Knitted Acrylic Pt. 03 : Deepening Fever

My friend leans forward. 'So you slept with young women first?' she's interested, finally.

I grin. 'Until my late teens.'

Honest to the Gods, if they're listening. I didn't truly fuck anyone else than women until I was nineteen.

See, Mom had me as a teen. And I don't mean 'she just scraped in' teen. I mean minor. It made life for us tough, but she's still my best friend. Still, I can't mention sex to her. Her religion too deeply ingrained, although she didn't pass it into me.

She still insists I was a mis-delivery by the drunk stork. I've no idea about my biological dad. Doesn't matter. I sense the pain in her history, but I like to think our relationship has helped heal her in some way.

But letting a guy blow his wad inside me? Unprotected? Even with the thought of the condom tearing? The pill failing--

No way, folks.

I did literally everything but. I waited until I could face that decision. I won't pretend I was mature. But legally? I was an adult.

Besides--fingers, hands, knees, a knitted acrylic blanket. That covered everything I cared about back then.

She trails her finger close to mine on the table.

I breathe in slowly. Hopeful.

But she's not there yet. I'm not sure I am, either.

'What happened after your first girlfriend?' She asks, coy.

I chuckle. 'I ended up having a ton of girls who were friends. I don't think the term 'friends with benefits' even existed yet, but we certainly wore it threadbear.'

She smiles, sipping her coffee. 'Go on.'

I push my chocolate mud cake around on my plate. Where to start? Who to begin with?

'After my first experience, it opened a new world for me. Like I went from famine to feast--and no one was jealous. Because I kept them all compartmentalised. Separate.'

I meet her eyes. 'I lived in a regional area--part yuppie, part farm land, and part housing commission. My friends came from all sorts of backgrounds, and it showed in our play.'

Her sculpted brows raise teasingly.

I chuckle. 'Not like that. I mean--we'd hang out, run amok like the immature kids we were. One friend taught me about scissoring--and bloody love. Another taught me not every lover's going to be polite.'

Her face shifts. Concerned. 'Were you hurt?'

I hold up my hand. 'No. We just... shared things. What we knew. What we'd figured out. But, like--when I roleplayed, I was always the prince saving the princess. When she made up the story, she was the mom, guiding the kids to safety. Dodging the mysterious, invisible abusive guy.'

I pause, sipping coffee for reprieve. 'I didn't hang with her long. But--she was acting out her fears. In a space she felt safe to process them, I think. She watched my reaction all the time, to see how it made me feel.'

I give her a half smile. 'I'm glad I could provide that for her.'

I fiddle with the cake. 'But she freaked me the fuck out. Some of the stuff she must've been through by that young age... it still breaks my heart today.'

She smirks. 'Hash tag me too, hey?'

I shrug. 'That was back when no one talked about that sort of stuff. Which made her stories more intense. I mean, Mom asked if anyone had ever tried to touch me against my will. But, by then, I was already letting my lovers in. I gave my consent. So I said no.'

She eases back in her chair. 'Why do I hear a but?'

I shrug. 'Don't we all have a but?'

She nods. Then tilts her head. 'Bloody love?'

I chuckle. 'That was my next education. Another friend--came from a big family. She was older than me. She told me how some guys like it rough. I played dumb. Because I wanted her to show me.'

I scoop up a bit of cake. 'It was also the first time I scissored with anyone else.'

We were at her place, in her room. Unsupervised. The sounds of a family swirled around us--but we were left alone. I lay on her beanbag as she put on makeup from her older sister and started applying it. I like watching her. She's pretty. Dark brown hair in a bob and athletic. And has a wicked grin.

She sets the lipstick down. 'Don't you know anything about sex?'

I shrug, lying through my teeth. 'Sure. But not that.'

She comes over with a gleam in her eye. 'Parents do it missionary. That's like this.'

She falls on top of me, arms pinning mine. Her jean grind into mine as she bounces her hips fast, hard. 'But my brother says it's boring.'

