The ride home was exquisite torture. Sweet, fuck-me-now torture.
The whistling wind and rush of freedom should have been amazing, like it had been on the ride there. But all I could do was grind my teeth -- part in terror, part in a yearning so strong it was nearly painful.
The pain wasn't coming from the icy winter blast, though technically it was freezing. I was sweating under my leather jacket even as my nose became numb in spite of the thick helmet visor shielding my face from the wind.
I came to a stop light and hit the brakes, rocking forward against the shiny new machine between my legs. We sat idling there for what seemed like an eternity, my new Honda Shadow Aero motorcycle and I. Glancing left and right, I debated on running the light. A restless energy was ravaging my body, tearing a groan of frustration from my lips. Finally the light turned green. I gunned the engine and tore out of the intersection, screaming tires leaving a cloud of acrid smoke billowing into the night.
I whipped around a corner, then another. The highway loomed ahead. I let out a wild laugh and raced up the onramp, westbound, heading the long way home.
It was late, after midnight, and there was little traffic. I zipped recklessly around what cars came across my path at 90-miles-per-hour.
The yearning, the feelings I was having were wrong. Just utterly wrong. Disastrous. I knew that. Still, if I focused on them for a single second it was so exhilarating, so tantalizing ... For that single second I was almost ... happy.
I had to grip the handles hard to fight the trembling in my arms. My whole body was thrumming with the engine, pulsating, decimating the logical part of my brain. I could feel how terrifyingly wet I was. I tried to block the images of what had happened only half an hour before but her face kept coming into focus. Those lips were like fire and I was going to get burned.
Five miles down the highway and I was laughing hysterically. I closed my eyes for a split second, my lips parted, grinding my hips against the reverberating seat.
"Fuck," I cursed and my eyes snapped open. The wind tore a moan from my throat, tossing it back along the highway where no one but I would ever know it happened.
I pressed myself harder into my seat and felt the engine roar against my clit.
Cars streaked by on the right. I was breathing heavily, my eyes scanning the horizon desperately for something to focus on -- exit numbers, overpasses, neon signs, anything.
I could still feel her fingers grazing mine across the table. An electrical jolt had shot up and down my spine, making my nipples contract, leaving my toes tingling.
My breath caught and I jerked the handles, sending my cycle flying across two lanes where it nearly struck a pickup truck. I just barely managed to regain control and eased up on the gas.
This couldn't be happening. How dare my body betray me like this? She was a friend, nothing more. That's the way it had to stay. I told myself so. I nearly believed it.
And yet...
I couldn't tell you exactly how or when the feelings started to grow. But there was one moment of pure clarity that stole my breath completely. And I knew.
It was the damned heart-to-heart talk that did it. I should have kept my mouth shut, should not have allowed my mind and heart to go there. Pretend everything's alright and it is, right? Right.
We'd had countless emotional discussions before -- over a long period of time. That's what good, dear friends do. But this one was somehow different. I don't even know how we got on the topic of raw stuff. Things had been fairly typical at first, talking about my work, her work, mutual friends, trips we had planned to take, how we're doing, what we're feeling.
But when things took a sharp, serious turn, and my heart began to pound in my ears, I should have laughed it off, should have said something clever and sarcastic to lighten the mood. I couldn't do it. My throat had been so tight, burning, that the words never came, even though I have a few perfectly good one-liners handy somewhere in the back of my brain for just such a tricky situation.
They might not be clever, but they always work.
Get close, but never get too close. It's my number one rule -- listen, learn, comfort, share, but don't say the things you can't take back if it ever gets sticky. Don't speak in absolutes. Don't make statements like, "I trust you completely," or, "You're more than just a friend, you mean so much to me," and definitely not, "You're my favorite person in the world."
Shrug it off, change the topic, don't get all misty-eyed and nod in affirmation, indicating a definite mutual feeling of said words. Even if that moment of clarity I mentioned earlier brought with it the definite knowledge that my body was ten steps ahead of my mind, and that the yearning had been going on for longer than I cared to admit.
