Taste Me

For a brief moment, everything was normal. I was laughing with Paige, we were crunching popcorn, my heart was beating at a regular pace. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar very, very, very tiny pair of shorts walk out of the bathroom, strut in my direct line of sight, then stop in front of the suit-wearing boyfriend.

I did my best to stay focused on my chat with Paige, but my eyes kept dashing toward the perky and plump butt Rachel was clearly offering me. Well, "butt" sounds a bit common. This was more of a derrière and it was my first time seeing it. She'd never sent a pic from that angle before. Now I knew what I'd subtly ask her for, during our next chat.

I don't know what excuse she gave, but she stayed up for a few minutes, making a show of impatiently tapping her feet and wiggling her derrière until the theatre doors opened up and they started letting people in.

Her pompous boyfriend got up, leaving her purse on the couch. Jackass. But she had to bend to get it, which altogether wasn't a bad consequence. I could not complain about the view and I know she knows I couldn't complain about the view because she spun her head in my direction and saw me staring. And she dared wink. And grin. Shit.

I brought my focus back to Paige and her work story about some project or some colleague or both, but from the corner of my eye, I saw them walk toward the door.

"Come on, they're letting people in," I grabbed the humongous box of popcorn and dashed to take a spot in line behind them. I was going to sit next to her, wasn't I? I had no say in the matter, zero self-control.

"Wait. Why the hurry?"

"I wanna find a good spot," I said as I got in line after them.

I nearly lost it when I saw his hand on her derrière. He did not deserve this. He didn't deserve to touch her anywhere. If he hadn't managed to make her orgasm in years, then he'd lost the privilege to touch any of her, at least in my books. Gosh, I wished I made the rules.

"Sure, weirdo," Paige sighed as she joined me. "You're even weirder than usual today."

Of course she had to say this with the loudest possible tone. They didn't turn around, but I knew they both heard. So she heard. And she knew. It wouldn't take Einstein to put two and two together and understand why I was acting weird today.

We followed them inside the movie theatre. I tried to put some distance between us to pretend I wasn't following their every move, but my eyes were glued on her derrière as it climbed the stairs, picked a row, waded its way through some large leather seats, and settled on one. I looked around and, to be fair, those were some of the best seats, so I followed her footsteps and went through the same row.

She casually turned her head toward me. Our eyes met. Her light honey pupils danced a dance that only her lips knew the rhythm to. And in her smile, I saw my forfeit, my sweet, sweet forfeit. She knew she had me. There's no way she didn't know she had me now.

I walked toward her eyes, magnetized by them. This wasn't my proudest moment, but I couldn't imagine a reality where I didn't succumb to her plea and sit next to her. If there were such a reality, I would've cut this entire charade short months ago, I would've moved on with my life. Instead, I had built my entire life around her availability, and tied my very breathing to her messages.

Oh, there were moments when I pretended to gain back control by going out when she was free, making her wait for me like I waited for her, but I knew these were desperate attempts to fool myself into believing I was in charge. All I could think about during any of those parties or dinners was going back home and talking to her.

Yeah, she had her claws firmly in my heart.

She didn't take her eyes off me as I got near her. I had her full attention. For a few seconds, it felt like we were alone in this world, and he didn't exist. What a wonderful illusion.

I reached the seat next to hers and sat down. I could've almost sworn she looked relieved that I didn't decide to skip a seat. Paige followed me with a quizzical look on her face. I was going to have to answer some questions later at dinner, for sure. But until then, I could pretend this was all very normal.

The leather chairs were extremely comfortable. One of those high-end seats you only get in posh movie theaters. A large wooden console with two cup holders separated every seat from the one next to it. I placed the huge popcorn box on the one between me and Paige. Rachel put her purse between her and her boyfriend -- he didn't seem to mind the separation.

The armrest between us was left conveniently empty. I rested my elbow and arm there -- it's in the name, isn't it? She rested hers too, without touching me. The theater's lights were still on, but I knew what would happen when they'd be turned off.

Or I hoped at least.

