by Piper Lennox
Mel laughs, but it’s different than before. Softer, through her nose.
“What about you?” I ask, almost a challenge, like I want to embarrass her as revenge. Maybe I do. “What do you like?”
It’s rare to see Mel blush, but she does now. I forgot how much I liked it.
“I don’t watch porn,” she mutters.
“Right, but like, what do you fantasize about? And don’t say you don’t think about it, because everyone does. Even nuns.”
She reaches for the tequila, but instead of pouring herself another shot, she tightens the lid and slides it under the couch. “I’ve never even, like, done that.”
“Done what?” I ask, nodding to the girls on screen, one of whom is screaming her way through an orgasm. “Had sex? Not even with Felix?”
She glares at the way I say his name, like I’m spitting food on her face. “No.”
“Carl Linkheart?”
Another glare. “No.”
“Bastian Dubois,” I say, because I just can’t believe, of all the guys Mel’s dated the last couple years, she hasn’t hooked up with a single one beyond making out. Especially Bastian, the exchange student from Strasbourg. Mel fawned over him for weeks before he asked her out, much to the jealousy of every other girl in our school, but they’d broken up just two weeks later.
Still: Mel is beautiful, so I know guys must have pressured her. And she seemed to let them get pretty far during the makeout sessions I was forced to witness, playing pathetic chauffeur to her carless dates.
“No,” she says, firm and a little angry. “I’ve never had sex. But I was also saying I’ve never done that.” She points to the screen, where another girl is panting that she’s close.
“Wh— Orgasmed?” I look at her so fast, my neck cracks. “You’ve never had an orgasm?”
If she was blushing before, she’s close to spontaneous combustion right now. “No, okay? I’ve never....” She can’t even make herself say the word.
“So...so hold on,” I sputter, sitting straight up, trying to wrap my head around this news. “You’ve never orgasmed. Okay. But...you’re a teenager.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, you know...don’t you masturbate? Eighteen years and you expect me to believe you’ve never touched yourself?”
“God, Blake,” she says, pulling a face.
“You’re the one that brought it up,” I remind her. I point to the porn. “You’re the one who wanted to watch Spring Break Slut Fest, remember?”
I can’t tell if she’s more embarrassed or angry. “Fine,” she snaps, slamming the remote on the coffee table. She sighs. “Look, I...I’ve touched myself before, yeah. But no. I’ve never orgasmed. I don’t know why. I’m just one of those people that can’t, I guess.”
“Everyone can orgasm.”
“No, they can’t,” she counters. “I read it in Cosmo.”
I roll my eyes. This isn’t the first time she’s used that magazine as definitive proof in an argument, but whatever. That’s not important right now.
“At least,” she adds, “I don’t think I have. How do you know?”
I laugh. “Oh, you know.”
This, apparently, is not the answer she was looking for. I clear my throat and stop laughing.
“I meant what does it feel like, when you.... Or is it different, for guys and girls?”
“I think it’s basically the same,” I say, although I’ve never actually thought about this. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s...just this really intense, really good feeling. Probably the best in the world, to be honest.”
I expect her to laugh at my description, not believing me, but when I look at her, she’s hanging on my every word.
“Huh,” she says, sitting back against the couch cushions. We go back to the movie, and I finish my soda as a girl on screen gets her ass slapped. The noise makes us both jump, it’s so sudden.
Under the blanket, as hard as I already was, now I’m basically concrete. I promise myself a nice solo session later, after Mel’s asleep.
Mel
I can’t believe I just told him that.
I’ve never told anyone that before, actually, but I damn sure never thought I’d tell Blake. It can’t be the tequila, only two shots in. Maybe the rain is making me tired, screwing with my brain.
The wind whips the tall oaks outside. Suddenly, it’s dark, and we’re both so shocked we don’t even get up to find a flashlight.
He’s quiet; I think he’s fallen asleep. But then, in the weird silence of his house, that undertone of the storm, he says, “Truth or Dare.”
“We’re a little old for that, don’t you think?”
“You’re never too old for Truth or Dare.”
My eyes start to adjust. I can see him picking at the tab on his soda, his mouth open just a bit as he concentrates. I’ve never noticed how full his lips are for a guy’s. They’re like this perfect shade of pink, the kind of pink you’d order if you were painting your house or something. A pink you’d never get sick of seeing.
“Truth,” I say, shrugging. Why not? We might as well have fun while the power’s out.
“Okay.” Blake sits up. In the dimmest glow from the skylight, I see him smile. “Was Bastian really bisexual, or was it just a rumor?”
I laugh. “I don’t know, but I think it was true. He stared at a lot of guys when we were going out. He’d pretend he was reading their T-shirts.”
He cracks up, and I feel good that I’ve made him laugh. It’s weird, because normally, I wouldn’t even think about it.
“My turn.” I take his soda and sip. “Truth or Dare.”
“Dare.”
This is typical. When we were kids, I chose Truth because it’s easy and painless: you just rip off the Band-Aid and say it. With Dare, you never know what’s going to happen, and the anticipation alone is a killer.
