THE SEX TEST
Alison Tyler

My best friend Roxanne and I share everything, from secrets to lipstick to the occasional man. Years ago, we had keys made to each other’s apartments, for those fashion emergencies when she desperately needs to borrow one of my leather jackets and I’m out of town. Or the occasions when I want to lift one of her treasured heavy metal LPs and she doesn’t answer my text. We lend, give and trade items all the time. So when she brought over a stack of magazines that she’d finished reading, I thought nothing of it.

Looking back now, there was something odd about the way she handed the magazines to me. A subtle rosy blush colored her normally pale, freckled skin. A strangely charged heat shone in her dark-green eyes, and she ducked her head rather than staring at me straight on. “Don’t worry about giving them back, Jodie,” she told me. “I’m finished.”

I hefted the stack and then fanned out the top few, looking them over. She had all the girly genres covered—a gossip rag, a fancy foreign number and a famous one devoted to helping women transform themselves for men.

“They’re just fluff,” she continued, sounding somewhat embarrassed. But then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something.” She motioned with a casual nod to my faded blue jeans, long-sleeved white T-shirt and battered boots. I’m no gambler when it comes to my wardrobe. I like the clean lines of denim and a tank top, the soft caress of well-worn leather, or a sharp-looking suit when I need to dress up.

Roxy’s the opposite. We are both long and lean, but my best friend tends to dress more exotically, choosing splashier colors, tighter fits. She’s gone through all of the trendy phases—punk, femme, even the military look that was the rage again this year. Her spunky attitude takes her through even the most outrageous fad, and sometimes I’ve actually been tempted to join her on a fashion adventure. Nobody but Roxy could get me to trip along after her in a pair of dangerous high heels instead of my normal motorcycle boots, but she’s done it. No one but my best friend could cajole me into wearing a bright lipstick-red sarong at the beach, and Roxy’s done that, too.

“Have fun,” she grinned, watching as I set the magazines on my glass coffee table. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Then she kissed me good-bye, trailing her fingertips through my shoulder-length brown hair, holding me close so that I could smell the perfume of her skin. Yes, we give each other bear hugs and friendly kisses all the time, but this embrace was filled with a little more longing than a regular good-bye smooch. I stared after her, wondering exactly what was going on, but not able to guess.

After she left, I got comfortable on the white leather sofa in my living room, perusing the various magazines in the fading summer sunlight. Outside my open window, I could hear the sounds of happy voices overlapping, couples giggling together on the gold-flecked sands of the beach. By myself that Friday evening, I was thrilled to have such mindless reading matter to fill my time. It would keep my thoughts away from the fact that I was dateless.

The first magazine was a slim volume filled with gossip about celebrities I didn’t know. I flipped through it in no time. The second, a slick European edition, took me longer. I daydreamed my way through the four-hundred-plus pages of the spring fashion bonanza, pictured myself in the different designer suits, tried to imagine which pieces would look better on me and which would be more flattering to Roxanne. Not difficult at all. She’d wear the beaded ball gowns, the fantastic, frilly confections made of fluttering lace. I’d accompany her in the sleek black suits, the wide-legged crepe de chine pants, the butter-soft black leather.

By the time I’d visualized each of us in all of the different outfits, it was getting late, and I decided to move to my bedroom. First, I poured myself a glass of chilled white wine, then changed into a black tank top and a pair of gray silk boxers. In my bed, I slid beneath the covers and reached for magazine number three. This was a famous one, known for articles filled with sexual ideas, innuendos and reader confessions. I consider it the equivalent of eating some brightly colored, lip-staining drugstore candy made entirely of synthetic ingredients. Not good for you, but oh so sweet going down.

I worked my way through slowly, as if reading about an alien culture. As I flipped the shiny pages, I learned the proper way to wear sheer pink lip gloss (as if I’d ever give up my trademark hue of deep, true crimson), read the amazing statement that “navy blue is the new black”—I still don’t get that—before finally coming to a quiz in the very center of the magazine. How Much of a Risk-Taker Are You Beneath the Sheets? the headline queried. Below, was the interesting subhead: What Your Secret Fantasies Reveal About You.

Well, I’m not a risk-taker at all. I didn’t need a stupid quiz to tell me that. I’m the type to weigh my options, dipping my toes in the shallow end to test the temperature first. It takes a while for me to make decisions, and once I do, my mind is set. But before I could simply turn the page and move on, I noticed that Roxanne had already filled out the questionnaire. She’d used a fine red pen, circling the different letters of the multiple-choice answers. I wondered whether I would be able to guess the way she would respond to each query. That was the real test.