I listened to the rest of Paige's work story, chuckled where appropriate, ooh'ed and aah'ed when needed. The popcorn was a good excuse to keep my mouth busy and avoid extensive comments. I was such a bad friend, but come on! Things like this didn't happen every day.

Rachel was literally inches away from me, the same Rachel that I'd linked my entire existence to for the past months. And her perfume was around me. Her hand inches away from mine. Her suave voice in my ears.

She didn't talk much with him. He talked more, louder, mostly saying superficial and stupid things, while she listened. Or he ignored her and she remained silent. Now that I had my ears next to them, I could get a better glimpse into their relationship. Everything about it was exactly how I'd pictured. Which made it all even more incomprehensible to me. How could someone as smart, witty, and quippy as her end up with such a shallow, boring, monotonic baboon?

The lights slowly dimmed around us and the surround speakers came to life roaring. He shushed her mid-sentence. I curled my hands into a fist and stopped myself from getting up and punching his face.

For a few seconds, things were normal. Paige had finished her work story. Rachel and her... waste of oxygen were silent. A horror movie trailer was playing on the screen. A heavy, apprehensive silence filled the theatre.

Then I felt it.

Her slight, slight touch. The slightest of touches on my arm. I glanced down to see her shift her entire body so our arms were in contact, elbows to fingers. This wasn't a mistake, clearly.

My breath caught a bit in my chest, luckily coinciding with a suspenseful moment in the trailer. I could feel the goosebumps spread on my skin, I was sure she could too. I tried not to react beyond that, but what else would she need in order to know that she had me in the palm of her hands? Or in the outside of her arm, to skip the metaphor.

For a while, this was all. My goosebumps subsided and I slowly got used to the warmth and the softness of her skin. The trailers played one after the other, then the real movie started.

I thanked my lucky stars that Paige had picked some no-brainer action movie featuring The Rock "because we're too tired to overthink or analyze anything," she'd said. Little to no storyline, a lot of fighting and racing, and no need to focus to understand the gist of the movie. This was perfect after a long week, nay months, of work, but even more perfect now that my brain cells were completely overloaded by the arm touching mine and the person attached to that arm.

A few minutes into the movie, the arm twisted a bit and her index came and rested on my index. One caress. Two caresses. Three caresses. The slow, agonizing movement contrasted with the frantic heartbeats I could hear in my ears. Loud thumping noises that had nothing to do with the car chase on screen or the surround sound from the speakers echoed in my head.

I didn't take my hand away. I know I should've, but I didn't. Did she need any more proof that I liked her? Could I ever lie my way out of this one? "Oh it was a friendly touch, Rachel," couldn't possibly be convincing enough after this.

Then she retreated, taking her index away and leaving me feeling empty, though our arms were still glued to each other. For a brief moment, I debated following her back, taking my own finger into her territory and touching her like she'd touched me, but before I could make up my mind, I felt an insistent tap on my fingers. It was followed by four shorter taps. Then another long one, two short, and a long one.

I didn't have to think about it. Morse code. T H X. She'd once told me she knew it by heart, I told her I did too, and we'd joked that it was one of those super-useless skills in our modern age. Well, that didn't seem useless to me now.

I twisted my arm a bit and tapped in answer W H Y. From the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny smile on her face when I started tapping in response. So this is how the next two hours were going to go, right?

She readjusted her hand, resting it on the console, opening her palm up, and dragging mine on top of hers. We were almost holding hands now. And she tapped in response U SAT HERE. At the end of that last short E tap, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight for a brief moment then let go.

Shit. Shit-shit-shit. I felt a shake rattle through my body but I stopped it right before it reached my arm and hand. I had to keep them steady, seemingly unaffected by her squeeze or her touch or her presence.

U ASKED, I typed, in a vain attempt to keep my facade of coolness on. Why was I even bothering at this point? Yes, she asked, but I always, always complied. There was nothing cool and detached about that.