But Blake is still shy, like when we were kids, and doesn’t like divulging secrets. He can’t even lie if someone asks a question he doesn’t want to answer; he’s got a terrible poker face.
“Okay, I dare you to....” I pause, thinking. “I dare you to show me that boner you’ve been trying to hide since I put on the porn.”
I can’t see his skin turning red in the darkness, but I know it is. “I’m not showing you my dick,” he balks, like I’m breaking the rules of the game or something.
“Not your actual dick,” I laugh, “just quit covering up like it isn’t obvious. It is.”
He grumbles something and throws the blanket onto the floor between us. A flash of lightning shows me that, yes, his shorts are seriously tented. And I’ve got to admit it to myself: that bulge is way bigger than I would’ve guessed.
Shit, I think, realizing I’m staring right at it. I tear my eyes away as he says, “Right. My turn.”
“Truth.”
“Would you ever let me give you an orgasm?”
I have to stare at him, searching for his expression in the dark, trying to decide if he’s serious. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was wasted. “What?” I whisper.
He shifts his weight around on the cushions. “Orgasm,” he repeats. “Would you ever let me give you one?”
To be honest, just hearing Blake say the word “orgasm,” not to mention in the context of giving me one, turns me on. I’m shocked, but not as much as I probably should be.
I feel a warmth begin between my legs, then even more so at the realization that I’m wearing Blake’s sweatpants and no panties. All of a sudden I get a chill, this electric sensation all through my body, at the thought of him actually giving me an orgasm, whatever that feels like. The thought of him undressing me, touching my bare skin....
“I’m not answering that,” I say softly, then, louder, “That’s an unfair question.”
“What? How is that unfair?” He gets up and grabs a lighter, passing over each of the tealights on the coffee table and mantle. One by one, they cast a gentle glimmer across the room, making the sha
dows sway and jump.
It’s romantic, I realize, but shake it off.
“Because...because you’re really asking two questions,” I say, bullshitting as I go along. “First, you’re asking if I’d ever let anyone give me an orgasm, besides myself, which I already told you I can’t, so...whatever. And second, you’re asking if I’d let that person be you.”
“And? Would you?”
“You can’t ask two questions. I change my mind, I want Dare.”
“Fine.” He falls back onto the couch, only this time, he’s much closer. Our legs are touching. Our shoulders are touching. The armrest is on the other side of me, and I’ve got nowhere to go.
I’m not sure I want to.
“I dare you,” he whispers, “to let me give you an orgasm.”
Three
Blake
I hear her breath pick up, dry and ragged, as the candle flames grow and the light increases. Her face looks scared, kind of, but excited, like we’re in a haunted house, waiting for some terrible surprise.
“Okay,” she says. It’s so soft, I almost don’t hear her. But then she tilts her head back and shuts her eyes as my face moves closer, and it registers with me just as I kiss her.
I’ve dreamt about kissing Mel since we were twelve years old. I think that was the day I fell in love with her, actually: we were at track practice behind our middle school, sharing our complex with the high schoolers while their track got repaved.
Since I’ve always had a little bit of asthma, I wasn’t exactly the fastest kid. Actually, I was the slowest on the team.
But Mel—she could fly.
That day, she was getting better times than anybody. Every practice run, even against the high schoolers, she’d finish way ahead of everyone else. I was watching her so closely I tripped over my second hurdle, earning a lecture from Coach about focus that, ironically, I didn’t listen to. I was too caught up in her.
Why had I never noticed this before? How good she was, how graceful? She was absolutely beautiful, whereas I’d always thought she was just pretty, at best. I didn’t think of her much at all, until that day. She was just Mel.
Our kissing gives way to touching. She’s got one hand on my stomach; I’ve got one up her shirt—my sweatshirt—toying with her breasts, firm and bouncing freely in my hand as I cup one, then the other. When I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, she whimpers against my mouth.
God, I think I’m gonna lose it.
I want to ask if I can fuck her, but this sounds too crass for our first time. This is Mel, after all. I’ve thought about this for years. She deserves way more than a fuck.
But “making love” sounds a little too crazy, right out the gate. Instead, I ask, “Should I go get a condom?”
She breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “I...I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she says. Her brow is furrowed; she seems afraid to say no, like she doesn’t want to disappoint me.
I want to tell her that she could never, in a thousand years, disappoint me. When you want all of someone, even the smallest piece feels like they’ve given you everything. When you love them, just knowing they love you back—or could, someday—is enough.
“That’s okay,” I tell her, and she relaxes.
So instead, I focus on her. I slip her out of my sweatshirt and put my mouth on her nipple, swirling my tongue and pinching the other lightly with my fingers.
I’ve never touched a breast before, at least not on purpose, and always through a shirt or sweater. I’ve definitely never had my mouth on one. As eager as I am for more, I think I could stay right here, doing just this, forever.
“God,” she sighs, letting her head fall back against the armrest. “That...that feels amazing.”
I can’t help but smile. She doesn’t know what amazing is yet.
Mel
Even through fabric, Blake’s touch between my legs is dizzying. I actually lose my breath, it surprises me so much.
