by Harper Bliss
“Fuck me while I fuck you,” I say on an exhale.
She arches up her eyebrows. “Okay,” she whispers.
We kiss again and this time her hand is firmer on my breast, more intentional and hungrier. This is the very thing that has helped me to relax around her so much. Her obvious hunger for me. It forced me to rethink some long-held beliefs about myself and the undesirability of my body. This is what Caitlin has done for me. Her actions have shown me what no words could ever tell me—words my rational mind could never accept without hard evidence.
All the evidence I need is in this bed right now. It’s in the way her breath comes in short, shallow bursts when we break for air. In the way her eyes narrow with desire when she looks at me. The fire in them, the blatant yearning.
“Spread your legs,” she says, as she spreads hers.
My hand dives down instantly at the sight of her there, at the prospect of pushing inside of her. Her hand does the same. If her desire for me is only a fraction of the lust I feel for her in this moment, it’s already more than plenty. Enough for me. Because my lust is boundless, ever-renewable, unquenchable.
She runs a finger over my sex. It glides over the soft flesh of my lips.
“I love this,” she says. “There’s so much promise in this action.”
I can only agree. My own finger is busy exploring her lips. On the same path it has been down so many times before.
She doesn’t dilly-dally, but pushes high inside of me.
“Oh,” I moan, looking into her eyes. I need to take a second before I can follow suit, but it doesn’t take me long to recover. She’s waiting for me. We’re going to do this together.
As always, I relish the moment my finger slips between her wet folds. It always feels like such a privilege. But more than that, it’s the most effective action to get my clit throbbing out of control.
She starts thrusting first. I try to match her rhythm, try to find an alternate motion that suits us both. It’s easy when we look into each other’s eyes like that. At least, it seems so. Effortless and maddeningly effective at the same time.
“This is so hot,” she whispers.
I can only utter a groan in reply. In the weeks we’ve been together, Caitlin’s taken me on a journey along ever-increasing levels of arousal. Here we are. A notch higher once again.
This isn’t a matter of letting go, anymore. It’s a matter of hanging on. As though all the orgasms I missed by being too inside my head, too uptight, too insecure and hateful of my body, are catching up with me. As if they’ve banded together to teach me a lesson and say, “See. What was so hard about that?”
As much as I might be ultimately responsible for my own climax, this is one we’re creating together, in perfect unison. Her fingers inside of me and mine inside her. Every time she thrusts up, her thumb brushes against my clit, until she stops her thrusting motion and changes it into a more minute but intense movement inside of me, allowing her thumb better access to my aching clit.
“Oh Christ,” I mutter. For a moment, I’m so undone by her eyes on me, her fingers everywhere, that I forget my own fingers’ duties. The instant I remember that I’m still inside of her, it pushes me over an invisible edge—the very thing that only ever exists in the mind and has kept me from so much joy. It’s ridiculously easy to ride into my climax on her finger while her thumb fondles my clit. Her warmth envelops me, inside and out. A smile spreads on my face and she mirrors it. I have no idea if she’s even close to coming. Maybe it’s not even humanly possible. All I know is that I am. I’m coming at Caitlin’s fingers. She’s got me. I’m all hers now. It has finally happened.
“Keep fucking me,” she whispers as her fingers retreat. “Don’t stop.”
I give her all I have, hoping it’s enough after what just occurred. As it turns out, Caitlin making me come like that only spurs me on. I fuck her until she comes, mere minutes after I did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By Friday, I’ve been singing the same song in the shower every morning. I hum it in the corridors at the university and, ditching the podcasts, listen to it on repeat when I go for my morning run. I haven’t committed to anything, but by the time the open mic starts and Kristin starts taking names for performances, I know that, if I were to feel like it, I would be ready, because I know the song by heart. Not just the words, but the melody is part of me. The notes live within me. The inflections of its vowels have a permanent place in my brain. If I ever do sing a song in front of an audience, this will be the one.
I don’t give my name to Kristin. I want to see how the evening plays out. Robin’s colleague Meredith is here but Micky and Robin aren’t. Sheryl is present, of course, but most of the other people are nothing more than acquaintances, which might help when the time comes to make my final decision.
Caitlin hasn’t talked anymore about me singing tonight. I don’t know if she suspects that I might go for it, but if she does, she hasn’t let on. She hasn’t given her name to Kristin either.
As I sit through the first two performances, I think about all the things that have changed. I feel like a different person than the last time I sat at this table with Caitlin and Sheryl for an open mic night. For someone who had convinced herself that having an orgasm was optional, being able to achieve one has led to a surprising boost in my confidence. Sometimes, when I’m running and I spot someone looking at me funnily, I think to myself, “And are you sleeping with Caitlin James? Is she making you come on a regular basis?” It’s silly, but it works. I care much less about pitying glances and when I’ve missed a morning run because Caitlin’s presence kept me in bed, I can now go for a jog on a Saturday afternoon, when the streets are much more crowded, and the looks of others could annoy me so much more. But they don’t. Because when I get a look now, I don’t just feel like fat Josephine anymore.
