FOR EXAMPLE,
I met Justin at a house party in high school. He was twenty-one and was in line to inherit a construction company from his father. Justin was bigger and taller than me, and the image of him giving orders to a crew in hard hats clinched it. I
had
to hang out with this guy. We punched our digits into each other’s cell phones that night and from then on were like Thelma and Louise. We liked the same music. His Goldfinger, Pennywise, and Bad Religion collection made me feel right at home. He was into bikes, and we were planning to take our motorcycle license tests together. In essence he was everything I like in a buddy. He had never delved past the fence before, so to speak, and he turned into a challenge for me. I love guys and if I’m going to get with a guy, I want him to act like a guy. I’m not into Tinkerbell.
One night Justin asked me over for a few beers with friends. After a couple hours of swapping stories and laughing our fool heads off, there were only a handful of us left. We sat cross-legged on his living room floor listening to Rick Dees count down the week’s Top 40 hits. Deciding another day was over, I got up to say my good-byes and the others followed my lead. I got into my Jeep and started driving home, reviewing all the moments when Justin was just “too cute” that evening. Then my cell rang, bringing my attention back to the road.
“Hey, Ashley?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Justin. What are you doing?”
“Just driving, why?”
“You wanna come back and spend the night? It’s a long drive home.”
It wasn’t.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just turn around.”
Holy shit! I can’t believe this!
After parking the Jeep, I grabbed some gum from the glove box, checked my hair in the rearview mirror, and walked around the corner to his front door. Justin was standing there in pajama bottoms, no shirt. Light spilled from inside over his big tan shoulders. Muscle. At this point I froze, just couldn’t move, like if you woke up in the middle of the night to find a ghost in your room. No mobility in my limbs and no passage of time.
“Hey,” Justin said in a quiet voice. A gentle voice, one I’d never heard him use before.
“Hey,” I managed after a second.
“I just thought it’s kind of a long drive and you may as well stay here, with me.”
“That’s cool, thanks.” I followed him into his place, kicking off my shoes. In silence Justin led me to his bedroom, where he brushed his teeth and I thumbed through his books. My mind was racing too fast to even register the titles. He flicked off the bathroom light and walked around me to lie down.
“You gonna sleep like that?”
“Well… uh….”
“You’ll be uncomfortable. At least take off your jeans.”
Slowly, turning away from Justin, I unbuttoned my jeans and took them off tentatively, wrestling in my head whether to take my T-shirt off or not.
Geez. I don’t look like he does without a shirt. How does someone get muscle like that? Don’t take it off. He’ll laugh at how scrawny I am. Did I put on deodorant today? Don’t recall. The shirt is staying on.
I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my socks, then lay down robotically, dreading what he might say… “Not here stupid, on the couch” or “Nice chicken legs.” At which point on my slow descent toward the pillow I’d laugh, say “just kidding,” and slink out to the living room.
He didn’t.
I lay as close to the edge of the bed as possible, hovering by pure strength of mind and fear on three inches of mattress. We lay silent for seven solid minutes. I know because my eyes were glued to his radio clock, blinking at me with its red glowing numbers.
Why am I here? What was I thinking might happen?
“Hey Ash, you uh, you ever thought about kissing a guy?”
I turned in my boxers to see my buddy lying on top of the covers, clutching a pillow over his stomach, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes, okay, all the time.” I grinned and decided to take a risk. “You ever think about kissing me?”
“Sometimes. More when I’m drunk, though.”
I laugh. “Well, you want to try it?”
“Kinda. I’m not gay or anything, just horny, you know?”
“Sure.” My heart was beating staccato as I moved closer to him, swallowing hard. We locked eyes, and I was terrified. Was this real or a cruel joke? He rose on one elbow to meet me. Placing a hand on his chest, I leaned over and closed my eyes. Waiting, waiting, contact! He bit my lip like he was so hungry he didn’t know what to do. That’s what straight guys are like—they don’t know whether to fuck you or fight you. He ripped off my shirt and kissed my chest, his light stubble grazing my skin.
