Jennie

And I am ready. After decades of self-denial and the worst seventy-two hours of my life, I am very, very ready.

I might not necessarily know what I'm doing, but it can't be that difficult to figure out.

In spite of my eagerness, Lisa's the one to drag us to the bedroom. I follow willingly, going to bed with someone who wants me just as much as I want them. It seems like such a simple thing, and yet it's bigger than the entire world.

We reach the bedroom, where Lisa smiles at me as if we have just accomplished something marvelous. She tugs me inside before shutting the door, pressing me against it and kissing me, giggling in delight.

Then I feel the wet press of her tongue against my mouth and I forget about everything else. I haven't kissed her enough for this not to feel fresh, new, and eminently desirable. Not yet.

Then she places her hands on my shoulders and steps back. She's blushing, and for the first time, she looks uncertain. My heart stops. Is she getting cold feet? Now?

But then she slips out of her cardigan and throws it to the floor, followed by her top. I am left gaping at her lace-covered breasts, her shoulders, her belly. Her skin is startlingly pale, though splotched pink with modesty. She clears her throat. "You, um," she says, "you wanted to see me, didn't you?"

My mouth is dry as a desert. I still manage to say, "Yes," from where I am leaning against the door. Then I add, quickly, "Please."

"All right," she says and takes off her bra. I should savor this moment, take in the sight of those full, beautiful breasts I've been dreaming of ever since I first touched them. But she's half-naked, and already I cannot wait. I step forward, pull her to me, and kiss her again, and this time she is warmer and closer against me than ever before. She shivers and sighs, carding her fingers through my hair.

I cannot breathe, I cannot think. I kiss her throat and am not denied. Indeed, she arches against me with another sigh, and I do my best to go slowly, to keep my kisses light and teasing, when all I want to do is take, take, take—

"You want to have me," she purrs in my ear, and if I thought my head was spinning before, it is a cyclone now. Her embarrassment has apparently vanished, and she is once again able to tap into my desires and expose my id. "You can now." She kisses me right below my ear. "What do you want to do to me, Jennie?"

"Everything," I gasp, because there is no other answer, even if I don't know what everything can possibly entail.

She shivers and slips her hands between us to start unbuttoning my blouse. "Then we better get started."

It's the best idea I've ever heard, and we are both naked very quickly. She's seen me before, of course. And she has no time to get embarrassed about nudity, because I am on her the moment her underwear gets tossed to the floor.

I have, I admit, briefly entertained a thought about whether or not I am really gay. About whether or not I might just be mistaken. My doubts vanish the instant I cup her breasts in my hands and hear the little mmm she gives in appreciation. I kiss her again and again, with an eagerness that would shame me if I didn't know that sometimes you have to store up supplies in case of famine. She nips my bottom lip and grins against my mouth as she tugs on my shoulders, pulling us both down on top of the bed.

Then her bare body is pressed against mine, our arms sliding around each other, my legs rubbing against her legs. All I can do is wonder why I haven't been having sex with women since puberty, upbringing be damned. Then maybe this wouldn't overwhelm me so much; maybe the mere press of her breasts against mine, both painful and exciting, wouldn't make it impossible for me to think.

I can't wait. She never does, why should I? I wriggle away from her just far enough so that I can get my hand between us to part her thighs, find the wetness between them. And she is wet. Concrete proof of her arousal destroys the few remaining brain cells I have left. She does want this. She does want me. I wonder if she's gotten aroused during our previous encounters—I hope she has—I can't take the time to ask.

Lisa parts her legs wider. I can't even decide where to start. It's all so much. But her flesh is hot and slick and silky soft against my fingertips, and I just have to close my eyes and revel in the feel of her, all of her, for a moment. Somebody moans, and I realize that, for once, it isn't me.

"Yes," she breathes against my cheek, "like that—here—"

Then her hand is between my legs. We're touching each other at the same time. She is deliberately mimicking my rhythm, my movements, and it is the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me.

I try to concentrate. This is my time; this is my turn. But I can't, because her fingers are as wicked as ever, and I soon feel my own fingers beginning to fumble as she sets my synapses alight one by one. I cannot fight her. I'll never win. And soon enough, I accept defeat as I arch back against the bed with a desperate cry while she makes me come.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. I lie still and try to marshal my resources while she nibbles at the side of my neck. "Was it good?" she whispers.

