Whispers in a darkened hotel room. We’re at the beach. All of us, for a weekend at the end of summer. It’s mid August and college is looming large, a bear that’s going to maul us.
He and I in one bed, a single friend in the other. Can she hear us? Of course she can.
Whispers. Giggles. Kissing. Lots of kissing.
It’s exciting to have an audience, and it’s conflicting. We want to make noise but we cannot.
Sucking, licking, clothes off, everything but.
Does she know? Is she asleep? No way. We are so hot we’re on fire. So is she, we can feel her.
I want to ask him for something. I really want him to lick my pussy. Yes, I do. I want it with every fiber of my being. This after literally hours of unreturned blow jobs. I muster my courage and whisper to him. No, he says. No? No. No. He says he’s not mature enough. What does that mean?
Thirty-five-year-old me has a few theories. Thirty-five-year-old me knows it’s not all about me. But 18-year-old me was closing fast. Zipping up like a jacket. And I’ve been that way until recently, in spite of limitless pussy licking from Mark. He’s good. But until recently, I couldn’t really feel it.