Definitely change the topic if the longing isn't just a physical thing. Because no matter the alcohol consumption or special circumstances, a physical pull can be resisted if the will is strong enough. But when emotions are involved, no matter how inappropriate, resolve is easily toppled.
And especially don't just sit there and say nothing with your hand trembling on the table. It's asking for trouble. There's too much risk involved, even if there are very few people in life you'll ever meet who step in, dissolve your walls, and generally just get you like no one else, and who seem so precious and rare that it's hard not to fall off that big cliff. Keep them in your life, sure, but keep the lines clear.
Ronnie, my friend, the one woman I didn't want to hurt no matter the cost, had pinned me with those impossibly pale blue eyes as I listened, nodded, and had my hand trembling on the table. There was intensity in her gaze that I couldn't tear my eyes away from. I'd been avoiding this for so long. And when it was most important, my defenses had failed me. There'd been a few close calls over the past year but I'd been able to control myself, somehow, without being aware of it. Not this time.
Slowly, agonizingly, I watched her hand stretch across the tiny bar table -- a mere few inches -- frozen in my seat. Her fingers trailed along my knuckles, dipped between my forefinger and thumb, grasped my hand and drew it toward herself. She lowered her eyes only long enough to dip her face and run her cheek along my wrist, to graze my knuckles with her lips, place a tender kiss on my thumb.
A tingling sensation had started where her lips had touched my hand and raced up my arm, across my chest, and straight between my legs. I must have stiffened because her eyes darted upward, likely to gauge my reaction. Too late I felt the dryness on my tongue and realized my lips were slightly parted, my eyelids heavy.
I'd blinked, slowly, knowing with definite certainty that she'd caught me. The knowing smile curling her lips made me feel as though I'd been slapped. Silent seconds ticked by as neither of us spoke. I slowly slipped my hand out of hers and drew it up close, placing it in my lap, tucked safely away. I cleared my throat, laughed scratchily, and said I needed to visit the restroom.
Cursing, I'd splashed water in my face. I washed my hands rigorously. Even the icy water couldn't erase the feeling of her soft cheek and softer lips. The urge to bolt was so strong I seriously considered sneaking out the back door. She'd never know until it was too late. But there would be no fixing this mess unless I marched back to our table. You can't always run away, not when there are things like serious friendship at stake.
Another minute and she would start wondering what was taking so long. I had to do something. I could make a joke about the strong import beer. I could tell her it was time to ditch this joint and get on home. I could do a lot of things that might distract from what had just happened.
I stepped out of the restroom and looked toward our table. She turned in my direction and flashed a smile that threatened to melt me from the inside out. I sighed, heavily, not entirely defeated but knowing this was not going to be easy, especially since my need to leave was suddenly overpowered by my need to stay close.
"You have another beer coming," she said with a smirk, as though she could read me just like that. A flippant remark shot to my lips and died abruptly when she touched my arm. "I'll be right back," she said as she sauntered off toward the restroom.
Back on the highway, I realized with a start that I'd passed my exit and cursed. This was bad. Really, really bad. I could not let this happen. Not when there was someone waiting for me at home. Not when Ronnie was still so vulnerable and raw from her own recent breakup -- so full of heartbreak it made me hurt for her. Not when we would have hurdles to overcome that were incredibly powerful even if things did get out of hand. Not when our friendship would be smashed into a million pieces. I didn't want that.
I could not lose this woman. I needed her in my life. As a friend. As my rock-solid support. As the woman I sought out to commiserate, celebrate, and share dreams with.
I took the next exit and zoomed off down an increasingly familiar country road. The road I took when I needed to think and wasn't ready to come home. It would loop far around and eventually hit the street where my lover and I live, where she was waiting after a hard night's work, likely winding down with a good book.
I would pass fields and roads lined thick with trees, moonlight filtering through the dense, leafless branches, laying a gentle pattern of splotchy silver moonlight on the asphalt. I knew exactly where to avoid the potholes, where to ease off the gas for the dips, where to accelerate for the long stretches, when the curves would wind down a steep, rollercoaster hill and back up again. I'd done a lot of thinking on this road lately.
