by Daryl Banner
His breath spills on my face with every thrust.
I stare into his eyes, desperate, like our bodies are trying to become one. They just might.
The way he embraces me while we have sex, it’s one of the details that makes this experience so much more exciting for me. I am safe in his arms. He’s quite literally carrying me through this experience which I will remember for the rest of my life. And this might not be his first time, but it’s his first time with me, and maybe that makes him a different kind of virgin. Maybe every new love is a puzzle.
Is that what this is? Is this love? Is this how it’s made?—with an act of deep, impressing intimacy that leaves a mark deep within, a mark that can’t be seen, but rather felt?
Am I in love with Dmitri Katz?
“Are you alright?” he asks me between two grunts.
I must be clawing his back red by now. “I’m close again. I think.”
He picks up his pace, holding me tighter, his mouth right in front of mine, and then he frees one of his hands from behind my back to trail down my body. It slips between my legs, and I feel him gently caressing my clit, teasing it.
I groan against him, shockwaves of pleasure arresting every inch of my prickling, anxious skin. It’s music without sound, bursting all over me. It’s a song that lives in his touch and vibrates through my nerves. I feel it as solidly, as certainly, as concretely as a kiss.
“I’m close again definitely,” I amend.
“Me too.”
Our lips crash together just as I feel myself reach another orgasm. My body detonates with pleasure. Despite our sudden, fevered kissing, I open my mouth against his face and let out something akin to a war cry. Dmitri does much the same, grunting against me as he comes. The sounds he make are so deep, they’re nearly pained.
Then he collapses atop me, out of breath. I moan as the waves of my orgasm subside. I clutch him tightly, our sweaty bodies united in every way imaginable—soul, mind, breath, heart …
Music …
Poetry …
My hand strokes the back of his sweaty, messy hair. His face is partly pressed against mine, and I feel him smiling. I close my eyes and experience an unexpected swell of emotion. It pours its way through me like an invisible flood. It could almost make me cry, the amount of pleasure and the amount of longing that lives inside me, even after we just had sex. It’s strange, how it took this experience to realize that I’ve been broken for years. Dmitri is what I was missing.
And in his arms, I’ll never be cold again.
Chapter 25
Dmitri
This will be the second time in my life that I will don a graduation cap and gown, but the colors will be different. That’s appropriate, too, because everything has changed in the last four years of my life.
Sam and I return to campus after spring break as a couple. It may be accurate to say that neither of us are the hand-holding, kissing-demonstratively-in-public type, so for a little while no one even knows what happened between us. It’s almost like our little secret. Even my sister, who’s usually super keen to such things, says nothing when we all meet at the library for an impromptu studying-and-writing session.
Then Brant pops a question one day at the University Center after we all finish eating lunch together and are heading off to our various destinations. “So are you and Riley, like, still taking a break?”
I snort, then put my arm around Sam and squeeze her close to me. The act startles her as much as it does Brant. “We never went on break. We broke up. It was over. And it’s really for the best for both of us.”
Brant stares between us, trying to work something out in his head.
“Riley’s happier now,” I go on to explain. I had run into Riley many times in the halls of the English building and noted how oddly civil she treated me. Then I spotted her on a bench in front of the Psychology building being cuddled by a sweet-faced guy with perfectly parted hair and a sweater vest. That looked like someone she could take home to Mommy and Daddy. “And after winter came and left, I fell for my best friend,” I add with an extra squeeze of Sam at my side.
Brant’s eyes go wide, and for once, he’s at a loss for words.
Sam picks up the lost words without missing a beat. “I’m the best friend. In case you were wondering.”
“I was wondering,” he teases with a vague sort of nod. Then he tilts his head. “So am I supposed to believe you two banged like bunnies the whole spring break? Because believe me, I know Dmitri, and he’s pretty much married to his right hand and his porn collection, and if—”
“Oh, he still has it,” Sam assures him smoothly, earning a glance of surprise from me. “We watch it together. Especially his kink folder.”
“Uh …” Brant lifts an eyebrow.
“But really, kinky stuff and fetish is, like, so commonplace between us now that we just call his kink folder his tame folder. We’ve moved on to more extreme stuff. Borderline illegal. We’ve had a few close-calls, too, so it’s a good thing Dmitri keeps 9-1-1 on speed dial. Especially after that sling incident.”
“S-Sling incident?” blurts Brant.
“You know, if he’s married to anything,” Sam goes on, deadpanning every word, “it’s my right hand. I mean, you wouldn’t think a person of my size could pull off a decent spanking, but after getting complaints from the neighbors about Dmitri’s tortured screams, well …” Sam bites her lip and shrugs innocently.
Brant is either having trouble breathing or he’s going into cardiac arrest. He doesn’t get Sam’s humor, and so the fact that he’s being dicked with goes right over his head. “D-Do you … I mean, uh, wow. I didn’t, uh …” He swallows. “Like, should I … be worried for you two?”
“Yes,” Sam answers, straight-faced.
Brant blinks.
