J

There is no way I'm going on vacation with her. No. Way. My brain had broken just from kissing her and my body temperature had risen so much just from hearing her talk about us going to town on each other—if we actually did it, I was sure I'd instantly burst into flames and melt, like the Nazi at the end of Indiana Jones.

Still, I found myself hopping into the shower as soon as I got back to Jisoo and Bobby's, with a brand new loofah to exfoliate myself from my shoulders down to my toes, until I was so smooth she would probably just slide around on top of me and then smash into the headboard. There's an innovative form of birth control! My skin was red and raw when I was finished with the loofah. I was so distracted while shaving, by the time I was out of the shower, my lady parts looked like one of those hairless cats.

And there's another clever form of birth control, right there. Let's hope there are no light sources where she's taking me.

When I'd emerged from the steamy bathroom, I read the email itinerary that Lisa had sent, and laughed. I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.

Was it ironic that she had chosen a Canadian destination for our "real honeymoon" and the place where we were meant to consummate our green card marriage?

Yes.

Yes, it was.

Was it funny to me that her definition of paradise was an off-season alpine mountain resort town?

Nope.

Not at first.

I nearly hurled my phone across the room.

But when I read that her favorite family memory from before her parents divorced was visiting Green Lake at Whistler, British Columbia on a vacation, and that she wanted to be there with me—I may have fallen just a tiny bit more in love with her.

At that point, she could have told me she was taking me fishing in a swamp, because if it was that important to her, I would have gone anywhere.

And I would consummate our marriage anywhere.

On a mountain. On an old rowboat in the middle of a swamp. Anywhere.

As Jisoo had said in a text to me earlier that day when I was starting to panic: Enough! Less nut job, more blow job.

It felt by then like I had finally gotten all of that built-up angst out of my system. My horny hormones had been making me crazy and I was ready to trade them in for the happy calm hormones that flood your brain after you've been sexually satisfied. I was so ready for that. I was beyond ready for it. What's the thing that comes after being ready? I was that. Times ten. I just hoped that I wouldn't try to mount her on the plane.

"I'll be referring to you as my girlfriend, FYI," she told me, as we parked at LAX. "Feel free to refer to me as your gurlfriend too." I smiled as I thought of all the conversations I'd had with single girls in LA who had been dating a guy for months and were stressing out because he said he was "not a fan of labels." I thought about how confused I had been for a while, about who Lisa and I were to each other. And she just laid it out for us as if it were part of our itinerary. Boom. Just like that.

This was my first time flying first class. First time in a club lounge at LAX. First time at LAX with a girlfriend who couldn't keep her hands off of me. First time on my way to a honeymoon with a woman who must be out of her mind, wanting to stay married to me when she could have anyone. She was the one who should be dating a senator or a rock star.

But there she was, holding my hand as we lounged together in the club lounge, reading emails on her phone, looking over at me every now and then, smirking like she was thinking about me—something dirty. For the first time, instead of worrying about what could go wrong, I focused on just how right this felt, and how lucky I was.

I glanced over at her and saw that she was staring at me, very serious.

"What?"

"I'm going to have to give you a new nickname. Grandma doesn't quite work anymore."

"Oh yeah, right. How about Sexy Grandma? Sexy Secret Tax Break?"

"I was thinking Tits Magee."

I nearly choked on my orange juice. "Think again, sir."

"Now I can't stop thinking about them." Her eyes slowly made their way down from my bulging eyeballs to my bulging bra, which was flirtatiously hidden beneath an innocent-looking light summer blouse. "You're killing me," she muttered.

I was the one who was dying inside. I looked down at the hand that was holding mine, gently stroked her thumb with mine. Her fingers outstretched, and I ran my fingertip up along her index finger. She groaned, pulled her hand away and placed her messenger bag on her lap.

"Unless you're ready for a quickie in the women's room, I better keep my hands to myself now. Jennie."

I sat on my hands and batted my eyelashes at her.

"No nickname. Jennie." She said my name with such reverence, like the word meant so much to her. It was all I ever needed to hear.

I leaned over and gave her a quick, totally non-provocative kiss on her cheek.

The flight attendant for our cabin was a very friendly, not at all gay man in his thirties, who winked at me when he handed me my mimosa. It was much appreciated by me, and it did not go unnoticed by Lisa, who also may have caught him quickly checking out my bare legs when we embarked the plane. Lisa straight-up glared at him when he took his coffee, and said a very curt "Thanks bro," which for a polite guy from Canada, was practically a punch in the face.