"Yes." She knows it was. She always knows. "Come here." We kiss again, and I seize the opportunity to touch her, to caress and fondle in any way I like, while she moves against me in appreciation.

Before I can think better of it, before I can get cold feet of my own, I lick and kiss my way down her body. She figures out quickly what I'm up to and holds her breath in anticipation. Then she says: "You know, it doesn't have to be perfect."

What a ringing vote of confidence. I give her my most withering glare and get a sheepish look from her in return before I bend down and…have my turn.

Like everything else we have done, it feels messy and confusing and sloppy and perfect. Before I know it, I'm going down on her because I want to, because I want the taste and feel of her.

This appears to be the correct approach. She grabs my head, babbles under her breath, surges up against my mouth, and then—

She did it. I did it. I made her come. I have a long way to go before we're even, but it's a start. My head bubbles and buzzes as if I've just had too much champagne. Fitting, since I want to celebrate.

I kiss the crease of her leg. She twitches and makes an ooh noise.

My face is wet from my chin to my nose. Now, at last, it is my turn to smirk. "Was it good?"

"Huh," she says, staring up at the ceiling. "I guess so." Then, before I can decide whether to kill her or myself, she raises her head and gives me a bleary, but ebullient smile. Her face is flushed, and her brown eyes sparkle. She seems to be glowing inside and out. "You kidding? That was great." She strokes my hair. "C'mere. Please?"

I c'mere. "Not perfect, then?" I mutter against her lips, still feeling peevish.

"I wouldn't know." She's still breathless. "I was too busy coming to take notes."

She slides her legs up around my waist, and my mind blanks again while we kiss. We are sticky and sweaty now. I don't care. It's about time I'm not the only one who's a mess.

Now that we've both come, things don't seem as insanely urgent, and yet neither of us seems to want to stop. We don't speak, but the silence does not feel awkward. Nor does it feel particularly loaded or meaningful. There's just nothing to talk about that could possibly be more important than taking one of her nipples between my teeth and finding out that makes her pant and moan.

The words she says are concise and to the point: "Oh…good…yes…please." I savor them. She has always been able to undo me with her voice; I wish I knew the words that could do the same to her, but for now, this will have to do.

And it works. I undo her; she trembles and moans beneath my mouth and hands. She's more than willing to move my fingers where she wants them most, to whisper commands in my ears that, as always, I am happy to obey—and for once, they are for her pleasure, not mine. As it happens, there is a real difference between "hook your leg over my shoulder so I can make you come" and "use your thumb right there so you can make me come—oh God, yes!"

As always, she returns the favor. She gives it her all. She intoxicates me. I've never had such a good time in my life.

"Oh my God," she says eventually, her voice faint. "You're pretty good at this."

I kiss her in reply. Her hair sticks to her sweaty forehead. Marvelous. I kiss her again and murmur contentedly when she slides her arms around my neck. "What time is it?" I ask as I nuzzle her shoulder.

She turns to look at my alarm clock. "Jesus. Almost midnight."

What? That can't possibly be right. We can't have been making love for hours, can we? I follow her gaze, and, sure enough, she's right.

"Wow," she breathes. "We broke time."

It startles a laugh out of me, which calls a brilliant grin from her, and I grin back. I'm caught in a wild cycle of happiness that seems to have no place in my life at the moment, but from which I have no desire to escape.

Moments later, she's tugged the duvet over both of us and has tugged me into her arms. We are sweaty and spent. She feels wonderful against me, a perfect fit. Breasts and hips and soft thighs.

My usual post-sex shower routine holds no allure for me now. For the first time in my life, I want to…cuddle. Seriously?

Lisa lifts her chin and encourages me to rest my head between it and her shoulder. Seriously, I think as I come to rest against her.

"I don't wanna move from this spot ever again," she says drowsily.

An understandable impulse—and yet it's one I don't entirely share. As right as this feels, as comfortable as I am, there's a familiar stirring inside me. One urging me toward action.

"Lisa?" I whisper.

She kisses my hair gently. "Yeah?"

I close my eyes and smile. At least she can't see it this time. "Have you ever heard the phrase publish and be damned?"