“I think you have a Ghost scene to reenact with Nell in her studio, don’t you, art boy?” asks Sam. I glance away as I bite my fist to stave off my laughter. “I believe she plays Patrick Swayze’s part, and you play Demi Moore’s.”
Brant smirks. “You two are messin’ with me.”
“I don’t know. Are we?” Sam cocks her head.
Brant squints at her. “Y’know, I’d make a pretty Demi Moore.”
Then with that, Brant gives me a hearty slap on the back before taking off. He calls over his shoulder, “You two make a cute, weird-ass couple! No judgment! But don’t call me for the rest of the day! Nell and I gotta ‘make some pottery’ to the tune of Unchained Melody!”
I turn to Sam right after he goes, holding her close. “Why you gotta go and torture Brant like that? You know he’s gonna go get Nell a sling for her birthday, now.”
“Let him.” Sam pulls me in for a kiss that almost throws me off my feet. She clings to the pockets of my pants, as if refusing to let our hips pull too far apart from each other. “All I want to do right now is make up for a lot of lost time.”
I smirk playfully. “How do you imagine we’ll go about doing that?”
“Oh, I have an idea,” she insists, and eight minutes later when we push through the door of her dorm room, I learn precisely what that idea is over the course of an hour.
Maybe two.
Sam and I subsequently reveal our relationship status to various other friends over time. Victoria is utterly unsurprised, according to Sam, and Dessie goes into a fit of squealing when Sam tells her over the phone. Clayton texts me minutes after (I’m presuming because he and Dessie are together) and asks why I didn’t make a move sooner.
Good question.
It’s during that same phone conversation that Dessie formally invites us to their A Midsummer Night’s Dream themed wedding, which will take place this June and will be organized by none other than Victoria herself, who is even designing the wedding dress. Sam’s eyes go big when she’s asked to be Dessie’s maid of honor. Sam reaches for my hand at that point and gives it a hearty squeeze, cracking my bones.
All our friends are growing up. I suppose it’s about t
ime we do, too.
Sam and I were already well aware of each other’s schedules for our final semester at Klangburg University, so it feels natural that we see each other regularly between all our classes, then spend every evening sharing dinner at some campus location, or taking off to one of the college-catering restaurants on the outskirts of the campus.
My heart hasn’t stopped swelling since that night we spent together in her bedroom and we made love.
Can I say that? Can I say we made love?
It’s on the night before graduation that Sam says it.
Falling asleep with her in my arms, I stir when I hear her words. “What was that?” I murmur against the back of her head, my breath causing strands of her hair to dance.
“Nothing,” she says back.
My room is dark except for a spray of moonlight cutting through the blinds in stripes. I lift my head from the pillow ever slightly to get a better look at her face. “I heard you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” I kiss the side of her neck gently, then brush my fingers up her side and settling them on her soft, naked shoulder. “You said—”
“Nope. You heard nothing. I said nothing. Go back to sleep.”
I smile, watching her as she feigns drifting off, her eyes closed and her breaths long and languid. I pull hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. She’s so pretty, I can’t believe she’s finally mine.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s a prisoner to her every whim. Maybe I’m all hers.
With a caress, I lay my head back down next to hers, then whisper, “My response is: you, too. And always have.”
Sam
The ceremony is unassumingly quiet and carries a cool, unseasonal breeze for an afternoon in late May. It takes place outside, which I hear is a difference from the last two years in which it stormed heavily on graduation day, forcing the proceedings to be held in an auditorium. I guess it’s nice to have the weather on our side for a change.
I walk the stage first, and my heart pounds with pride when I look out at the crowd, even if they’re all sort of a blurry mishmash of eyes and caps and maroon. When I reclaim my seat, I get to watch Dmitri soon after make his own pass across the stage.
My grin can’t be wiped off even with a punch to my jowl. I might be giggling I’m so filled with happiness.
After we throw our caps and do the obligatory screaming, everyone explodes into merry conversations and circles of families and friends making their due congratulations. In the middle of it, I feel strangely alone, like I’m lost in a sea of people who all know each other and have spent an exciting, memory-filled four-or-five years together. It is such an impactful experience to be present at a time when so many people’s lives are on the cusp of a great change. We leave the child within us behind, and from the dead skin of our awkward missteps and learning experiences and terrible fumbles and hilarious lessons, we step forth as an adult.
Or at least we’re supposed to. I’m pretty sure my inner child will be jumping on beds in my brain until the day I die.
I look around, knowing that Dmitri was just sitting a row or two away from me, but I can’t find him in the crowd. I wring my hands and chew on my lip, looking for him.
“Hey,” comes a soft voice, somehow cutting through the noise.
I turn to it.
Amy stands there, my former sister from the Rho Kappa Lambda sorority. She’s in a cute dress and her hair is done up in an intricately braided ponytail that comes around her ear. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen her. Despite her hair growing longer (as mine has) she looks very much the same.
“Amy,” I say for a greeting, making myself smile.
“Looking for your friends? Me too,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes and a little laugh, then crosses her arms. It’s like there was never a speck of drama between us and we’re just two friends in a crowd. “I came to support them and can’t even find them!” she exclaims.