She squeezed my hand again, this time a little longer. Goosebumps erupted on my entire right side, shoulder to fingers. If she felt them, she didn't say -- or tap -- a thing. Instead, she slowly caressed my fingers again, keeping the goosebumps rolling in waves. I could glean a faint smile on her face. Oh how proud she must've been now!

And why couldn't I stop her? Why couldn't I move my hand away and put an end to this useless play? What kind of sick game was this? She was here with him, the guy she was supposedly dating and in love with, so why was she touching me? Why was she squeezing my hand and playing with my fingers and toying with my emotions?

It was almost fine of me to let her do this to me remotely, when she couldn't feel my reaction or revel in it, when I could pretend that it was all innocent and that I still had control over my life. But to let her drag my heart around like this and stomp on my self-control and dignity with a mere touch? No. No. No. I couldn't. I shouldn't.

But I did. And as Dwayne Johnson went through a flashback in the movie, so did I. How did I get here? How did I surrender my heart and time to her?

***

It all started several months ago after I'd placed an ad on Facebook Marketplace to sell an old sofa-bed. She messaged me and then called to ask about it. What started as a short chat about the comfort level of said sofa-bed morphed into a three-hour conversation where she nearly told me her entire life's story. She confessed she wasn't sure if she should get a sofa-bed or a bed-bed because her boyfriend of five years might ask her to move in soon. She told me about him, how she met him, how he was such a hot shot in the financial world.

For a while, I was rolling my eyes wondering why I always ended up with strangers confessing their lives' problems to me. Then she started talking a bit about herself, her small apartment, her kindergarten teaching job, the art supplies and tiny music instruments and colored boxes that littered her place. Her voice shifted, her tone lightened up. She was happier, wittier, funner when she wasn't talking about him. I found myself enchanted by that fun shift in our conversation and getting dragged into her world of naughty but adorable children stories. At one point I told her she should write children's books. She said she was already working on a few, but her dimwit boyfriend (my words, not hers, sadly) didn't think they were any good and didn't encourage her to invest any more time in them. Her tone shifted back, darker, sadder.

I brought her back to me, the happier version of her that existed outside of him. We kept talking. She sent me pics of her place as we talked and she promised she'd send me some original story scripts to get my opinion. Why? I don't know. She said she trusted my voice, felt at ease with me. We talked even more. One, two, three hours had passed. I had to get back to work. Remote jobs are lenient with time, but not that much. My Microsoft Teams notifications were through the roof. So we ended our conversation awkwardly, not sure where we stood with each other or how on earth we'd gotten into a three-hour chat with another stranger.

I removed my earbuds and sighed. This was the most ridiculous, yet intriguing, phone call I'd ever been on. I wanted to know more, hear more of her stories, discover the person behind that soothing voice, and untangle the cobweb of her relationship with that seemingly shitty boyfriend. I wanted to meet her and talk to her for real, but every red warning sign was spinning in front of my eyes. Don't get invested, this'll only end in disaster. Plus, she's straight. So I resisted.

A few minutes later, I got another message from her. Apologizing about stealing my time, reiterating how much she enjoyed talking to me, promising me to think about the sofa-bed. Then she shared a manuscript of one of her stories. "In case you have time, one of these days, to read it."

And that's how I got sucked into her whirlwind of wonder. Her marvelous dichotomous world of joy and fun on one side, fear and sadness on the other.

I could still remember that very first day, when she said she was going to see him for dinner and asked me to not send any messages until she was back. Right before she left, she shared a photo of her dressed up in black trousers and a white shirt, and asked what I thought. The first time I ever saw her face. Classy, I said. And she disappeared.

I stared at that photo for hours, intrigued by the drop-dead gorgeous woman in it, the length of her legs, the slope of the shirt over her chest, and the naked skin of her neck. The face was smiling, a half-smile if there ever was any. Her amber eyes were murky, still, as if she'd forced herself to grin. This was the version of her that he got to see. I swore I'd find a way to ask her for a real photo for me -- one that wasn't tied to him or dressing up for him or going to see him. How much more heart-stopping would that woman be?

