“Keep going,” I urge him, spreading my legs as wide as I can. In the heat of the moment, his gaze becomes intense, intent. He finally forgets how lucky he is to be here and actually loses himself in the act. We’re caught up together, giving in to our basest carnal needs.
He positions himself between my legs, bringing his mouth swiftly down from my breasts to my sex. Atta boy, I smile to myself, grabbing onto handfuls of my baby blue comforter. He presses deeper into me with his sure fingers as he lowers his lips to that hard, aching nub between my legs. My back arches as he flicks his tongue against the center of my ecstasy. Kneading and caressing me with his tongue and hands, he sends ripple after ripple of sensation barreling through me, mounting with every passing touch.
“I’m so...close,” I groan, bucking my hips toward him.
He pulls out all the stops, rubbing and stroking me with all his might. With one perfect, firm flick of his dexterous tongue, I’m a goner. My whole body shudders deliciously as warm, soothing pleasure rolls along my every frayed nerve. I sigh happily as the feeling overtakes me, leaving me loose and sated in its wake. A moan escapes my throat as I come, a full, fine orgasm running its course through my body. It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten off with somebody else. I’m more than happy to fly solo, but it’s nice to just lay back and enjoy once in a while. Content, I curl up onto my side and let my eyes close for a moment.
Stephen lowers himself onto the bed beside me, happy to have made me happy. He wraps his muscled arms around me, moving to make me his little spoon. Just as he settles down, lying his well-formed jaw against my shoulder, a little shot of impatience punctures my good mood. I duck out from under his arms, pulling myself up to sitting next to him on the bed. I lean back against my bedroom wall, reaching for my bra and tee shirt. He looks up at me, a bit bewildered but afraid to show it.
“Come here,” he smiles, opening his arms to me.
“Where did my panties get to?” I reply, ignoring his offer.
“Oh,” he says slowly, pulling himself onto a forearm, “Are we...done?”
“That was my understanding,” I smile, slipping on my date night clothes once more. “Do you want anything? Vodka? Whiskey?”
“A glass of water would be fine,” he says, fighting to keep his disappointment from showing on his pretty boy face.
I hop over him and make my way to the kitchen, feeling satisfied and as content as ever. This final month of classes has been incredibly rough. My stress levels are at an all-time high, and that’s saying something. A little casual fooling around has always been my cure for low spirits. Well, that and some actual spirits, that is.
I rummage through the cupboard and find a bottle of Jim Beam, an ever-present staple in my kitchen. I pour myself a generous glass of whiskey and fill a mug with some tap water for Stephen. Sipping thirstily from my drink, the familiar, comforting burn soothes me as it always does. I lean back against the kitchen counter and catch a glimpse of myself in the darkened window. My tousled hair, bare feet, and stiff drink make me look a whole lot more at ease than I actually feel. But I try and quiet my lingering anxiety and discomfort as best I can. This is about as good as it gets, these days. I need to learn how to be a little more appreciative. Letting the whiskey work warmly down my throat, I savor this little moment of peace.
“That for me?” Stephen asks, padding into the kitchen and nodding to the mug.
“Sure is,” I tell him, plastering a smile onto my face. Peaceful moment over, I suppose. It was nice while it lasted.
The two of us stand in silence for a spell, sipping our drinks. This is always the point where things start to get annoyingly awkward, in my experience. That moment after fooling around with someone when it’s very clear that you’re not on the same page about what comes next. I should have known this guy would go all lovey on me. I down the final sip of my booze and go to pour myself another little nip, wishing there was a graceful way to say, “Thanks for getting me off. There’s the door.”
“So...how are you holding up with the end of the year?” Stephen asks, pretending not to judge me as I pour some more Jim into my glass.
“Oh, you know,” I sigh, “It’s always a shit show. At least this is the last time we’ll have to go through it.”
“Yeah,” he says, “Can you believe we’re almost done with our masters? Graduation’s right around the bend. It feels like we just started.”
“Does it?” I counter, “I feel like I’ve been waiting to get out of school since the second I got in. This campus culture is driving me nuts. The same old parties, the same old people. I don’t think I could last another year.”
“Oh, come on,” he urges, “It’s not so bad. We’ve got a pretty good class, don’t we?”
I think about the other students in our graduate computer science program. Apart from my best friend Kelly, every single one of them are dudes. Nice enough guys, to be sure, but nice gets boring pretty quickly. “Nice” also tends to translate to, “polite enough unless you don’t have sex with me when I expect you to,” or, “but I paid for dinner, why won’t you screw me, you tease?” As diverse and liberal as Berkeley can be, I feel like I only ever run into the same humdrum, well-bred yuppies I knew back in Connecticut. Maybe I should have majored in something more radical. If only I had an artistic bone in my body...
“I guess I’m just ready to get out into the real world,” I deflect, hopping up to sit on the counter, “I’ve never really been the perpetual-student type. This masters is just a necessity.”
“I was thinking I might like to go the teaching route,” Stephen says sheepishly. “It seems like a nice, secure sort of life.”
I have to fight not to cringe at the words nice and secure. I know all about what it’s like to have a nice, secure life—at least on the surface. I grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, about the nicest place you could possibly imagine. I lived in a nice house, with a nice green lawn, a couple of nice cars parked in the driveway. My parents were nice people with nice jobs and two nice little daughters (not to mention the brigade of nannies who raised them). But all the niceness didn’t keep our family from crashing and burning hard.
“You OK, Kassie?” Stephen asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Huh?” I say dumbly.
“You just got this really troubled look,” he says, stepping toward me, “Is everything all right these days?”