of at least as much significance as any sex there may be.

And a note to American readers. 1. Arsenal is a football team (that may be "soccer" to you). "Roger" is a slightly anachronistic term for sex, most frequently used as in "I gave him/her a good Rogering". "Fanny" is the type of bottom women have and men don't!

The wedding reception was coming to an end shortly before midnight. I had cast eyes over to the pretty, short haired girl sitting a couple of tables away several times and she had smiled back, though without any obvious enthusiasm. I made my move a little clumsily and walked over to ask her to dance.

"Sure," she said taking my hand.

A jive and a slow dance holding her close, not making that much effort to hide the effect the physical latter had on me, and she said, "Why don't you come and talk to me now you have smooched me. Go and grab me another glass of white wine".

With my usual subtlety the first thing I said after returning with the drinks was, "How come you are here on your own?".

"I split from my partner a few weeks ago, and am not sure what I want now, whether I want us to get back or not."

"Me too," I said. Though in my case it will make no difference what I want, as she is shacked up good and proper with a supposed mate of mine."

"Oh poor you, that is going to take some getting over," and she gave me an affectionate stroke on the arm.

"Why are you undecided?" I asked.

"We had a lot of good times together. We clicked. I enjoyed the closeness and alright the sex and miss that, but ultimately there was a feeling.....both of us had a feeling it wasn't quite right."

"Have you not had sex since you split?" I asked. She would know what was going through my mind and was I bothered? I was reasonably optimistic about where this was leading. I was so glad that I had booked a room in the hotel rather than facing the late night tube ride home.

She took my hand again as she shock her head. "No, at least not with another person in the room." Softening her voice further she went on, "What is your name? I should know that much about you as I am sharing all these supposedly private things"

"Roger" I said- it can be a handy name in this sort of situation. I have heard all the jokes but one from her now might mean I was on a cert. None was forthcoming. "What's yours?"

"Naomi. But look before we go on I had better say something."

"Yes?" I wondered what could be coming up? Surely this was a little early for a warning about her menstrual cycle, if that was what it was.

"I am a lesbian, I am afraid. I was flattered by your erection when we danced, but I won't be able to give you much help with it."

"But what about your boyfriend? Your ex anyway?"

"You weren't listening closely, were you?" The words could have been harsh, but were said with kindly amusement and she was still holding my hand tightly, "You made a wrong assumption, though most people would."

"Sorry", was all I could say.

"What for?"

"Well for not realising, and for getting a you know when I held you dancing."

She laughed, "I don't see why either of those calls for an apology. I would be a bit worried if people thought 'lesbian' as soon as they clapped eyes on me, and like I said turning on another person is a nice feeling, even if they are a man, which does make it rather easy. But I don't want to lead you on or be a cock tease."

"You're really nice," I said, with perhaps a misplaced note of surprise in my voice.

"Thank you, but why shouldn't I be?"

"Well I suppose no reason, it's just that I have never properly got to know a lesbian before. I thought you were a bit sort of anti-men."

"Anti-men, me? Why some of my best friends are men bashers." I looked mystified.

"Sorry, Roger, that was a joke, probably not a good one. No I am not anti anything. Well maybe racists and Arsenal supporters, but otherwise I am pretty easy going. Seriously, there is no more reason I should be anti-men than you are, assuming you don't find them sexually attractive either".

"And what's wrong with Arsenal supporters?"

"Roger, don't go there now, I want to talk to you about more interesting things than football?"

"Okay" Perhaps, I thought she would trade some really valuable information for my abandoning a riposte to the slight to my football team. Despite her pretty definite position on sexuality, I hadn't completely given up. "Have you ever made love to a man?"

"Yes, of course. I am 26. I wasn't convinced I preferred women until I was about 20."

"When was the last time?"

"About eighteen months ago. I had a big row and sort of split then with my Michelle, that's my ex. An old mate- male- of mine comforted me and one thing led to another."

"Do you enjoy sex with men?"

"In a way, but it doesn't quite work for me. You imagine how it would feel for you being fucked by another man.... no that's not right, you would probably just find it painful. Imagine you're the one doing the fucking of another man's bottom."

"No I wouldn't like that at all. Is the thought of normal, sorry that's not the right word but you know what I mean, sex like that for you.?"

"Not really because I haven't been conditioned to find it repulsive. It's actually quite a nice feeling physically so long as he is gentle, like you would find fucking a man if you didn't have to cope with the stigma. But the thought of it doesn't turn me on because I don't find men very sexually attractive."

It has to be remembered throughout this gorgeously intimate conversation her hand had continued to grasp mine and her brown eyes and big warm smile had hardly turned away from my face. I was a bit disappointed when she yawned and said, "I suppose I ought to go home, though I am probably too pissed to drive safely"

"I've got a room upstairs. You're more than welcome to share it." There was no immediate response so I stammeringly added, "On a strictly platonic basis, of course."

"Roger that's so kind. I would love the company continuing a bit longer as well as not having to drive. Do you mind?"

"Of course, I don't I am enjoying your company too, if you're going my way maybe you will give me a lift tomorrow."

"That sounds like a good deal"

Thirty seconds later we were in my room. Our hands remained clasped as we had walked up there. Ironically, I thought, any casual observer of our interaction would have wrongly assumed that this was all leading up to some pretty serious shagging. With an "excuse me" she disappeared into the bathroom. There were sounds of weeing and washing before she emerged a few moments later Her dress had come off, revealing some obscure silky female under garment on her top half and an unconcealed pair of knickers- old fashioned rather than a thong but still immensely erotic to my eyes- on the lower half, and a big grin on her face.