Next week, I will sign a contract with Caitlin’s publisher to co-write a book with her. And in the evenings, when I crawl into bed with her, it’s no longer terror that grips my heart in its fist, but delicious, warm love. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I can even catch a glimpse of the woman Caitlin says she finds so beautiful. I can look into my own eyes and not dismiss them as not pretty enough to make up for the unappealing body I live in.
“The next brave soul to confront the open mic is Ramona,” Kristin announces. “She is going to sing ‘Hey Jude’ for us.”
Ramona is a tiny woman—I’m easily triple her size—with a beautifully fragile voice.
“She’s good, but you could do so much better,” Caitlin whispers in my ear mid-song, and keeps her mouth close to me for an instant.
“It’s not a competition,” I reply. And while this evening is definitely not about who’s better than who, a part of me does kind of feel like besting her.
“Of course it’s not, babe,” Caitlin says, and leans back in her chair.
When I look at her she has a smug smile on her face. Maybe she does know. Or perhaps she has picked up on the changes in me. Maybe I’m more transparent than I think I am.
After Ramona, a woman in dreads with the most intense blue eyes reads an angry short story about a mother and a daughter who don’t understand each other. It’s strangely moving, perhaps because of the way she performs it instead of just reading it, and then it’s Kristin’s turn again, who asks, “Any more takers for the mic tonight?”
There’s a brief silence. My heart pounds in my chest. I lock eyes with Kristin and raise my hand.
“Our very own Josephine,” she says.
“I’m so proud of you,” Caitlin whispers as, on trembling legs, I stand up.
I walk to the front and take the mic from Kristin. I’d rather she not say too much anymore.
“Did you bring a backing track?” Kristin asks.
“I’ll be fine like this.”
She nods and hurries to her seat on the side. I wait until she has sat down. Should I say something? So many eyes on me. The very picture of what used to be my
worst nightmare. Have I truly changed so much that I can do this? Will the notes not die a slow, excruciating death in the back of my throat as soon as I open my mouth to sing?
“Hi, I’m Josephine Greenwood,” I say sheepishly. “I’m going to sing you a song.”
I look at Caitlin, who seems to be sitting on the edge of her seat. She gives me a thumbs-up and it’s all I need. Not because I’m standing up here for her. I’m here for me.
I clear my throat, try to loosen my shoulders as best I can, and launch into the first line of a slowed-down version of “Bird on the Wire”.
The first chorus I sing with my eyes closed, but after that I slowly open them, letting the audience in. Letting them truly see me. Caitlin has her hands clasped in front of her mouth. She’s the only person I see in the small crowd. All my focus is on her, hoping the song will convey how sorry I am for all the mistakes I made in the beginning and all the ones I’ve yet to make.
By the time I hit the last, low note, a tear streams down my cheek.
“Thank you,” I say.
Every single person rises from their seat and applauds me for long minutes. It’s heart-warming for the first few seconds, but quickly becomes embarrassing.
“Thank you so much,” I mumble into the microphone and put it on the nearest table.
Caitlin has made her way to me and throws her arms around me, as though I just scored the winning goal in a very tense football match.
“I don’t even know what to say.” She holds my hand tightly in hers.
“You’ve done it.” Sheryl has sidled up to us. “You’ve managed to shut Caitlin up.”
Kristin joins us. “Eva wasn’t lying when she said you could sing. Blimey.” She puts a hand between my shoulder blades and leaves it there for a lingering second.
“Spectacular,” Sheryl says. “Forget about writing a book with Caitlin. You’re a star, Jo.”
Caitlin remains quiet. She just stands there, holding my hand, looking at me as if I just landed from another planet.
“Come here for a minute.” She ignores the others and drags me into a corner of the Pink Bean. She takes my other hand in hers as well and stares at me. “I love you for doing that. For being brave and facing your fears head-on.” She looks straight into my eyes. “I love you.”
I swallow a sudden lump out of my throat. “I love you too.” This is no moment for sarcastic comments. This is Caitlin telling me she loves me. And all the time I was singing, I couldn’t think of anything else but how much I love her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I have an early birthday present for you,” Caitlin says, out of the blue. It’s just a regular Wednesday morning in the Pink Bean and my birthday is not for a couple of months. Getting presents was the furthest thing from my mind, though I have been agonizing over what to get Caitlin for her birthday, which is coming up soon. I can’t spend a lot of money—and Caitlin has every last thing her heart desires already anyway. I was secretly hoping we would strike a fashionable non-consumerist agreement of bowing out of getting each other presents, but seeing as she got me an early one, I guess I’ll have to step up to the plate.
“Really?” I wasn’t raised to have many materialistic aspirations and it’s true what they say: it’s the thought that counts more than anything. In this case, I can hardly believe that Caitlin has spent time thinking about getting me a present.
“I have a little speech to deliver before I can give it to you. If I may?” She bows her head solemnly.
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“I usually think mutual gift-giving is just another ridiculous way of inflicting even more stress on an already stressed-out society at occasions like birthdays and Christmas. Who truly needs more stuff? What I do believe in, however, is surprising your loved ones with small tokens of affection—and this bit is really important—without expecting anything in return.”
