This story contains sexual content, recreational drug use, and material that is definitely not suitable for younger readers. It’s flirting with erotica, tbh. Reader discretion is advised.
~
There are butterflies in my stomach as I search for her name in the Messenger app on my phone, just like I’ve done so many times over the years. But this time I actually type something out with clammy thumbs:
Hi friend (twinkle emoji) it’s been a HOT minute but you’ve been on my mind lately so I thought I’d say hi. I hope you’re surviving life with some semblance of sanity (kiss emoji)
I feel a rush when I tap send, like my stomach is in my throat and my head is underground.
I laugh to myself. “You’ve been on my mind lately” — she’s been there ever since that night, lurking in the kinky shadows of my mind filed under ‘cocaine-fueled nights with my ex.’
Except she was so. much. more than that.
~
It was a warm summer night, the air was heavy with humidity, the kind that stuck to your skin and clung there in sprinkles of sweat before trickling down your spine like rain on a windowpane. It smelled like hot city: gravel and fresh tar, a distant backyard barbecue, the pungent rot of waste bins lining the sidewalks like tin soldiers, the sweet hit of a joint on the thick breeze.
I wore the sundress that he’d recently picked out for me on a trip to Urban Outfitters: a light blue skater-style with a low, strappy back covered in a dark blue and green floral pattern. The skirt was flouncy and I loved the thrill of not knowing if the right breeze was going to reveal my round ass cheeks to unsuspecting people on the sidewalk. I didn’t wear thongs a lot, and definitely not with dresses but for some reason today I had. I wasn’t wearing a bra because of the strappy back, and I could feel the trickling underboob sweat that came with going braless in Toronto in August. C’est la vie. My white low-top Chuck Taylors conveyed the perfect amount of sweet but totally cool and casual, and my short brown pixie cut was a blessing in this heat.
He wore a pair of ratty cutoff shorts like the ones that made me tell a fellow server that I wanted to sit on his face the first moment I saw him wearing them with his chef’s coat at the restaurant where our romance should have stayed.
Like usual we were drinking at our local spot where we’d made friends with the owner and bar staff and the coke dealer who lived next door. He went for the party favours, the booze, and the amazing bar food.
I went for those too, but mostly because I loved talking to her.
She was a bit shorter than me, with piercing blue eyes and just-past-the-shoulder length hair the colour of a chai latte. Her skin was creamy and soft, the way she moved felt so graceful, like a dancer, or a pianist, and I was captivated watching her float through the bar, imagining her long fingers running down my neck, across my shoulders, over my breasts instead of over glassware and liquor bottles.
I loved the time we spent getting to know her over the bar.
She was an actor, always with something on the go that I was eager to hear all about. Night after night after night we’d show up, the same old routine but every time it felt new and fresh and exciting because it was with her.
We’d show up and sit at the bar, play air hockey, eat deep-fried cauliflower and barbecue wings. She would take shots with us while she was working and always ‘forget’ to add a few drinks to our tab. That’s what the cocaine was for - balancing us out. She never needed it - always keeping everyone in line, a position of authority by way of serving us drinks and controlling our tab. There were nights I felt like she and I were the only ones that existed; I’d agree to go there just because I knew she was working and I hoped she’d have time to talk to me.
In my memory I was suave and cool and knew exactly how to let her know that I wanted her, that I needed to get to know her beyond the bartender-patron dance we’d been doing for months. In reality it was probably not that smooth.
We’d invited her back to our place ‘to keep the party going’ in the past, but she mostly declined, since it was usually 2 or 3 am by then and she worked all night.
But that day was different.
Somehow he’d convinced her to take that night’s baggie into the bathroom while she was closing up, so we were all feeling very confident and in control of our sobriety (we were not) when we agreed to walk the 15 minutes (30 when drunk) back to our apartment.
All I remember about the threesome, all that matters in my memory, is her gaze on me. We all wanted it, we’d all made that clear. I don’t know exactly how it started but everyone was kissing each other and ripping rails and taking shots and removing clothes and it sort of just happened.