"Don't think I am looking at you in a naughty way," I said. "I completely respect your sexuality, and have no interest in your body." I said but rather spoilt the effect by giggling.

"You are such a rotten liar,"she pointed out.

I went to the bathroom. The erection had returned in full glory. In fact it had never completely subsided throughout our conversation. Normally I sleep naked, but felt it would be rude, even aggressive, to do so, while sharing a bed supposedly platonically with a girl- so after a very quick shower, I had found the clean pair of boxers intended for the morning and put them on before reentering the room.

I climbed into the generously large bed: she had already ensconced herself on the left side. "I don't mind sleeping on the sofa, if you prefer." I said, making the most insincere offer of my life.

"It's your room I wouldn't dream of driving you out of bed," she replied.

I lay down. A slightly awkward silence ensured. I turned out the main light though a reading light remained on. Very discreetly I put my hand in my boxers and touched my penis. I didn't do anything like I normally would when I wanked. I just applied a bit of finger pressure to the most sensitive bits. She couldn't possibly realise.

"Are you playing with yourself?", she asked.

"Well... err..."

"It's alright, but if you are, I hope you don't mind if I do too."

"Yes err no..." Then I managed to prise myself from embarrassment to honesty. "Actually having you do that would be about the most erotic thing I could imagine."

"Good", she snuggled close to me, "Sometimes I would do it lying in bed next to Michelle when she was too tired for sex. It is far less lonely masturbating with another person there, isn't it?"

"Mmmmmm" was the most coherent response I could manage. Naomi's right shoulder was pressed against me and I could feel slight rhythmical movements reverberate up her arm. My own movements had become far less inhibited as I slipped my erect penis out of my boxers and started rubbing in a joyous if slightly frustrating wank.

"Can I give you any help?" I asked not sure whether it was jokingly or not.

"Why don't you hold me with the hand your are not rubbing yourself with. It would be nice if you fondled my boobs, though I might be pretending you are a girl"

I did not need any prompting. As she turned her back slightly I, regardless of whether or not the invitation was meant to encompass it, pushed her chemise up, and put my hand over her bare left breast trapping her nipple- gently enough I hoped- between the sides of my fingers.

Within a couple of minutes and simultaneously- I think her orgasm set me off, but it might have been the other way around- we came noisily and, in my case, very messily.

She turned to face me, "Thank you, Roger, that was so nice. I am glad we met."

"Me too"

We could have fallen asleep then, but a desire to communicate over took the alcohol induced tiredness we both felt. The next two hours were spent on the conversation that might normally have preceded any sexual intimacy: how we each knew the marrying couple- I was a university friend of the bride, she a cousin of the groom- our careers, our families, how her parents felt about her being gay - very supportive it turned out- our disillusionment with our respective ex's.

We faced each other as we talked. We kissed a few times on the lips, but her mouth did not open to allow my tongue inside. Most of the time my hand remained on her breast. At one stage I slipped a hand between her legs. She did not object perhaps because her knickers were still on. The conversation did not break as I stroked her the length of her very wet vagina through the thin cotton material wondering if if it was acceptable to put a finger inside the garment or indeed inside her or even to concentrate on her clitoris as much as I normally would, but nor did her breathing change or she show much change of arousal.

When other subjects lagged momentarily at about 3 a.m. I brought the conversation back to her dislike of Arsenal. "So who do you support?" I asked.

The question met with a much more intriguing response than naming any one of the other 91 league teams would. "Have you got a condom with you, Roger?"

"Err, yes"

"Put it on then"

"Why?"

"Why do you think, you dingbat?," she laughed. I know I can be slow, but that really was silly. I quickly scratted through my bag, produced one and had it rolled over my penis. Superfluous though it was she provided an explanation, "We're both extremely horny, I like you very much indeed, even if you have got one of those funny penis things sticking out between your legs, and I know you just won't stop interfering with my fanny until I give you a good..well, rogering."

She put her arms round me and lifted her lips to mine. At last our tongues touched. I put my hands under her bottom lifted a little and pulled her knickers off and climbed on top. With no guidance from either of us I was inside her. I tried to keep my thrusts slow and gentle, though her hip movements suggested that she wanted something a little more dynamic, which I was happy to accommodate. Again simultaneous orgasm happened quickly and satisfyingly. This time little more was said afterwards and we were both soon asleep.

I awoke around 10 a.m. with pleasingly little hangover but with a disappointing note lying on my bed.

"Roger, sorry for going. I probably owe you a lift home. Thanks for last night. It was by far the best 'normal' fuck I have ever had- or will have. At least you know I will never forget you. It has confused me a bit, but not about my sexuality. Even though the sex was brilliant, I would still rather be with a girl, at least if she was as lovely as you are.

I am not giving you my phone number, but I won't be offended if you find it out and give me a call. Sorry, just don't know what I want. Maybe we should be great friends, but the sexual temptation will always be there. Do I want that? Do you? Thank you so much for everything, Naomi xxx. P.S. I support Tottenham, of course"

Like everything else about her, besides the dodgy choice of football team, the note had a resonance with me. Could we just be friends? Would I be obsessed with getting her back into bed? Was it better to forget her, or should I text the bride to get her number? Are honeymoons that sacrosanct? I could probably retrieve the seating plan from the kitchen staff and find her surname and Google her. Should I? I had certainly had less pleasant dilemmas to face on Sunday mornings...