She’s making such an effort. I guess I ought to do the same. “You look really pretty,” I tell her.
“Thanks. You know … there was a time a few years ago where that kind of statement might have ended with you and I in a bed together, but it’s okay, no hard feelings,” she adds quickly, then giggles so much her eyes seem to fill with tears. Just as fast, she recovers and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Really, what I want to say is, I’m really proud of you. You don’t know this, but I came to that Spring Symphony thing a few weeks ago because one of my sorority sisters had a piece in it. I saw your name on the program and … wow. Your music, Sam … Oh, your music. It was so moving. Truly. I kept forgetting that you’d written it.”
I’m genuinely touched. I didn’t even know she was in the audience. “Thank you, Amy. That … That really means a lot to me.”
“And I don’t really give a shit what happened so many years ago or how much of a—this is really hard to say—how much of a bitch I was to you. You didn’t deserve it. We were such good friends. Sam, you are … and will always be … a sister in my eyes.”
“Amy …”
“Fuck, we should’ve had this conversation so long ago,” she blurts out suddenly, then dabs at a tear that’s trying to sneak out of her eye. “Now it’s too late.”
“No, no, no.” I pull Amy in for a sudden, spontaneous hug. “Never too late. Sisters. Really, really kool sisters.”
She lets me hug her, and then after a few seconds, she brings her own arms around me to return the hug. Against my shoulder, she mumbles, “We should’ve named ourselves that, instead. Rho Kappa Sigma. Really Kool Sisters.”
When the hug ends and we pull apart, there’s someone standing a few feet away, watching us with a smile on his face. His dashing, messy dark hair complements his rosy cheeks and full lips, punctuated by his piercing dark eyes which I will never get used to.
I beckon my Dmitri over to us. “Amy, I want to introduce you to—”
“Danny!” she exclaims. “Is this the poet you were crazy about? Tell me this is him and you two have been happily together all these years?”
I gape at her. “Danny?? You remember the fake name I gave him??”
Now it’s her turn to gape. “That was a fake name?!”
The pair of us burst into laughter, clinging to each other to prevent ourselves from falling. Dmitri watches us with a look of bafflement on his face.
“Friend from freshman year,” I explain to him after I finally collect myself. “I might have been part of a sorority back then.”
“I remember,” he murmurs, smiling to show his perfect teeth.
“I’m Amy,” she says, introducing herself. “And you’re … not Danny.”
He chuckles. “Close. Dmitri.”
Someone calls out behind us for Amy, and then she gives me one more quick squeeze before saying, “We need to catch up, Sam! Lunch sometime, my treat, if you’re still in town! It’s never too late!”
“Never too late!” I agree, calling it out to her as she hurries off to join what I take to be a crowd of her friends and fellow sorority sisters, who swallow her up and remove her from my sight.
Dmitri pulls me in close. He smells so good and his eyes are simply intoxicating to stare into. “You were crazy about me back then?”
I fight a blush. “Of course I was. You know that.”
“Never too late, huh?”
I smile. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see her around, since she graduated a year or two ago. But I guess I could hit her up for a lunch date this summer. She’ll probably pay.”
“I meant for us.”
“Us?”
“Never too late.” He kisses my forehead, kisses my cheek, then goes for the lips, deepening the kiss so potently that I feel my chest tighten with pleasure. When he pulls away, he brings his lips to my ear. “I sort of … have a surprise for you.”
“Surprise?”
Dmitri takes my hand, then leads me through the crowds of gowns and bodies and teary parents. Wh
en we come out of the other side of the crowd that stubbornly seems to never dissipate, we happen on some familiar faces standing by a grove of trees by the curb of the street where some limos and cars are parked.
One particular face turns my way, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Samantha!” she cries out.
My face explodes into a smile as I rush up to embrace the slender shape of Dessie. It’s been so long—One year? Two years?—since I’ve seen her. She gets more beautiful every time. Despite the distance, we seem to be spiritually linked somehow, keeping in touch despite our busy lives (read: her busy life) and always wondering what the other’s up to.
Clayton is here too, and he gives me an adequately bone-crushing hug with his thick, muscular arms that suffocate me. And in quite the rare show of comfort from this brooding man, Clayton speaks to me with his voice: “Congrats, Sam.”
And taking a cue from what I remember from Dessie years ago, I put my fingertips to my chin, then let my hand drop forward—the sign for “thank you”. I hope. Maybe I just flicked him off in deaf-speak.
He smiles appreciatively, then signs it right back, which is relieving. Dessie starts to talk my ear off about how cute we look in our gowns and how she regrets the fact that, even though she and Clayton graduated, they didn’t attend the whole cap-and-gown ceremony due to her sister Cece’s show debuting on Broadway. Apparently it was a really huge deal and somehow led to Clayton being roped into the lighting design team of a Broadway production that summer, so it was for quite a good reason that they missed their own graduation.
“So you’re all coming to Brant’s for the party, right?” asks Dessie, signing at the same time for Clayton’s benefit. “You and Dmitri?”
I nod eagerly, then add, “As soon as I find my mom.”