Still, I hesitated for a moment before starting. Would she want me to know her innermost fantasies? That was easy to answer: Roxanne and I tell each other everything. This would simply be a fun way for me to exercise my brainpower, trying to guess how she would fill in a silly sex test.

The first question jumped right into the subject matter: Choose the fantasy that most describes your hidden desire: A) Taking the upper hand in a bedroom situation. B) Sharing the power with a partner. C) Letting your lover set the stage.

C was circled twice.

Hmmm. That one took me by surprise. My instincts told me that she’d have chosen A, for sure. Roxanne has the type of firecracker personality that often accompanies bright-red hair and golden-freckled skin. I’d assumed that she would be the one on top in any situation—between the sheets or otherwise. With a bit more interest, I read on.

Question two asked the test-taker to put the following fantasies in order, with the one that was the most arousing at the top.

Role-playing

Exhibitionism

Voyeurism

Food play

Bondage

Roxanne hadn’t bothered ranking them at all, as if the concept didn’t interest her in the slightest. Instead, underneath the different choices, she’d written in the indecipherable statement: Being found out.

Now what did that mean—and why would it be a turn-on?

I took another sip of wine, considered calling her and asking her about her answers, and then decided to simply keep on reading. This was the most exciting stuff I’d found all night.

The next part of the quiz was made of several phrases, requiring the reader to mark a T for True or F for False. I have participated in the following activities:

• Played with sex toys

• Acted out role-playing fantasies

• Tried a ménage à trois

• Experimented with bondage

• Been with another woman

Each statement had a T next to it, and the final one had an exclamation point written in by hand. From sharing stories in the past, I knew that Roxanne was in no way a tentative lover. She’d told me about the time she’d taken her thong off in the window of a café on Main Street. Without thoughts of reprisals, she’d spread her slim legs so that her date would be able to see her pantyless pussy when he returned from feeding the meter. He’d paid the check immediately, hurrying her out behind the restaurant for a bit of public sex in the parking lot, so excited that he couldn’t even wait until they got home. Which was exactly what Roxanne had been hoping for.

Then there was the lover who’d liked to dress her up. They’d often enjoyed decadent fantasies come to life in the guise of a dean and coed, or kinky nurse and shy patient. She had thrown herself into the fun of make-believe, dragging me along with her to thrift stores downtown in search of the perfect costumes.

“I need a cheerleader skirt,” she’d confessed. “Something short and pleated.”

We’d spent hours perusing the racks at all of our favorite haunts until she’d come up with the perfect red-and-white-pleated number. “Dan’s going to flip when he sees this,” she’d said, pleased, before correcting herself. “Well, I’m actually the one who’s going to flip for him, and he’s going to come from watching.” She did a mock cheer to show me exactly what she meant.

Roxanne never seemed to feel awkward talking about sex with me. She’d even called me late, late one night, needing to immediately share an encounter she’d had with two of her coworkers. After a daylong, stressful meeting at the ad agency, the threesome had gone out drinking to one of Roxanne’s favorite watering holes.

It was that season when brushfires plagued this most wealthy of communities, and from the bar located on the top floor of a hotel, they had watched the mountains burning. Something about witnessing the destruction of all that valuable real estate had made Roxy hot. She’d found the nerve to come on to both of her handsome and receptive coworkers. They’d paid for their margaritas and gotten a room in the hotel. There, these lucky men had spent several hours making her sexual sandwich fantasy come true, with Roxy in between as the filling.

But somehow even knowing all of these stories from her past, I’d never have guessed that she’d been with a girl. Or that she’d tried any sort of bondage. I couldn’t envision her captured, her wild, untamed spirit reined in. Where had I been? Had she tried to tell me but felt that I wasn’t willing to hear?

I was anxious to find out what else I’d missed hearing about. Yet another stab of guilt at reading the quiz stopped me. How would I feel if Roxy had stumbled on my own filled-in questionnaire? That was an easy question to answer: I’d never take an idiotic test like this, wouldn’t think to waste my time on one. If I had, though, I definitely wouldn’t mind Roxy reading my answers. There was nothing about me that she didn’t know already. So taking another sip of wine, I quickly got over my moral issues and plunged on.

Question four focused on dirty movies. Next to the titles were brief write-ups, in case the questionee hadn’t seen the flick. I’d seen them all. And I knew Roxanne had, as well.

Which erotic movie would you most easily see yourself starring in:

• Basic Instinct (Dominant woman)

• 9 1/2 Weeks (Submissive woman)

• Bound (Lesbian relationship)

The second and the third titles were underlined, letting me know that she wanted to try a submissive role in a girl-girl relationship. Suddenly, instead of simply acting like a private detective, peeking into my friend’s hidden fantasy life, I found myself getting aroused.