I spent my evening that night catching up on all the work that I missed, while checking my phone every five seconds. Then she pinged me when she was back and my face split into a gigantic grin that I couldn't control. She'd come back home and immediately wanted to talk to me.

In retrospect, I should've known then how bad this was going to get. I should've stopped it right there. But we all know I didn't. I let the charade go on. I started falling into the most sadistically, co-dependent, and addictive relationship ever.

We talked and talked. I somehow made her think it was her idea to send me a pic of her in bed. And. Oh. My. Fucking. God. The disheveled hair, the cute PJ, the authentic smile, the playful eyes! It was everything I imagined it to be and more. "Heart-stopping" would barely describe it. She fell asleep talking to me, I fell asleep staring at her photo. And trying to ignore how drenched I was.

We got into a rhythm after that. We'd often message during the day and sometimes call each other and talk for hours. Before seeing him, she'd erase everything we said and all our shared media because he liked digging into her phone and was extremely paranoid and jealous. I was "Nick's mom" in her contacts list. And we'd go silent when she was with him, but she'd always come back to me. She never slept over at his place. I was always the one, figuratively speaking, putting her to bed every night. She said she felt at peace with me. And how is that not a sign that your boyfriend isn't a good fit, I don't know!

Our relationship was never very equal. She shared more about her life than I ever did. I fought to keep an illusion of distance and privacy. In my mind, I was drawing a clear separation between a relationship (however virtual) and a supportive friendship where I played the role of a half-friend-half-shrink.

It's not for her lack of trying, though. She always asked questions, she was very curious to know more about me. But I gave vague answers, never committed any important details, never revealed my sexual preference, never talked about my love life.

Our chats evolved over the weeks. From the fun and innocent to the fun and naughty. She confessed that she never came with him. He skipped much of foreplay and never gave her any attention to help her orgasm. Again, how is this not a sign that you're with an asshole?!

Then one day she came home and told me she was still horny and thinking of doing something about it, but she was too wound up and angry with him. I felt this urge to know if I could make her forget him so I asked if she wanted help. I didn't phrase it as "my" help, because that would be too personal. A tentative "Yes...?!" appeared on my screen.

So I told her to trust me. Me. I used the pronoun this time. And for the next half hour, I guided her. I told her when to lie down, when to remove her underwear, when to touch herself, how to touch herself, when to tease, when to rub, when to go in, and when to retreat. I commanded her rhythm. Her hand became my words, her reactions belonged to me. I stretched the moment, teasing her, bringing her higher, then changing course, enjoying my complete control over her body and nerves. She followed -- I know she did because she used the most colorful language each time I made her slow down. And because her words became more erratic as we went, the typos more silly, the monosyllabic ohs and ahs more frequent.

I'll never forget when I finally decided to take her over the edge. I typed my command in capital letters, one letter per message, and sent them in a flurry:

C

U

M

And she did. The "fuck" I got after a few minutes of silence was all I needed to know. She came for me. By me. And I felt like I owned the world because she was mine in that moment.

She called me a few moments later, "What the fuck was that?"

"An orgasm?" My own hand was frantically rubbing my clit and I tried not to sigh or betray that.

"I know it was an orgasm, silly, but that was... something else."

"It's how an orgasm is supposed to feel like, Rachel. Maybe you've forgotten it these last few years." Oh the sarcasm. My calm tone could've almost fooled me. I was getting close.

She started to say something then stopped for a second.

"Why did you do it?"

"I'm helping. As I said, I'm always here to help." I slowed down my own pleasure. This was turning more morose than exciting.

"Yeah, but this was..."

"This was a friend helping you take the edge off." Could I even convince myself of that? That this wasn't anything more?

"Okay," she replied, with a resigned tone. "Thank you."

"Always."

And we hung up. My feelings were all over the place. The high of that "CUM" and the knowledge that I'd made her mine for thirty minutes were fighting against the drab reality of that call and the words I'd said.

Why didn't I admit it was me, that this was our moment? Why didn't I keep her on the phone long enough to talk more naughty things and help me reach my own ecstasy? Why did I have to pretend that this whole situation wasn't affecting me at all?