Checking the rearview mirror, and seeing no headlights, I slowed my pace.
If I were to be real honest, I'd have to admit that there had been danger signs for quite a while now. Comments made in passing that could be taken a hundred different ways. Small affectionate gestures that went a few seconds longer than typically acceptable between two people claiming to be strictly friends. The fact that I couldn't seem to go an entire day without thinking about her. Or texting her. Or calling her. Or being distracted at work. Or wishing she were wherever I was.
If I were even more honest, and not still trying to lie to myself, I'd talk about the dreams that captured my imagination at night. The dreams of ocean waves and sunsets and kissing behind the dunes, from which waking was like torture. Torture, because I'd roll over and gaze at the woman snoring softly in bed beside me, who would no longer respond to my touch or look at me with adoration in her eyes the way she used to. Our bed, once so warm and inviting, had become a sheet of ice. I stubbornly clung to the hope that we could work things out. Even if I didn't believe it. But that didn't mean I had the right to betray her.
At the bar, I'd finished the beer in record time, being overly careful to keep the conversation light, not to let a repeat happen. The alcohol was working through my system, making me feel a little better, convincing me that it was not that big of a deal. We'd get past it without a discussion.
I wouldn't have to admit my feelings.
Then my resolve went to shit in the parking lot. We said good-bye like always -- a nice, comforting, warm hug, during which our hands ran up each others backs for a few seconds. Normally, the few-seconds-long hug would be concluded with a quick peck on the lips, nothing sexual.
Our lips touched, and lingered, her fingers running along my cheek, my hands crawling up the back of her neck, grasping her short hair. I couldn't say how long it lasted. But at the exact same moment, we both seemed to realize it was going too far and broke apart with an abrupt, "Good night, see you later."
She got in her car and sped off. I hopped on my motorcycle and got the hell out of there.
"Oh, Ronnie ...," I sighed, tears brimming, freezing along my eyelids, gliding slowly like icy needles along my cheeks.
I pulled off the road into a grassy patch and removed my helmet, running nervous hands through my hair, wiping my eyes. I lighted a cigarette and took a long drag, expelling the smoke in a single burst that made my throat burn. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. Only two people ever called this late, it was only a matter of whether it was the woman at home or the one I'd just left. I closed my eyes for a second, steeled myself, and flipped the phone open. A text message blazed uncomfortably bright in the dark.
"Are you okay? Just had a bad feeling ..."
I fumbled with the cigarette and phone for a minute, argued with myself -- I did not have to respond -- and lost the internal battle. "Taking the long way home," I punched in. "Just thinking. Still out. I'm fine."
Before I'd finished my cigarette, a buzzing response came. "Come over."
For a second, I felt like the bottom had dropped out. I checked the time. It wasn't that late yet. I'd promised to be home by 3 o'clock. It was a Friday night, after all. My girl would wonder what was wrong if I came home too early, especially considering that I was always late, never early. My pulse was hammering in my head like a freight train. "Come over." I ground my teeth and felt my knees go weak with visions of possibilities.
Yes, I thought, I'll come over. We needed to talk. The air needed to be cleared. I am the master of justification. I'll think of something.
"Be there in twenty minutes," I texted back and straddled the bike, gunning the engine, taking the quickest route back toward the bar. She lived a few blocks away. I would not think of her bedroom. I would not think of the kiss. I would not reach up and touch my lips that were still tingling. This could be controlled. I am a strong woman -- young, successful, independent. I am a good friend and wouldn't fuck this up.
"Focus," I ordered myself. "Fix this."
The ride back was even more reckless. It's a miracle that flashing blue lights didn't chase after me. With a sigh of relief and simultaneous dread, I parked my bike in her driveway. My whole body felt rigid, as though ready for battle.
A myriad of if-only's kept racing through my mind. If only I didn't have to fight this. If only my relationship were healthy and thriving, not withering and dying. If only I'd had the courage to end things with my lover when it got messy. If only feelings hadn't blossomed despite my best effort to thwart them. If only I didn't have the worst fucking timing in the damned world.