But this is Blake, I think. This is the boy I caught tadpoles with in the creek behind our church, splashing each other until our parents found us and yelled. Who I made cry that time we went sledding, when I threw a chunk of ice in his face and bloodied his nose. Who played M.A.S.H. with me in the back of the classroom, dooming each other to lives of one-dollar salaries and shacks with the ugliest, grossest people in school.
But…it’s Blake.
Blake, who knows everything about me. Blake, who’s lied to my parents for me more than once, his trustworthiness outweighing that terrible poker face. Who sent me a carnation in Algebra on Valentine’s Day, so I could make Carl Linkheart jealous. The boy who can kiss me and make me feel amazing, or at least try, for one afternoon, and not care whether or not he gets my virginity.
He releases my nipple from his mouth to look up at me. The candlelight flickers across his face. The same face I’ve stared at for years, memorizing features that now, somehow, electrify my nerves: his pink lips, the slope of his jaw. Blue eyes like ice, so clear and intense, I suddenly can’t understand how they’ve never made my heart thrum like this before.
“You’re wet,” he whispers, kissing me again. The words, simple, but so unlike anything I’ve ever heard him say, ignite something inside me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your sweatpants.”
“They aren’t messed up,” he says, his voice low, kind of gravelly. Good God, when did he get so smooth? “I think they’re my new favorite pair, actually.”
Blake rubs me harder, until soon I’m lifting my hips, asking—begging, really—him to take the pants off.
He does.
In the candlelight, it’s hard to read his face as he looks at my sex. Does he like it? Is something wrong with it? Does he think it’s weird or gross I haven’t trimmed in a week?
But all he does is smile and move farther down the couch, backing up until he can bend down and put his mouth against me.
I actually gasp. In all my years of failed self-pleasure, I’ve never even gotten close to this kind of feeling. When he slips his fingers inside me, I practically scream, pushing my face into the throw pillow.
He looks up. “Does it hurt?”
I shake my head, panting, eager for him to hurry up and do it again, yet needing to know just what “it” is. How is he doing this to me?
“I’ve…” The word “fingered” comes to mind, but I can’t make myself say it in front of him. “I’ve done that to myself, before,” I manage, “but...but how are you.... What are you doing with your mouth?”
He laughs, but not in a mean way. “Um…licking you? You know, your clit?”
I stare at him. “My what?”
He reels back a bit, fingers still inside me, now motionless. “You seriously don’t know what that is?”
I shake my head. It’s familiar, something thrown out in movies and overheard at parties. I know I’ve read something about it in Cosmo. But growing up in such a strict Catholic household meant no Sex Ed for me. Mom never gave me much of a sex talk, either: just some pamphlets from the doctor’s office on periods and abstinence.
“I mean…I know it’s, like, part of…everything,” I backpedal, hoping by the grace of God I can play off my naiveté. “I just don’t know where it is.”
“Look,” Blake tells me. “I’ll show you.”
I sit up a little. He uses his other hand to open my sex, like forcing a flower to bloom. There, in the candlelight, I see a small peak.
“That?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s nothing.”
Blake cracks up again. “It’s so not ‘nothing,’ Mel. God, no wonder you’ve never orgasmed! That’s, like, the one thing that sets women off.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, offended.
“Uh...because I took Sex Ed? And watch porn?”
I sit back against the armrest, the pillows sighing behind me. “Oh.”
“It’s okay,” he adds, gentler now. “You’re right, it looks like nothing. But it’s actually got a ton of ner
ve endings in it. So…so, yeah, that’s what I’m doing, I guess.” He blushes, his cheeks this pretty, sexy peach color in the light, and then slowly lowers his head again.
Blake
“You know,” I say, as I come up for air, “I’ve thought about this so many times.”
She’s completely lost in the fuzzy world of pre-orgasm. The sight of her neck sloped back, head weak against the armrest, drives me crazy. How many times did I see her eyes flutter like that, while she made out with other guys and thought I couldn’t see, or didn’t care?
I was pitiful. All this time, I watched them flirt with Mel and get her, just like that. It took most of them one afternoon, maybe two, before she’d latch onto their arms and call them her boyfriend. Sometimes, they didn’t even have to try: she’d flock to them like a moth and hover until they noticed, finally, just how amazing she was.
I kept thinking, That’ll never be me. She never looked at me the way she looked at them. She didn’t sigh dreamily when I walked into a classroom, or dress up when we were lab partners.
That, I’m learning now, was my problem. I waited for her to like me back, out of nowhere, or give me some sign that it was safe to make my move. All along, I should have just gone for it, like I did tonight. I’d be angry at myself for waiting so long, if I wasn’t so incredibly, stupidly happy right now, to have it happening at all.
“You have?” she asks.
I nod and kiss her, my erection flinching when she moans against my mouth; I’ve sped up my fingers. “Actually, when you asked what I was into?” The fear grips me, but I push it away: I’ve wanted to tell her this for too long. “When I touch myself…I’m always thinking about you. Even when I watch porn, I—I’m imagining doing that to you, instead.”