I remember her bent over in front of him, looking at me sprawled on the bed, and I asked her if he could fuck her. I knew his cocaine cock wouldn’t be this hard for much longer, and I wanted to see her take it. It was a big, beautiful one.
“Only if you’ll let me taste your pussy while he does,” she smiled.
“Oh, I suppose if I have to,” I bugged, hoping she’d say that.
While her beautiful bare ass was rubbing against his boner she locked eyes with me and something erupted in my chest.
I kissed her and held her waist as he slowly went inside of her. She gasped into my mouth and I smiled, knowing that it could be a lot the first time.
I laid back on the bed and both of them stared at me hungrily, but all I could see was her. Her eyes roaming my body, drinking it all in, her hands creeping along my thighs. I wanted to feel her hands all over me immediately.
She wasn’t the first woman I’d slept with — my first taste of pussy that wasn’t my own was the night I ditched out on a friend’s bachelorette so I could go down on a queer pal on my living room floor while my ex ate ramen at the kitchen table and watched; my second was off of the same ex’s fingers while partying in a bar in Central America, and until now, that was it.
No, she wasn’t the first. But she was …. is ... special.
Our lips were stained with the red wine she’d snagged from work. Our noses and throats were numb from hours of doing lines off of tables, then tits, then tushies. I watched him fuck her as long as the drugs would allow it while she went down on me and explored my body with her hands. His eyes searched for mine across the expanse of her back and I met his gaze long enough to let him know how much this turned me on, but I found myself imagining him out of the picture altogether.
Her mouth was so soft and gentle and there was no beard scratching at my labia. Don’t get me wrong, the gentle coarseness of facial hair is an excellent addition to cunnilingus in my humble opinion, but this was something else entirely.
When they stopped fucking, I cleaned him up and finally flipped her onto her back so I could bury my head between her thighs, my lips and tongue eagerly exploring her beautiful wet pussy. She tasted like the sweet cherry blossoms blooming up her back and suddenly I understood the frenzy Toronto worked itself into every spring over these innocent blossoms. I wanted to run through a field of them, stand underneath while they daintily drop all over me, bury my face in a bouquet and never come up for air.
I was vaguely aware of them kissing, of him sucking on her perky little nipples, I could see it in my peripherals but I was lost in her and I liked it that way.
We all explored each other’s bodies until the booze and blow were long gone, until he finally passed out.
She and I stayed awake, naked, together.
I don’t remember for how long, but I watched the sun come through the window over the petal pink blossoms as she knelt in front of my reclined, spent body on the blue leather sofa that was so comfy but so ugly. I’ll never forget her looking into my eyes as she oh-so-slowly fucked — no, made love — to me with her fingers. She held my gaze as her tongue explored my labia and clit at the same time, then dropped her eyes to the task at hand. She’d already made me cum — a feat in itself when I was doing blow — and I could tell she wanted to again.
I just wanted to feel her become part of me, and I didn’t want it to end.
“You don’t want that,” she nodded knowingly towards the sleeping form in the bedroom. “Why else would you still be out here with me? You’re different now without him. More free.”
I said nothing. Instead, I locked eyes with her and said everything in that gaze that I wasn’t ready to say out loud. I pulled her face towards mine and kissed her deeply, tasting our sex on her lips. She was not wrong. I wanted to hold on to this moment, bottle it and drink it in forever.
Her skin was extra supple in the morning light and smelled fresh, with the slightest hint of musk from working, drinking, and fucking all night. I loved feeling her lips on mine, devouring each other as our hands explored with minds of their own.
I tried to move to reciprocate; I wasn’t quite used to just laying back and accepting pleasure without focusing on what I had to give first. Remnants of compulsory heterosexuality, no doubt.
“No,” she insisted, her hand on my chest, fingers still inside me. “Please stay there. You’re so fucking beautiful, I love your pussy. I just want to drink you in.”
Wordlessly, I sunk back into the sticky blue leather of the loveseat.
She slowly pulled her two fingers from inside of me and brought them up to my lips for me to taste.
Ding.
I’m ripped from my memory by a reply.