His hands press smooth against her waist as he guides her into the frantic club. The blast of heat and music hits them both. Now they are past the bouncers and the ticket counter, skimming past the teens in their translucent skirts and carefully bored expressions, down the stairs to the over–21 hangout, where he promises her interesting conversation and air–conditioning. Once there, pulled into a booth by his over–friendly friends, he curves her body to his and loosely links his hands around her waist. His thumbs etch small, slow circles on her belly through the thin black tank. She wonders if he remembers that she is seeing someone else. She wonders if he cares.
My first fumblings took place in my parents’ finished basement, age fifteen. A neighbor boy and I sat cross–legged, facing each other beneath the staircase. When he asked if he could kiss me, I was so flattered that I said yes at once, that I actually had dreamed of his older brother. This kiss was not quite what I’d expected — damp and squishy, rather than exhilarating. His rough hands groped eagerly through my shirt, gently mauling my breasts. After a bit more groping, he pulled my hand to his crotch and asked me to rub. I pulled away, but offered to remove my shirt instead. He agreed this would be a fair exchange. When shirt and bra were removed, he bent to suck my nipples and I wondered, “Is this all?” An unpleasant week after, I manufactured an imaginary boyfriend to rescue me. That was the end to my sexual exploration for the next two years.
His hands move to her back, at first a gentle rub that no jealous lover could have protested, had one been there to see it. Fingers slide along the curve of scapula and spine, rise to caress her neck and rub tense shoulders, and butterfly–dance along stretches of bare skin. Palms press heavy against knots of tension, slow circlings. Fingers rise again to slide through her heavy weight of hair and rest against her scalp. In one swift movement he clenches his hands in her hair, pulling her taut against him breath warm against her neck... then, with a laugh, releases her. She laughs too, shivers racing through her, muscles clenched. The conversation swirls around them.
In college, I met a man. We had absolutely nothing in common, but those sparks so conspicuously absent two years before were flaring high. Fucking in private and semi–public, on soft beds and concrete floors, to the dismay of roommates and the abandonment of dignity. I was even a little in love, as was he. For a while. When the sparks died for him, they still raged in me, and I pursued him for far too long. When he finally acquiesced, it was swift and joyless, in a place and time not of my choosing and in a manner that brought pleasure to neither of us. It did have the salutary effect of killing any last thoughts of salvaging the relationship.
Impatient with this slow seduction, he stands, pulling her up with him. They move upstairs again, to the dance floor which at this hour has become a solid mass, a slowly writhing, sweaty black void. They insinuate themselves into the creature, pressed close by necessity. Her groin is tight within her, a twisted heat radiating to her skin, to each cell that lays against his slickness. She makes no resistance when he grinds against her, palms tight against her hips. Eyes closed, she moves as he wills her. One of his thighs slides between hers, and she lifts one leg to wrap around his hip. Thus locked, one of his hands is free to slip up her body, beneath the tank to cup and caress her breasts. They have long since crossed the forbidden line, and now she wonders if there is any point to resisting further. He bends to run teeth along her neck and she shudders, biting back a moan.
Years later, I lived with a man I loved. The sex had always been good, occasionally great, and the conversation was better. There were times when he could bring me to the point of coming with a kiss, or a whispered promise. So how could I protest those few times when his interest outstripped my own, when I would rather have curled up with a good book and a mug of cocoa? He was unfailingly gentle, always patient, so what harm could there be in simulating more pleasure than I actually felt? The emotion was there, after all. I wanted to please him... pleasing him pleased me. I convinced myself that that was enough.
They leave the club, his arm firm around her shoulder. Driving home, his hand roams across her body, but exhaustion rises in her now, and she merely simulates response. In her apartment, he strips confidently, knowing that she will not back out now. He is sure in his ability to please her, and assiduous in his attentions to her needs. His mouth travels the paths his fingers had patterned in the club before, and when he slides within her, she is wet. He holds off on his own climax, waiting for hers, and under his gentle, unwavering assault, she surrenders, and moans for him.