“I tend to agree with your vision.” The only person I consistently send presents is my sister, and that’s more out of guilt because I can’t be there with her for most special occasions.
“Keeping all of that in mind.” She delves into her purse and takes out what looks like an envelope but is made out of gift wrap paper. “For you.”
I raise my eyebrows while I tear at the wrapper. No matter anyone’s stance on the sanity of gift-giving, it is thrilling to receive one.
I slip out what can really only be a voucher for something. I blink and look at a plane ticket with my name printed on it.
“It’s a flexible ticket. You can change the dates if you want to. But I thought you might want to go home next weekend.”
Caitlin is sending me home for my sister’s birthday.
“Oh my god.” When I look up at her, I have tears in my eyes. “Bea will be over the moon.”
“I know how much she means to you.”
I put the ticket on the table and rise so I can wrap my arms around her.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper, my lips wet against her neck.
“You’re very welcome.” Caitlin holds me tightly.
When we break from our hug and sit back down again, I can’t stop a persistent smile from spreading on my face.
“I meant what I said, Jo. You don’t have to give me anything for my birthday. You’ve given me so much already.”
I chuckle. I could argue with her. Give her a list of everything she has given me that wasn’t bought with money. But I’m so elated to be going home that I just nod.
“Besides, you’ve given me the best gift already. Not only hearing, but seeing you sing as well. That was priceless. You should really do that again some time.”
After my performance at the open mic, Caitlin told me so many times I looked breathtaking while I was singing, I’m almost ready to start believing her.
“I can’t wait to tell Bea tomorrow morning.” The prospect of my sister’s laugh—so genuine and pure—in my ear pushes another shot of adrenalin into my veins. “Although this does mean we will be spending a weekend apart.” I purse my lips together.
“Or… I could book another ticket. One with my name on it.”
“Really? You want to go spend time in the sticks?”
“I want to see where you grew up and meet your family. Unless you plan on keeping me a secret, of course.” A grin spreads on her face.
I could really be with all the people I love at the same time? The mere thought of it causes a prickle of tears behind my eyes.
“I could never keep you a secret.” I stand up again, wrap my arms around her anew. “You’re too amazing for that.”
After my shift, Kristin has asked me to join her upstairs. I still have to ask her to take a day off next week, but I figure I’d better hear what she has to say first.
“The open mic nights have been so successful, I’ve been thinking about doing something at the Pink Bean every Friday,” Kristin says as soon as we’ve sat down. “It’s good for business.”
“That’s a great idea.” Instantly, my mind goes in the direction of an extra Friday evening shift. It could work. It’s after office hours. Of course, these days, I’m dating. I usually spend Friday nights with Caitlin. But between an extra shift every week and the complicated structure Caitlin and I are trying to come up with for an advance on royalties, it may mean I won’t need to look for another roommate.
“I’ve been brainstorming possible concepts. The open mic is good for once a month, but I wouldn’t want to do more of them. I think variety might be the key. I was thinking about a comedy night. Definitely something LGBT-related. Maybe ask Caitlin to host a debate some time.”
“I’m sure she’d be up for that. Some people don’t need that much coaxing to be in the spotlight.” I shoot her a smile. I’m still filled with good cheer after my weekend plans have so abruptly changed. “If you want to add some extra star power, you could invite Zoya to take part as well.”
Kristin nods. “Imagine the three of them taking questions from the audience:
Sheryl, Caitlin, and Zoya.”
“Full house guaranteed.” I find her eyes. “I can work the extra shift. Perhaps not every single Friday evening, but most. Maybe we can work out a schedule with Alyssa.”
“Oh no, Josephine. That’s not what I wanted to ask you.”
“Oh.” Serves me right for being too presumptuous. “I just figured.”
“I want to ask you something else.”
“Okay?” My palms are beginning to sweat. Is this an impromptu performance review? If so, it would be a first.
“I would love to have an evening with Josephine Greenwood once in a while. Just you and your voice. Well, we’d need someone on guitar or keyboard or whatever you might need. But I think it could become a real draw.”
“Me?” I shake my head. “No way.”
“Jo, I was in the audience when you sang one song. I saw the effect you had on every single person in the room. It was pure emotion.”
“You want me to sing.” I have to repeat it to believe it. “But what would I even sing?”
“Sing anything you want. Sing the songs that move you the most, that bring you the most joy. Quite frankly, you could sing children’s songs and people would still love it.”
“It took a lot for me to get up there and sing that one song. I don’t think I could do what you’re asking of me.”
“It’s just an idea for the future. We can work on this together. You don’t have to perform a full show. Just sing a few songs and make people feel good. That’s what I want customers to associate with the Pink Bean. That tingly feeling of everything being right, if just for a brief moment of their day. The way you sing evokes that so effortlessly.”
“I—I’m very flattered, but I need to think about it.”
“Of course. And you will be paid for this, of course. I’m not asking you to consider doing this for free. Just to be clear.”
“Wow. What a day.” I lean back in my chair. “Full of surprises.” I already want to call Caitlin. She’ll try to convince me to say yes. Maybe I need to decide for myself first.