From Affection: A Memoir of Love, Sex and Intimacy
I had agreed to it because I wanted to sleep with them. Both of them, but mostly with her, Jessica. They were both beautiful, though Jessica was blonde and Laura a sandy brown and my hair was a darker chestnut colour. Something for everyone I suppose. I looked at the two of them, breasts so pillowy that it was all I could do to stop myself touching them, easing those breasts out of their twin plunging necklines into my palms. I wanted Jessica with a kind of dull ache deep in the guts of me, and Laura would take some of the edge off it. She would keep it light, a game.
“But not until we find a man who will sleep with the three of us together. Someone we all three agree on. It has to be someone we agree on.”
We listed names one after the other. Men we all wanted (one name). Men we could all tolerate (two names). Men one or the other of the girls would absolutely refuse to sleep with (a whole list of names stretching out over four blank pages). I didn’t veto anyone. I just wanted to sleep with the two of them together. The identity of the man seemed like a detail.
One of the tolerable two found himself at our kitchen table with Jessica and me. We told him the plan and I did the talking, as always. She watched him carefully and I watched her, my heart an erratic mix of beats in my chest. I would sleep with her. Soon I would sleep with her.
The boy seemed amenable to the idea, and he, like myself, wanted to ease Jessica’s plunging neckline down just a little. I watched as he reached across the table, fumbling with the sheer fabric and I wished I had just got right down to it without waiting to be invited. His head fit snugly between the rise and fall of them. I saw peach fuzz, a flash of nipple-pink. She giggled. She seemed to enjoy the attention for a moment, then slipped away from the kneading of his fingers and settled herself back inside her dress. I felt a shot of saliva wet the inside of my mouth. I could almost feel the hard little nub of pink nipple butting against the back of my throat. It took me a moment to realise I had stopped breathing.
She told him to wait. We would wait for Laura to come around after work.
The boy leaned back in his chair and locked eyes with me and lifted an eyebrow. I knew what he meant and he knew that I knew and I had found an unexpected ally in all of this. I could already see us down at the pub with a post-coital beer, discussing the ins and outs of the thing, comparing notes as if we had just sat through a game of football.
When we were finally in bed, he gave me a wink as if to say, “How good is this?” It was indeed fine. The girls were like unwrapped presents, pink and drenched in perfume and with hair that spilled out over each other’s chests. Every part of them was fragranced. Each strand of hair dripping sweetness, the smooth shaved skin under their arms, the underside of the necks, both blooming with scent.
I would be a contrast to them. I would underline their femininity with my musky skin. My nipples olive, my flesh a dirty tan, my hair too rough and wiry to run fingers through. I kissed them each in turn, soft kisses scented with Cointreau, orange blossom tongues, the hard line of their teeth, and suddenly it was his mouth against mine. The boy that we could all tolerate. A battle of lips and cheeks and the roughness of his re-emerging stubble. He measured the generous bulk of my breasts in his palms and I wondered suddenly if he had chosen my mouth because I was a relief amongst this paradise of girl-flesh.
He moved behind me and he was inside me in a second. I suppose I was the easiest beginning for him. I was his place of entry and he took it. No preamble, no negotiation, just a sliding inside, a reaching over my shoulder. In this position he would not be in my way, and I returned to the promise of breasts, with an animal urge to suckle, an overpowering need to bite down on the pillowy swell. I felt his finger pinch the flesh that I was licking, I felt a thumb in my mouth. He was reading my actions like Braille, touching the hard nipple, the soft wetness of my tongue. He was there at the point of our connection.
He entered me and I entered her, just a finger at first but I was surprised by the moisture, a deluge. She was so wet and pink and open to me and I wanted to be inside her. I arched my back and bent my head down and she filled up my senses. I pressed my fingers together as if I were about to dive and some of them slipped inside her as I traced the little protrusion of her clitoris. The boy behind me pushed with a rhythm that was not mine and I shoved back at him, as if trying to kick aside the annoyance of a puppy, bouncing and spilling things. I had completely lost track of Laura but she was there somewhere, doing something. It didn’t matter to me. I was buried in Jessica.
And then . . .
My face felt a cold rush of air and the girl was gone. She had slipped out from under me. I felt the void rushing toward me, like when you are small and you lie on your back on the grass and look up at the night sky contemplating the size of the universe. The disappointment of her loss was universal.
I turned over and brought my feet up onto his chest and felt the place where his penis connected with my flesh, pressed the palm of my hand hard onto my clitoris. My hand smelled of her. My hand was wet with her. I covered my face with one hand and there was her pink sex open to me and my tongue snaking out onto my fingers to taste her and I came so violently that he was forced to dig his fingers into my hips to hold his place.
He spasmed and he was coming and in the hazy place after an orgasm I fumbled vaguely for a name to call him by. He opened his mouth and would have spoken, but I held a finger to my lips.