Jill looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and put down her wine.
“Can I feel your tits?” she asked.
A more suave woman wouldn’t have spluttered her drink. I am
not that woman.
I grabbed a napkin and dabbed prosecco off my shirt, then
looked at Jill. Which I usually didn’t do, not for long, not while she was
looking back at me. I’d been in love with her for too long and hid it by
sticking to shy, furtive glances.
She was smiling at me -- playful, but not playing. She had a
hint of mischief in her eyes, but she really was asking.
It was a silly response, but I said it anyway: “What,
seriously?” I realized that I was instinctively rubbing my shoulder, which
meant my arm was crossing my chest -- an obvious protective gesture that Jill
had to be noticing. I willed my arm down and fiddled with the rim of my glass
instead, letting out a tiny, nervous huff of laughter. I forced myself to meet Jill’s
gaze again. Her eyes were sparkling. She kept her tone light -- totally
unnecessary, since she had me from the start, but she actually seemed to be
playing her cards carefully.
“Yeah,” she said, cocking her head and dipping it a little,
“just to see what it’s like.”
“You’ve felt plenty of them before,” I countered, trying not
to be too easy, trying not to be too eager. Trying not to get hurt. It was
hopeless -- the thought of Jill’s hands on me already had my heart pounding.
The issue wasn’t whether I’d let her feel me up, it was whether I could let her
do it without giving too much away.
“Not like yours,” she said. It was true: Jill always dated
slender girls, like her. She liked them athletic, dyed blonde, and, to her
credit, with the real, small breasts that come with nonexistent hips. Mine were
D-cups, generous and with generous hips to match, no matter how much I worked out.
I’d learned to love both, mostly, except when I was around Jill -- I’d always
wanted her so badly, and it was always so clear that I wasn’t her physical
type. She also seemed to like women who undermined her confidence and treated
her badly in subtle little ways -- another thing I would never live up to.
Jill had broken up with her last quietly awful girlfriend
four months ago and had referred once or twice to making progress in therapy,
but I still wasn’t holding my breath waiting for her to fall in love with me.
Well, I wasn’t holding my breath in the metaphoric sense. At
the moment, I was holding it in the literal sense. I was suddenly hyperaware
that drawing in air and letting it out would make my chest move up and down --
and Jill wasn’t making any secret of her interest in it.
I thought about the touchably soft, low-cut sweater I’d worn
that night and couldn’t decide if I was glad or not.
“Come on,” Jill grinned, carefully light, persuasive but not
too pushy. “I just want to know what I’ve been missing.”
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks and knew I’d be
crimson in a minute. I wanted to say yes more than anything, but right behind
the searing thought of her hands on me was the thought of how disastrous it
would be if I let it happen.
“I can’t,” I finally said after way too long a pause.
“What,” Jill teased. “You think you need to get to know me
better?”
“No…” I tried to think of better ways to put it and
couldn’t. I looked her in the eyes again, which was a mistake. Finally I said
to my prosecco, “I’ll get all turned on.”
Was it my imagination, or had Jill’s cheeks suddenly flushed
too? Probably embarrassed for me, or embarrassed to have started this at all.
“Really?” she asked, not taking her eyes off me as she took
a larger sip of wine than usual. “They’re that sensitive?”
No getting around it. My cheeks had to be scarlet now. “Yes.
They… I… They’re very sensitive, yes. You’d be there all clinical and I…” The
thought was too humiliating: Me writhing around trying to fight off the
pleasure while Jill sat there completely unmoved. “I can’t. Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Jill said so casually that I should have known it
wasn’t really over. “No big deal.”
But Jill is a lawyer, and a good one. When she wants
something, it’s never really over.
We went back to our original plan of knocking down snacks,
wine, and a few episodes of Orange Is the New Black, and before long we were cuddled up on my couch
almost like usual. Maybe a little more careful about where our bodies touched,
but almost like usual.
Jill and I laughed over the new, too-chatty inmate and then
suddenly she turned to me.
“They’re not going to put someone that beautiful on the show
without having her sleep with someone,” she said. “Who do you think gets her?”
I was divided between Piper and Boo, even though we agreed
that Poussey really deserved an on-air girlfriend. Jill guessed Nicky. I
cheerfully argued potential plot twists with her until she said, “You want to
bet?”
She’s a lawyer, as I mentioned, and she was all too aware of
my stubborn streak. She knew I’d bet just to be contrary. And then she had me.
If I won, Jill agreed to let me pick our next five movies together, date and
time to be determined.
...But if Nicky got the girl, well, so did Jill. She got to
feel me up any way she wanted, that very night. Jill sensed me hesitating --
they weren’t quite even terms, after all -- and sweetened my odds: I’d win the
bet if Piper, Boo, or Poussey bedded the new inmate.
I couldn’t decide if I was happy or disappointed at my new
statistical advantage. And I hoped like hell that Jill couldn’t feel my heart
pounding as she settled back against me.
Nicky, of course, bagged her quarry in what seemed like
record time. Jill looked over to laugh at me, deep and throaty, as I sat there
with my mouth still open. She refilled both our glasses, clinked them together,
and cuddled back up with me, happy in her victory.
I can’t remember anything in the episode after that. I just
sat there trying to figure out how to get through having my favorite person do
one of my favorite things to me without visibly enjoying it.
The episode ended and Jill clicked off the TV. Then she sat
fully up and, not looking at me, yawned broadly and did the old movie theater
move of stretching her arm around my shoulders, letting her hand drop a little
too low. I laughed and pulled myself together.
“OK,” I said, “How do you want me?” Jill’s easy grin got
just a little wider and then she looked me up and down to assess.
“That’s a good question,” she mused. “Maybe up on your
knees?”
We kneeled on my couch, facing each other, fighting nervous
giggles. Jill reached for me and it was too much like a movie monster grab. We
both cracked up.
“Not quite,” Jill said, “Besides, I might want leverage.”
I stopped laughing.