If only the first time I made a new close friend in the last few years, I hadn't let my emotions overpower my senses. If only I wasn't sitting in this driveway, shivering, knowing damned well that this could get out of hand faster than I could handle.
With heavy feet I stumbled up the walkway. There was no need to knock. The door flew open and Ronnie stood there, an odd smile on her lips and concern in her eyes, sockless, the first two buttons of her sweater loose, her hair ruffled as though she'd run fingers through it in frustration.
"Hey," she said softly, stepping aside to let me in.
"Hey," I responded stupidly.
She handed me a bottle of beer and I took it gratefully. I immediately began tearing at the waterlogged label. My hands needed something to do other than reaching out for her.
Ronnie pulled me into her arms and held me tightly. It was so overwhelming I could feel the tears burning behind tightly shut eyelids. I ordered myself not to inhale her scent and wrap it around me. I ordered myself to push back and step away.
We pulled apart and stood awkwardly, smiling uncertainly at one another, careful to keep a safe distance -- two feet, then three. Searching her face, I knew it wasn't my imagination. She was being careful, too, lips tightening, eyebrows drawn together the slightest bit, as though she were suppressing the urge to frown. Her eyes became guarded, turned away, toward the floor. My gut told me she was having the same internal battle. Or maybe I was alone with my feelings of guilt and yearning.
"I'm glad you came," she began, still not looking at me, then drank from her bottle as though searching for words. Cowardly, my hopes raised a notch. Tell me I'm too young, I thought desperately. Two decades are too much. Tell me this can't happen. Tell me you respect my lover too much. Shoot me down. Break my fucking heart. Let me get past this. Please, somebody, give me the strength to resist this amazing woman. Even if that's the last thing I truly want.
She set her bottle on the coffee table and faced me, her eyes finally meeting mine.
"I want ...," her voice faltered. She laughed nervously, then smiled so beautifully it made me realize with a sinking feeling that I should have gone home. The fight hadn't even come yet and the battle was lost.
I opened my mouth to say something -- anything -- but nothing came out. To my utter astonishment, heat rose to my cheeks and crept down my neck. Thank whatever deity watched over me that the lights were low in her living room. Maybe she wouldn't notice.
"Lindsey, you're blushing," she said with a soft laugh. "I don't think I've ever seen you do that. Not so tough after all." She stepped a little closer, her fingers reaching out and gently touching my cheek.
Nervous laughter bubbled up from my chest and I looked away, raking anxious fingers through my shoulder-length hair, forcing myself with iron will not to lean into her touch and rub my face along her hand.
Her fingers dropped away and we both sighed heavily. I tried to catch a glimpse of her face without looking into her eyes. She cleared her throat. I had to say something.
"Ronnie ...," I began but her eyes caught mine and she shook her head, silencing me.
"Tell me," she demanded, "that this isn't hard as hell."
"It's ...," I couldn't do it. "We'll be okay."
Silent seconds ticked by. The whole world stopped. The air had left the room and I couldn't breathe. If I didn't say or do something I'd suffocate.
Say something, dammit.
The heavy feeling lifted ever so slightly and I watched my hand creep forward, rise up and touch her face, run along her jaw line tremblingly, graze along her forehead, up through short tufts of peppered hair. Her lips curled tentatively and she pressed into my hand, breathing again.
"We can't do this," my hoarse voice whispered into the silence.
"I know," came the strangled response.
It was my undoing. Disastrous consequences be damned. She leaned forward; our lips were an inch apart, our foreheads touching. She was like a drug and I was about to take a hit and disappear into blissfulness. We were breathing each other's breath. Her hands grasped my face and erased the distance between us. It was exactly what I wanted.
When our lips touched, it was like a tornado blasting through a downtown high rise -- forceful, reckless, hot and explosive. It was as though she'd ripped the air straight from my lungs. I was drowning and didn't care. Her tongue played along my lips and I welcomed it inside with desperate greed, sucking on her lower lip, whimpering at the lightening-hot contact.
I wanted to crawl inside her and never leave, wrap her around my body like a shield. Let the whole world be damned for its fate, and timing, and responsibilities.
