by November Tuesday

Just friends - that's the agreement.

No longer in love, lovers, nothing. And that's the way I want it.

But Christ, he looks at me with these eyes. I catch him looking and I see the embarassment there, the self-deprication of the virgin he was, the desire, the memory vivid and wet and fragrant and gasping and more carnal than life, all of this scent and memory too big for one glance.

Memory overflows and reddens both our cheeks.

Around him, I am very aware of my breasts. Their weight, the way they want to poke through my bra, and, if I am not wearing a bra, the taut shame of their peeking out from my tee shirt. He always looked, long before he would even admit with adolescent trepidation that he "liked" me, watching me with cowardice when he thought no one was watching him.

I should have worn a bra. This isn't making things easier.

Tonight he is here, at my place. We are watching TV. But nothing is on.

Oh, he's still so darkly gorgeous, hair longer, sweeping down messy and perfect around his face, a week's perfect scruffy stubble, taut grey tee shirt over broad shoulders. And his mouth, oh, his lips are the best, lush and full, especially the bottom one I used to rub against my own bottom lip, feeling the friction of it.

He is watching me. I stare at the channels. Blurring by. Remote in hand, I can smell him. Vague sweat, his shampoo. The love seat is too small.

I said something. Some joke, a forthright nod to sexual tension. I move to the floor, trying to lessen our proximity and our list.

He knows I want him. Knows how I want him, straddling me as I suck his cock into my mouth, watching his stomach and thighs and their muscle flexing an sliding before my eyes. On the dresser, roommates forgotten in the rickety rhythm of him pounding into me, moaning with the kinkiness of sex on furniture other than the bed. Kinky for him, anyway.

I remember the taste of his sweat where my lips grazed his neck, taste of salt and silver there.

I sit on the floor and try to keep up the flimsy conversation. It is understood that we are just friends. Not lovers.

Suddenly I realize that my moving to the floor has backfired, I feel prone. My weight rests on my hands, so my body is in front of him, breasts thrust forward. My pose is suddenly provocative.

He pounces on me. Defies all of my expectations. Impresses me with the eroticism I haven't given him credit for posessing. Not touching me. Arms hold him up on either side of my shoulders. Legs on either side of me, not touching anywhere. I am in a cage of him. Lips so close to mine I can feel his breath.

I recoil, moaning sweetly. The subtext of the game is more arousing than touch, and his lips are smiling slightly. He is breathing faster. I am recoiling, writhing side to side as if I were being touched. My head thrown back, breath flaring out like an angered animal. "We're just friends," I whisper.

"I know." Moist breath on my face.

"I want you so bad."

"Me too." I close my eyes and feel swirling adrenaline in my heart.

"We're just friends," I whisper. He nods and leans in closer. Now I feel the floor below my head and I close my eyes to half-lids. I'm gasping without a single touch or word.

I moaned, ineffectually whispering "No, we're not going there, no." His brown eyes staring at mine. I can see the texture of his skin, the shine on his lips. He nods and otherwise doesn't move.

"No," I whisper, and it is like the utterance of a woman about to come.

But it is my hand that leads him to the bedroom.

I'm so bad.

*All names and identifying information have been changed to protect the identity of myself and others.