Tearing off our underwear, we jammed our bodies together. Hitting hard, grasping tightly, rough and desperate, trying to cram a lifetime of longing into one night. We both knew this was it—one night together because it couldn’t happen again. It’s one of the unspoken rules. If we did it again, he’d be gay. It was amazing. This guy’s guy who played football and worked construction was with me.
“Do what you like done to you. Yeah, that feels good. Watch the teeth!” I panted.
To see his face shift to such utter ecstasy made me wonder if it looked the same when he was with girls. How can they know what makes us feel good?
I fully appreciate and respect sex between man/woman, man/man, or woman/woman, but to me it only makes sense that same-sex coupling would generally be amazing. When you’ve spent a lot of time baking in your own kitchen, you know just what temperature your oven cooks best at. You know which drawers have the whisks, the beaters, and the strainers. You’ve noticed the effect of eggs beat too furiously and recall how much yeast it takes for the bread to rise.
So when you are invited as a celebrity chef in another kitchen, you can find your way around pretty well. Sometimes you reach for the wooden spoon in the first drawer like at home but soon realize it is actually stored one shelf down. All in all, you are very comfortable in the kitchen being a chef as well. The soufflés you serve very rarely fall, and you are complimented on your adeptness.
The next week you find yourself in your apron and floured hat in a mechanic’s garage. The head mechanic wants a variable-venturi carburetor changed. You don’t know how to spell it, let alone what it is. The comfort of the kitchen is far behind, and you find yourself trying to grease nipples, cock pistons, and rotate wheels. Just saying these things will get you excited. Say them again in a low sexy voice to yourself. Go ahead, try it.
Grease nipples… cock pistons… rotate wheels.
Ooooh! Yeah. Sounds good, but trying to do these things is a far cry from lightly toasting coconut and basting a turkey. Without knowledge of equipment and tools, you may never get that engine running, let alone revving.
I return from my tangent, back to sex with friends. After this one night nothing was the same between Justin and me. Hanging out was awkward, and there was always the eminent but never asked question of “Are we just hanging out, or is this like a date?” So eventually I deleted Justin’s numbers from my phone. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. So with that friendship, sex busted it. My comment to Justin while instructing him in the ways of a good lover, “Watch the teeth!” reminds me of another friendship with a very different ending.
“OOOOOH… YEAH,
watch the teeth!”
I looked up at the pained face of Des. He was instructing me in my first gay experience. I was sixteen. He was the first person I ever spoke those dreaded words to and someone who I happened to have had a crush on for nearly four years. Sitting on a bench in a park at like two in the morning, we shared life, fears, and first love.
“Umm… Des… I uh… I don’t know but I… I think I’m gay.”
“Me too” was his reply.
Holy Shit! The guy I’ve been secretly dating in my mind for four years is like me!
I had a million and one questions, and he provided a lot of answers and support. Soon we were seeing a lot more of each other, going for long drives in his Blazer, talking the night away.
One night I climbed the fire escape three floors up and into the bathroom window of his apartment. Des greeted me with a hug, and I stumbled over hellos that a few weeks ago would not have held this nervous tension. I drank him in. A tight green T-shirt with his high school emblem emblazoned over his right chest muscle. It fit so nice and taut over his arms and chest, draped over the top of some worn jeans. He wore his standard hiking boots. Des cocked his head and smiled with the corner of his mouth. A lock of blond wavy hair fell onto his forehead, which he brushed away with a momentary annoyance. He pulled me toward the couch and put a movie in. I don’t remember what it was or anything about it, but in typical Des fashion he was informing me of its significance, this producer’s role, what that actor went on to do. It was all very brotherly. What was not fraternal was the way he held me as I sat between his straddled legs. His hands were soon moving up my shirt, sending flashes of light across my eyes. His ramblings about the neglected movie turned to erotic whispers as he kissed my ears.
I couldn’t handle it any longer; I needed to have his mouth on mine. With my head tilted over my shoulder I devoured his spirit, his essence with my mouth. As long as we were locked together like this, I gained all the sustenance I longed for. Oh! So many days and nights spent imagining this. He ravished me with kisses and massaged my chest with his left hand, then with his right, grasped my thigh. I drew my hands around and placed them on his thighs, mimicking his gesture. I could feel the power of his muscles through the denim.