Strong arms abruptly backed me against the wall. The back of my head hit the rough surface and I moaned into her mouth. Her fingers wound into my hair and held on tight enough for that good pain. It was instant need, energy rushing through my veins like molten lava. It was a blur of hands dipping and grinding along my legs, pulling my thigh up around her waist, my fingernails digging into her back and up along her neck.
I was still wet from the bar and the ride, growing wetter than I'd ever been in my life. I could feel it coating my thong, soaking through to my jeans. I'd never been kissed like that before -- gentle, tentative, loving, and tender, sure -- but never with such passion and animalistic greed.
Another blur. She dropped me, grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, shoved me back against the wall, my face pressed hard into the plaster, her hips grinding against my ass, hands crawling up under my shirt. Her musky voice groaned against the back of my neck. Lips kneaded along my spine. I reached behind and grabbed her as best I could, trying to pull her closer, just a little more contact.
"Fuck," I groaned, over and over, giving up on trying to pull her closer, automatically catching myself against the wall as my knees began to give out -- palms pressed flat next to my face.
Her hands dove between my thighs and I whimpered in relief.
"You're so fucking hot," her hoarse voice blew hotly in my ear. I couldn't respond with her fingers grinding against my clit.
I wanted her to fuck me. I also wanted to touch her, rip her clothes off, enter her and make her scream. I wanted to sink my teeth into her soft breasts. I wanted to drop to my knees right there in the living room and run my tongue the length of her cunt. But the control was so far lost that I didn't know how much longer I could hold back before I came against the wall.
Her hands dug hard into my hips and whipped me back around. Greedily, like a starving woman, I crushed my lips into hers as though she was the food I needed to survive. It threw her off long enough to get my hands around her back, to drive them down along her spine and into her loose jeans, under which no further fabric blocked my path.
Her skin was hot to the touch and soft -- so soft I wanted to tear into it with my nails. I let go the last, tiniest shred of inhibition, and drew a line between the cheeks with my forefinger until I hit moisture. I felt her gasp the air from my mouth and rip her lips away from mine, crying out a guttural version of my name.
I slipped inside and her whole body collapsed against mine, pushing me hard into the wall. Her fingers dug into my abdomen to hold herself up, inching toward my breasts, fingers locking around my hard nipples. Slowly, we slid down the wall into a heap on the floor, where the angle was better, where I could drive into her deeper and faster.
I rolled us over and unbuttoned her jeans, tearing them from her limbs as she stared up at me with dilated, heavy-lidded eyes. Her chest was heaving as I pulled her up and tore the sweater over her head -- groaning, moaning in desperation.
And she was beautiful, laying there in her need, breathing hard as she watched me stand and remove my boots. Her eyes were glued to my fingers as they unbuttoned my pants and slid them down.
This was they eye of the storm -- a brief moment of stolen calm. The howling breaths, the lightening, and the ravaging thunder were all seconds away. We both knew it and treasured that moment, eyes locked, lips parted, the silence interrupted only by a whimper. Mine or hers, I don't know. It could have lasted a few seconds or an hour.
She welcomed my naked skin on hers eagerly, thrusting her sex against my body as I slipped a thigh between her legs and glided my own wetness along her quad. Our lips met and the storm hit full-blast, obliterating everything around us.
I grabbed handfuls of her hair and tore her head to the side to wrap my lips around her ear, rolling the flesh between my teeth and tongue.
"Lindsey," she cried. "Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey..."
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me."
I released her ear and lifted myself up, raking my nails along her inner thighs. When I couldn't stand another second without being inside of her, I drove two fingers along her slippery folds and penetrated her -- fast and hard.
A feral smile tore across my face. But it was wiped off a split-second later when I felt her press up and shift. Her hand covered my naked sex, fingers swirling in the wetness, rubbing sharply across my clit. It forced a shiver down my spine. I screamed and thrashed, driving into her faster. She slid inside me, filling me up, wedging deeper and deeper until I felt impossibly full, as though she could split me up through the middle of my body.
"Oh yes," I hissed through clenched teeth.