Oh, Roxanne, I thought. You naughty, naughty girl.

Now, the way she’d acted earlier in the evening made sense. She’d been revealing herself in an unexpected manner. Carefully, cautiously. And that wasn’t like my Roxanne at all. A born risk-taker, she was used to spelling things out clearly from the start. With any other potential lover, she’d have been bold and outspoken. Not with me. The lengths she’d gone through to get into my mind were both surprising and flattering. How she’d bookended the magazine between the others, using them as innocent props, knowing that I’d reach for this one later in the night, guessing easily my routine of climbing into bed to enjoy the frivolous volume.

Oh, Roxanne, I thought again. You aced that quiz, didn’t you? You’re the number one risk-taker of all. Go to the front of the class, girl.

But what did it all mean? She was coming on to me. That was for sure. Yet why hadn’t we gone this route before? She knew full well that I like both men and women, and she also knew that I play the top role whenever possible. My personality may not be that of a standard risk-taker, for I am methodical in my dealings. From my work to my social life, I enjoy order, calm and the power of being in charge. It floods through me in a rush, from my very center outward to the edges of my body. Bringing someone else to that highest point of pleasure, being in charge of her fulfillment, that’s what makes me cream. If submitting is a turn-on for a lover, it works well with my need for dominance.

Sprawling against the pillows, I slid a hand under my nightshirt, finding the waistband of my charcoal silk boxers and then stroking myself lazily through the material. My thoughts were entirely of Roxanne, of me and Roxanne, playing the way she obviously wanted to play.

In my fantasy, I saw Roxanne letting go. Tied or cuffed to my bed, her supple body trembling, her head turning back and forth on my pillow, that long glossy hair of hers spread in a fiery mane against my white sheets. I saw myself, not undressed yet, still wearing a pair of my favorite faded jeans, a tight white tank top that perfectly fit my lean, hard-boned physique, and holding something in my hand. Closed my eyes tighter, as if that would make the image come clearer to me. Ah, yes, it was a crop, and I was tracing the tip of the beautiful weapon along her ribs, down the basin of her concave belly. A belly I’ve admired so many times in dressing rooms, or out at the beach, although never have I let my fantasies get away from me.

Now, I did, seeing in my mind as I parted her pretty pussy lips and slid the braided edge of the crop up inside her, getting it nice and wet.

My hand pushed my boxers aside, needing direct finger-to-clit contact. Slowly but firmly I made dreamy circles around and around. I thought about Roxanne’s tongue there, working me when I finally joined her on the bed. She’d still be tied. Bound to my silver metal bed frame. But her tongue would be free to act how it wanted to. I’d bring my hips in front of her, use my own fingers to part my nether lips, let her get a good look at me inside before allowing her to kiss my cunt.

When she was ready, and I was dripping, I would press myself against her face, would let her tongue-fuck me until I could hardly take the pleasure. Only then would I turn around, slide into a sixty-nine, reward her with the present of a well-earned orgasm. I’d eat her until her whole body trembled, slip my tongue up inside her, paint invisible pictures on the inner walls of her pussy—

With a harsh intake of breath, I stopped. Stopped touching myself. Stopped fantasizing. What if I was wrong? Maybe she had simply filled out the quiz for the hell of it, had forgotten all about it and given the magazine to me in total innocence. What if I was the one reading things into this, making the wrong assumptions? Yes, it looked as if we’d be perfectly matched in the bedroom, but perhaps that wasn’t what Roxanne had in mind at all. Hell, maybe she hadn’t even been the one to take the quiz.

Feeling an unexpected sense of panic burst through me, I reached for the magazine again, skimming the remaining questions for signs that Roxanne was the test-taker, and that she’d been answering the queries for my eyes only. It didn’t take me long to find the proof I needed. There, as usual, at the end of the quiz, were the directions for tallying the results, followed by three different write-ups explaining the scores: Cool-headed vixen, Hot-blooded mama, and Bungee-jumping badass babe.

A heavy-handed X had been drawn fiercely through the three different write-ups, and Roxanne had inserted a new one in her careful handwriting in the margin. It said, Frisky Femme Feline: Loves her friends, and loves to take risks, but sometimes doesn’t have the guts to say what she wants. Which is this: You. I want you, Jodie. Call me and let me know if you will play the way I like. Will you?

Would I?

Now, it was my turn to forget my careful, plodding manner, my style of weighing all facts and figures before making a decision. I picked up my phone and dialed her number. Maybe she wouldn’t answer—she’d said she had plans for the night—but I’d leave a message.

I didn’t have to. She answered on the very first ring, as if she’d been waiting for my call.

“It’s me,” I told her.