We moved to Des’s bedroom, and I scarcely ripped my mouth from his as I undressed and helped him out of his clothes. I stood as Adam, he with his shirt off, and I grasped his package through the faded jeans as we kissed. The feeling of my skin against his was almost unbearable. The smell of his cologne mixed with the salt and sweat was dizzying me. I dropped to my knees in praise to begin my worship. I unzipped and let the altar cloth fall to the floor. The god was waiting to be appeased. Which brings us full circle to me on my knees using my tongue to full advantage and trying desperately not to “beaver up this wood” too much.
Des was truly amazing to me. Without a doubt he was my most conscientious lover to date. He got me books on the gay experience, was a great listener and lover, and answered all my questions. He was devoted and infinitely patient with me.
After a couple months, I dumped him over the phone. I needed to “see the world,” experience more. So like a bratty child, I foolishly spurned one of my greatest lovers, friends, and teachers. Although geographically far from each other now, we still talk on the phone and swap memories. He is an affair to remember. He was and is a friend for life and sex played between us wonderfully. So in the instance of Des, sex between friends worked fine.
Is there an answer here? I suppose sex with friends can be okay but each individual circumstance is unique. I’m kidding us all! That didn’t answer anything! I guess I can give up any dream of having a Dear Ashley column.
SIX A.M.,
up with my pen and paper….
March 25
I want to massage someone special…. Okay, I want to massage Chris. Starting with the neck and back. Then on to the arms and hands, which are extra sexy. I work the hamstrings, calves, and tenderly massage the Achilles tendon. Then I point and flex his feet. Now, it’s time to flip over. I straddle the torso and work the pectoral muscles and then the stomach. I gaze at his relaxed and content face. Now I work up from the feet. I gently caress either side of the shinbone. I take my time on the quads. We lean into a kiss that is destined. Wow. To touch like this. To experience those lips, that tongue, is too much. A rise of excitement lurches straight up from the pit of my stomach. Just like going over a small hill in the car. I slide my body down directly on top of his. I can feel some of those muscles I’ve just worked on tense with anticipation.
For a moment we simply look at each other. For the first time as close as we’d often imagined. Magic. Just to see the longing—reflecting simultaneously in our eyes. Why are you with someone else?
FOR THE
next few days, I am in indecision and crisis. I suppose because that’s what one does at eighteen, make everything into a Shakespearean tragedy—with a generous dash of melodrama. We have a group massage class, and Michelle and I partner up. I work on her from head to toe, grasping her taut muscles. She lies prone and I straddle her, massaging her neck. She’s not Chris, but it feels good just to touch someone.
Possibly noting the intimate nature of the massage, our instructor decides to switch it up. Boys with boys, girls with girls. Bright move, this is an Arts College on the West Coast, like it matters! I stand and stay put, waiting for someone to approach me. Of all the weird luck, Jeremy, Chris’s soon-to-be but unbeknownst ex approaches me.
“Hey Ashley, wanna work on each other?” Jeremy asks pointedly, and I search for hidden meaning in the comment. I nod and we assume the position. As I massage him, he jokes with me. The feel of these muscles and the knowledge that we’ve both been with Chris strangely excites me.
This is not good. Not cool. Get a grip, Ashley!
When it is time to switch, Jeremy rolls over and I glimpse an engorged member under his track pants. His gaze travels down to my package and lingers on the obvious.
“Guess we’re on the same page.” He laughs.
But my tongue is tied and I lay on my stomach anticipating his hands. This is too much. I can hardly believe this turn of events. Although this is all fundamentally innocent, why do I feel so wicked? I close my eyes and enjoy the pressure of Jeremy’s hands. I picture us having sex. Then I imagine the hands on me are not Jeremy’s but Chris’s. And the bodies shift to Chris and I making love. But there is a third body now…. Jeremy is back. I try to say, “No, go away.” But he joins in. I try to push the image of Jeremy, Chris, and I out of my head even as the scenes become increasingly erotic. I am lost to my imagination when the instructor calls out that class is over. I feel Jeremy dismount, and I find myself smiling as I glance up and rest my chin on my crossed arms.