I HOOKED UP WITH AYl.
I spent the entire evening sending signals from every pore in my body, to counteract the friendzoning I’d mistakenly put out into the world.
Man, did I throw myself at him.
“Hanging out with you is definitely my first choice.”
Biting my lip and smiling for HOURS.
While stargazing: “Was Sunday… a date?”
And after his roundabout answer in which we both admitted that Sunday had indeed felt like a date and confessed nothing else in the stupidest, most transparent standstill ever, we stood next to each other with tangible disappoint hanging between us.
We talked in the couch for a bit – looking back on it, we were comfortable enough to be casually touching – his hand on my knee, my hand on his shoulder.
“Kick me out when you’re tired, or when you want.”
“I am tired, but I won’t kick you out because I don’t want to.”
“I’ll crash at your house.”
And then: “Where should I sleep?”
“You’re welcome to the bed, or the couch, or…”
“…Can we both sleep on the bed and have it not be weird?”
So I got in, completely prepared to fall right asleep to the massive friendzone that I’d thought the night was destined to be.
He got in, and rested his hands on my right arm. Which was, I mean, ok, whatever.
“Goodnight,” I piped up as I turned in to sleep. Towards him. Mostly because I sleep on my side, and it was either straight rejection by turning the other way, or…I guess, sending signals.
Immediately I felt a hand on my waist. Which was, I mean, ok, whatever. It felt good. Really good. So I didn’t resist as we sweetly cuddled a bit.
I fell asleep for a bit, I think. And then I slowly became aware that a hand was on my back, moving up and down, up and down, more and more deliberately. I let a little sigh of content escape and snuggled just a teensy bit closer. I think I was still half-asleep. The hand, feeling encouraged, turned basically into a massage, migrating to my neck and arms and lower back and lingering on the spots that made me arch in tingles. I may have snuggled my way in closer, and stuck my leg in between his.
Signals. Snuggled so tight that his face burrowed into my neck. Hot breaths. Hot breaths in my ear. Little sighs from me as my face yearned towards his. Lips. His lips on mine. Sweet and slow and lingering.
Deep and passionate and strong. Faster kisses, heavier breathing; my leg entrenches itself into the crevice; his hand on my back pulls me in tighter and tighter.
The break. Lips disappear and migrate to my ear. Trace their way down the side of my neck as my hand strokes his chest, back, neck. Hands lift me under and he’s on top.
The massage slips under the fabric, following the curve of my waist, my stomach. Tentatively strokes the breasts, then harder. Lips down and hands lift the shirt. Teeth on nipples and I feel him with my thigh as I gyrate and sigh. Lips on lips, passionate, then back down. Breathless switches.
The come down. Soft lips and hand softly pulling, massaging tufts of hair. Tight arms; legs intertwined.
Morning. Hand on side of waist, in the small. A large hand strokes down the thigh, down the knee, plays with the toes before sliding up slowly. Tingles in the inner thigh. Fingers interlace with fingers, and sigh. A tight hold for the ages. Perfectly comfortable, perfectly interlocking.
Morning. The last hurrah of breast and lip action. Playful tongue as I giggle.
“Hope you had as much fun as I did.” Playful smile. “That was unexpected.”
I think that was my first kiss.
Texting and playfully ignoring each other.