“Hey, Jodie,” she said, her voice ultracasual. She didn’t know if I’d read the test. That was obvious from her tone.

“Where are you?”

“Why?” she asked, still playing the innocent.

“How soon can you be here?”

Now, I heard her laughing, relief in the quickness and ferocity of her giggles, and then I heard another noise that made my heart race. The front bell. She was right outside. A risk-taker to the very end. Risking her heart. Putting herself out for potential embarrassment, but probable pleasure.

Tossing the phone on the bed, I hurried to the front door, just as she let herself in with my spare key.

“Get over here,” I said, motioning with my head toward the bedroom. But we didn’t make it that far. We couldn’t. Roxanne and I only had the patience to shut the door, to stop in the center of my living room and reach for each other. My hands worked quickly to undress her. Hers helped me as we got the white peasant blouse over her head, pulled down her faded cutoffs, revealed the wonder of her body as she kicked out of the navy lace thong she had beneath.

“Navy’s the new black,” I muttered to her as I pulled my own clothes off.

She gave me a quizzical look, but didn’t speak.

“That’s one of the things I learned from your magazines.”

As I spoke, I pushed her back against the leather sofa, making her knees bend as she sat on the lip of it. I took my spot on the floor in front of her. Unlike the cool quality of my fantasy and the steely way in which I held out her pleasure until the end, I needed my mouth on her pussy immediately, needed her taste on my tongue, her sweet, tangy juices spread over my skin. Slow and steady, as always, I worked her. She was divine, sublime, her cream like nothing I’d ever tasted before. The way she moved, her hips sliding forward, her hands lost in my hair. Every touch, every moan let me know how right we were together.

Now that we were really in sync, I found that I could start to relax. Roxy was almost desperate, yearning, wanting me to let her climax. I decided I would, if she could answer my questions. Lifting my lips away from her sex, I started off.

“A) You want my mouth against your pussy—”

“Oh, yes.”

“Let me finish,” I admonished her, and when I looked up into her eyes, I saw that she was paying me careful attention. “A) You want my mouth against your pussy, or B) You want to roll over on your stomach and let me play back there.”

Roxy sighed hard, understanding what I was offering, and she answered by moving her body, rolling onto her stomach and pressing her face against the smooth surface of my leather sofa. Quickly, I parted her rear cheeks, touching her hole with my tongue. Just a touch, but I felt the electrifying shudder that slammed through her body. Roxy, my bad girl, loves to be explored like that—she’d told me so once when we’d stayed out all night drinking. Confessed exactly how much she liked it when a lover licked her between her heart-shaped cheeks.

My fingers slid under her hips and up in her snatch while my tongue probed and played. I ate her from behind for several minutes, and when I was ready to move on, I leaned back and asked question number two.

“You planted the test where I could find it—”

Again she interrupted me, sighing the word, “Yes,” as if it were an entire sentence. “Yessssss.”

“Not finished, baby,” I told her, and she shook her head, as if she knew she’d done something wrong. I could tell that she was dazed by the proximity of her orgasm, and that was exactly why I wanted to keep teasing her. My main talent in bed is the ability to hold off. To force myself to wait for that final release and to help my lovers wait for it, as well.

“You planted the test where I could find it—” I said again, watching as Roxy, with her head turned to the side, bit her bottom lip to keep herself from responding too early. “Rather than simply telling me what you wanted because you thought that I might punish you for playing dirty.”

“Oh, true,” Roxanne purred. “True, Jodie. True.”

That was all I needed to hear. I brought one hand against her ripe, lovely bottom, spanking her hard on her right cheek, then giving her a matching blow on the left. Roxanne sucked in her breath, but didn’t move, didn’t squirm or try to get away. How pretty my handprints looked against her pale skin. I wanted to further decorate her, but I couldn’t keep myself from parting her cheeks again and kissing her between. Roxanne could hardly contain herself now. The spark of pain mixed with the pleasure confused and excited her, and she ground her hips against the edge of my sofa, wordlessly begging for something. For more.

I gave her more. Alternating stinging, sharp spanks with sweet, French kisses to both her ass and her pussy, sliding my mouth down along her most tender, private regions, pushing her further toward the limits of her pleasure.

Once again, I stopped all contact, sensing exactly the right moment to ask the final question on my own, personal Sex Test. “You’re about to come on my tongue,” I said, my mouth a sliver away from her skin before I brought her to climax. “True or false?”

“Oh, yes, Jodie,” Roxanne whispered as the pleasure rose within her. “True—” She dragged out the word, as if it meant something else.

I brought her to the limit, and then was silent after that. There were no questions left to ask. Only answers, given silently by her body, and by my own.