The comment inevitably-and I think purposefully-distanced me enough from her to make me forget the idea of staying home. Each day found me closer and yet further away from her. We continued to have our play dates, as I liked to call them. Ah, what my mother might have said if she’d known I would transform the phrase she used in reference to the scheduled times I’d gone to play with friends when I was five into the term I used now for the sticky, sweaty, sex sessions I was having with Sarah! And each time she made it a new discovery, a different experience. Sarah didn’t ask me about my sex life with Tim, and I didn’t ask her about her sex life separate from me…although I wondered if she had one.
One Saturday morning, after she’d allowed me to slowly and sweetly fuck her to a shuddering climax with one of the dildos from the toy box-something I discovered I loved and often begged to do to her! — I was cleaning off the toy (always the job of the fuck-er as opposed to the fuck-ee) when I found condoms in the bathroom closet.
I was immediately flooded with both jealousy and lust. It was a strange combination that reminded me how much I wanted to share that with her, to add something, more to the point
We’d been to bars and scoped out guys, and we’d taken many of them home with us in our imaginations and fantasies. We would dance for hours together, often finding an unsuspecting but grateful guy to sandwich between our damp and writhing bodies, our eyes meeting in lust and keen awareness.
She loved to play the fantasy with me later, the memory of the music still pounding in my body, recalling a hard denim-covered cock rubbing against my backside. She’d strap on that magnificent black dildo and handle me roughly, asking,
“Do you want his cock in you, Lizzie? Tell me how much you want it…” But we had yet to really take a man home. It was when I found the condom I made up my mind, I think, to make it a reality, in whatever way I could. No more playing, no more just flirting and driving each other to distraction with the idea.
And of course, the man we ended up “taking home” was probably the most obvious choice, although I’d never really imagined it would happen with him. I always thought it would be one of the younger guys with their piercings or tattoos who we slowly flirted away from their girlfriends at the club. I really never anticipated that it would be with David, or that it would fall into place so easily one Friday night, not unlike the first night I’d been with Sarah, or that the results of that night would be so bittersweet.
It was the end of the work week. Sarah and I were planning on going out to the club. It was only two more weeks until school started, and that weighed heavily on both of us, although we didn’t talk about it. Tim was busy, going to a bachelor party for his best friend, although the thought of getting married at our age was anathema to me.
I was telling Sarah that when David came into the back office.
“She’s only nineteen, Sarah. Can you even imagine?” I sat on the edge of the desk, my shoes off, swinging my bare feet and noticing her looking at my legs admiringly, not for the first time today, under my green and blue plaid skirt. I’d worn it specifically for clubbing, along with the white blouse that made it look the typical “school girl” uniform. I was determined to bring home a guy tonight, and I’d told her so. She’d eyed my outfit, laughed, and then said, “That’ll do it.”
“Can you imagine?” I asked again, punctuating my statement with a nudge.
“Maybe she’s pregnant,” she replied distractedly, chewing on the end of her pen and peering through her reading glasses at some report.
“No one gets married because they’re pregnant anymore.” I rolled my eyes. “I know a girl who had nine abortions.
“I guess.” My nonchalance seemed to irk her even more. She turned almost imperceptibly away, just a slight tilt of her shoulder, and went back to her report.
I watched David gathering up his paperwork through the two-way glass. I knew he was listening, even though he couldn’t see us. The office door was open.
“Is that a real wedding ring?” I nudged her again with my foot, tugging her skirt upwards with my toe.
“You know it isn’t.” She flipped one of the pages of the report so hard it tore.
“It looks real.” I leaned in to look at it as she clutched the paper in her hand. “Did you go out and buy it?”
“Not exactly.” Sarah turned and yanked open a drawer, digging through the tray of pens.
“Where did you get it?”
She slammed the door shut, a yellow highlighter clenched in her fist. “Someone gave it to me.”
“What someone?” I knew I was pushing it-even for me.
Sarah looked at me, blinking fast, her mouth open but no words coming out.
“Lizzie, I’ve got work left to do.”