A light sheen of sweat had already begun to cover our bodies, dampening my forehead. I licked my upper lip, grinding my teeth, trying not to cry out again.
She was so beautiful, so strong and powerful. Pale skin stretched across lithe muscles and pockets of comforting softness. Heat rose off her body and fueled the rhythm. I was drugged, carried off into another world in which I could do and say anything and be safe. She was my refuge. My Goddess.
I growled, grabbed her face, diving in for another series of searing kisses, wanting to taste her in my mouth while she was inside of me. Why had I fought this? Why had I not allowed myself to admit such a powerful truth -- the part about feeling so deeply for this woman?
We were a train wreck in slow motion. It was inevitable. Maybe, in the aftermath, we would discover that we were both survivors and could salvage something from the wreckage. The least of which had better damned well be our friendship but hopefully much more.
Her eyes were locked on mine with ferocious intensity as we ground and writhed and moved ever faster. A single, all-consuming, fiery thought flooded my mind -- bring her hard.
She bit my lip, unable to squelch the low groan of desperation. My thumb ground against her swollen clit hard, harder, enough to push her closer to the edge. This was not about gentle lovemaking. It was about satisfaction.
Frantically thrusting and grinding, gasping, sweating, and our lips met again. So close. So desperately close.
I could feel the explosions beginning to build deep in my stomach, spreading outward in waves, fueling the raging storm that finally reached it's peak -- opening up and crashing down on my body until my toes curled and fingers tightened inside her, trapped, as her own fire burned along her skin and melted her from the inside out.
We collapsed, sucking in lungfuls of air rich with the aroma of sandalwood incense that I hadn't even noticed for lack of concentration and nerves earlier. She laughed softly and began nibbling and kissing my throat, clearly indicating that this was far from over. I struggled for a moment, withdrew my fingers, and brought them to my lips.
Her passion tasted of musky salt and a touch of citrus, sweet in the aftertaste. I rolled the taste around in my mouth, exploring, memorizing, thinking that it was the perfect flavor for Ronnie.
After hours of sweat and teeth, of lips and slick salty-sweet, and loving on the couch and the floor and in the bedroom, we saw the first signs of morning's light creep in through the blinds. And we knew it was way past time for me to go.
My chest felt heavy as I hunted for my clothes and slowly got dressed while she stood naked in the doorway to the living room. There was so much I wanted to say, so many things I wanted to ask. I stopped what I was doing and looked at her for several long seconds, stunned by her beauty and saddened by the pensive look on her face.
I dropped my jacket and took her in my arms, covering her neck and face with kisses. My throat was tight but I forced the words to surface.
"It'll be okay," I whispered.
"We have a big problem here," she responded, pulling back.
"I'll tell her. I'll leave her," the words shot to my lips desperately. "You know it was practically over. We've talked about it so many times. It was only a matter of time. I can't stay, not now, not with ..."
"Shhh," she said and placed a finger that smelled like me on my lips. She pulled me in for another hug. It was comforting and warm. She ran her hands up and down my back for a few seconds. She placed a quick peck on my lips, nothing sexual. Our usual goodbye. Except that she was naked and tears were running down my cheeks.
"Go figure things out," her voice came hoarsely. "Tell me what you need. Let me know. It's time for you to go." And she released me.
On the way home, I cried. I wept for my lover, for our broken love and dreams. I cried for joy at what I had experienced in the night. I cried for the friendship that was compromised and an uncertain future that may or may not happen, one I realized I wanted more desperately than anything on earth. I cried for my lack of resolve, for having given in to my need so readily, which wouldn't allow for a trusting beginning in anything we could possibly start.
My lover was waiting for me when I crept through the front door, still smelling of Ronnie, my hair and clothes and soul disheveled.
She sat on the couch and set her book aside. She stood slowly, eyes red and puffy. She made to move closer and I took a step back. I could not kiss her with Ronnie in my mouth, my lips kiss-bruised and swollen after a night of passion.
She took one look at me. And she knew. For better or worse, it was over.
Originally published April 2007 - "Dirty"