If Lisa were a character in a movie I was working on, I'd design a set for her that was mostly shades of green. For the green card, for the green-eyed monster of jealousy, with pops of fire red to hint at possible outbursts of passion. If I were decorating her house now, I'd take away all of the hot colors (not that there were ever many hot colors in that house). I'd add masculine greys and faded lavenders to calm her and remind her of her masculine strength and confidence. And then I'd throw a pillow at her, because she was being ridiculous.

But I had been ridiculous for more than a minute, and she put up with me, so I let it slide.

Once we'd reached a cruising altitude of 39,000 feet and the flight attendants were absent from our cabin, I also let her slide her hand up my skirt.

She had lifted up the armrest that divided our wide seats, dropped her napkin onto the floor, reached down and then stealthily skimmed her hand along up my calf. I turned my head towards her, ever so slightly. Really? Ostensibly, she was lazily leaning in my direction, completely absorbed in reading the New York Times. Secretly, the fingers of her right hand were reaching between my knees and she was about to find out just how much slippery body fluid my undergarment had absorbed. My knees automatically snapped shut, blocking her. Her hand remained there, waiting for a green light.

I checked to make sure that the man and woman across the aisle from us weren't paying attention. They most definitely were not. I reached down for the jacket that I'd stashed under the seat in front of me, and spread it across my lap, because this was first class, not the back of a Greyhound bus. I took a deep breath and relaxed my legs apart, just an inch.

She moved slowly, and it was torture. I rested my head back against my seat and watched her impressive poker face, but once her fingers slipped past my panties and she felt the warm wetness that was just for her, her eyes closed and her jaw tightened and I took great pleasure in knowing that the wait had been as painful for her as it had been for me. I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. As soon as she started to apply pressure to my clit, it felt like the plane had suddenly dropped 10,000 feet. I began trembling.

One would think, from the way I was clinging to the armrest, that we were experiencing terrifying turbulence. I don't know if it's true that it kills brain cells if you hold in a sneeze, and I don't know if it's also true that you kill brain cells when you try to hold in an orgasm, but if it is true then it would explain a lot. I certainly wasn't on track to solve that P versus NP computer science problem, the way things were going.

I had always known that being smart made Lisa extra sexy, but now I knew that she was smart about sex too. She knew that I was so amped-up it meant she barely had to do a thing. Just her touch and small movements were all I needed to release that year of frustration. I just didn't know if I was ready to release it in the window seat of row 2.

She watched me quaking for a moment—savoring it (the bastard)—then leaned over to say into my ear: "Don't hold back, Jennie."

The warmth of her breath on my skin, the way she said my name, was enough to make my lower body respond by rocking back and forth, just the tiniest bit, on her hand.

I suddenly reached under the jacket and grabbed her wrist. I had to touch her. I pressed myself up and back into my seat, tensing up everything, delaying the inevitable. And then her fluttering fingertips sent a shockwave through my body and I gasped.

"Shhhh."

I saw her look over to quietly shush me, but could barely hear her over the deep hum of the plane engine. She was smirking, but her eyes were hooded and it seemed cruel and unfair—both to her and to me—that we weren't even kissing.

Then, somehow, when her gaze held mine, I felt closer to her, it felt more private and intimate, and it pushed me over the edge. I suppose it's physically impossible to sneeze or come with your eyes open, but I stayed with her for as long as I could before finally letting myself give in to a quiet storm inside that seemed to last forever.

Pretty much everything that happened in the next couple of hours after that were a blur. Except I did notice the male flight attendant give Lisa a slow "nice going, bro" wink as we disembarked, so maybe we weren't as discreet as we thought we were. Lisa rented a car and drove us from the Vancouver airport, north up to Whistler in the Coast Mountains. Everything was gorgeous.

I don't want to be that American tourist who's all "Canada's so clean and everyone's so polite!" but…It was so clean and everyone was so polite.

Though Whistler is known for its Olympic-class skiing, it was not at all slow in the off-season. Whistler Village is a big, picturesque, European-style pedestrian village filled with resorts, condos, restaurants and shops.

The luxury chalet-themed resort where we were staying didn't have a honeymoon suite, Lisa explained, but she did get us a deluxe executive suite that had a separate bedroom and living room, a fireplace, a view of the surrounding mountains, and a bathroom that I wanted to move into.

I also wanted to take a very unsexy nap, before we did anything else, and Lisa didn't even make fun of me. She ordered us some late lunch room service and said it was important for me to rest up, because we'd be up all night fucking like newlyweds. So. I don't know how I managed to sleep with my heart racing and an insane amount of pressure between my legs, but I did.