By Thea Hillman
It was so hot. Can I just say it was the hottest sex I've ever had with a woman-practically fully clothed the entire time? As good as the best boy sex I've ever had. Except it was Holly.
Maybe it started when I could crack sexual innuendos, and she fired them right back; She was nasty too. Or showing up at her birthday. We were the only women wearing flowing skirts in a room full of argyle and crew necks. Or her room. The pillows on her bed-flushed peach and blue, red-pastel, but not shallow, light. Embracing. A flash of me holding Holly on that bed was how I realized I was attracted to women. And more specifically, Holly.
So is she going to call or what?
Years of moving around ensue, but somehow we stay close. I come out to her via airmail. She writes back she is, too. She flirts with me over the phone. Goes to a wedding nearby and is too busy to call. She's scared, I think.
I mean, it wouldn't be so weird if we hadn't gotten together.
Another year goes by. Then we see each other. I've changed a lot. She's intimidated. I think, good, I'm not attracted to her anymore. I go to dinner to meet her mom, her aunt, her grandparents. And it's all so innocent that we drink wine and I make her family laugh and they like me and I'm sleeping over.
If only she didn't stroke me afterward, caressing me with so much tenderness.
After dinner, lying in her high school pink ruffled bed, teenage girls at a sleepover, I wonder why we keep returning to the subject of sex. And why when her lover calls and she breaks their date, she lets him wonder what's going to happen that night.
I tell her I'd rather have my hair played with than be fucked.
Cuddling, friends, "non-sexual" of course. She holds me. It's nicer than I ever could have imagined to be held by Holly. She jokes about how beautiful our children would be. My head against her breast. Her fingers in my hair.
Neither of us is taking responsibility.
Excruciatingly, strokes lengthen. Fingers stray close to sensitive ears. Fingers splay open over faces. Hands slip under t-shirts. Hair is tugged. Strokes are held -- hesitating -- then deepening. Strong hands are complimented. Little moans escape. Bigger moans escape. Bodies shift. And it's not so suddenly that I realize sex is happening with Holly. And the girls who usually have so much to say to each other are silent.
I don't want to be sexual with Holly unless I can knock her socks off.
Years of wanting, denying wanting, unconscious jealousy, and fear fill my fingers as they love Holly. The same love that's always been there, open, thats no longer being mentioned, that's completely different now, or might be.
We scratch, using nails through scalps, down necks.
I can't seem to do anything wrong. Holly moves with every touch, and all I want to do is keep her moaning with my "non-sexual" stokes. Her head is tilted back, mouth open. I'm too scared to make a sound; she might stop running her fingers through my hair, might stop getting closer and closer to my breasts as she rubs my back. The only thing Fin thinking is come on, bitch, stick your fingers in my cunt, bitch, touch my breast. Over and over, until she finally does make a move. I tighten my legs around hers and let my fingers dig in.
We don't kiss. That would make it real.
We grind. Rubbing through underwear, boxers. Rip t-shirts off. Don't talk. Grab asscheeks. Bite, hard. Scratch. Sweat so hard we slide against each other as we clutch and push our bodies as close as they can get. I want her so badly; I enjoy sliding fingers along her asshole. All I want is to make her come. For her to see how hot we are.
She's told me she loves me, but she's never called me amazing before.
And she's close to coming. And we stop. Holding each other, stray hairs clinging to our sweat, we laugh. She speaks first, whether you like it or not, you're soft and sweet.
I call first. She says she's happy it happened. She'll call me later on in the week.
Phrases fill my head like you know I'm not expecting anything. I know Holly's track record with women, and it scares me. But she's glowing and stroking me with so much care that I decide to expect the best from her. I'm just not sure what that is, and I worry because it's clear to me that I could fall in love with Holly.
She still hasn't called.
And I call her. She isn't stressed or upset. I take this as a bad sign. I cook dinner. She makes sure I know she put on lipstick after she got off BART, on her way to my apartment. She brings me flowers and asks me when I grew breasts.
Holly, what is it about you that makes me write?
I think of calling her in New York sometimes. Urgent. Because she might get married at any time. Because I need to tell her how much I love her. Because I am in love with her.
Writing Holly is having Holly.
But I don't. And I can't seem to write to her. So I use her name. Write her. Because in writing Holly I am loving Holly.
Again and again.
©Manic D. Press, All Rights Reserved - Reprinted By Permission of the Publisher
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