I'm already getting horny. A few more bops and I might explode. She's hitting my clit beneath my jeans with every thrust, and gods--I don't want to end this.

I nod, breathless. My heart pounding in my ears. 'But what makes it bloody?'

Like I said--utterly naive.

She changes rhythm. Raises up higher. Then swoops--her hips landing on my thighs, then rubbing, dragging hard pressure up over my centre. Lift. Swoop. Rub. Lift.

Oh my gods.

I hold back the moan, tilting my pelvis just enough to catch more pressure, more friction--quietly chasing it without giving myself away.

Her body moves like she knows what she's doing. Her voice catches as she speaks. Breathless. 'Imagine a guy's dick dragging in you while doing this. It'll cut you. Tear flesh. Make it bloody. But then... it's smooth.'

I'm tossed back to the evenings when I just couldn't defeat the horndog in my soul. Three sessions with blanket and I knew what she means. The rawness. The sting of one more grind against sand paper. So painful. But so right in all the wrong ways.

I moan as she keeps swooping her hips against mine. 'Have you done it?'

And just like that, she's gone. Cold air hits the heat between my legs. 'Of course not. We're kids.'

I miss her. Her weight. Her pressure.

Then she pounces back. 'Have you?'

I shake my head, desperate for her to move again but too chicken to ask.

'No.' I barely whisper.

She leans close. The strawberry scent of the lipstick fills my senses. Her lips brush mine--so fast, I don't know if I imagined it.

'Show me what you've learned.' She says, commanding.

I wrap my arms around her waist and begin to move--rocking my hips into the beanbag, trying to catch her rhythm, press into her the way she did me.

But gravity works against me.

Still, I try.

She laughs. 'You're just a baby. You don't know anything.'

Then she lifts, dragging her centre slowly up my thigh. Right over my groin.

Chills race down my spine.

I hug her.

Nodding.

Agreeing.

Anything to make her keep going.

Then, silence wraps around us like a warm blanket.

Her head falls to my shoulder as she continues rocking--slow, steady pressure against my legs.

She's everywhere now. Focused. Lost in her own rhythm.

Chasing her delights.

And bringing me along on her flight.

I don't need to think about anything. This newness is raw enough--making me feel exposed.

My breathing quickens, matching her rapid pace.

Her pressure deepens, and with each thrust, she moans softly.

I tilt my hips but stay still--too afraid she'll slip away again.

And then, oh gods, the heat begins to rise.

This isn't a blanket kind of pain and pleasure. This is a thrill of something secret.

Something shared.

Something almost naughty.

She shudders as her hips dance over me, pressing me almost through the beanbag and onto the floor.

And I'm not quite there.

Instinct takes over.

I wrap my leg around hers and take the lead. My hips buck against her jeans, pressing harder.

She tries to move--but I can't stop.

She's a lightweight compared to the amount of pressure I require. I roll us, pinning her beneath me.

Then I go to town on her thigh--hard, hungry, relentless.

She's the one left watching as release finally crashes through me.

Hot heat, rubbed raw through the denim and cotton undies, scorches my middle. I pin her thigh between my legs, treating her flesh like my blanket.

Her hands rub my back as my hips jolt. 'Wow. You're really good at this.'

A part of my soars on her approval.

She pushes me back. Kisses me one more time and leaves before I can respond.

'You won't tell anyone about this, or I'll never talk to you again.'

Yes, Mam!

We only got one more session together before her family moved away. But I never forgot her lesson.

It just took me a few years to be able to fully understand what I learned.

The clinking of cutlery and mulled murmurs surrounding me bring be back to the present. Coffee and chocolate flood my senses.

My friend finishes her cup. 'One experience does not a connoisseur make.'

I chuckle, already knowing which one comes next. 'I'd caught the bug. I was at another slumber party with the neighbour girl. Our brothers were the friends--we endured each other because our homes were isolated.'

I cuddle my blanket, sleeping on the hard floor while she sleeps in her soft bed.

Maybe I'm a little jealous.

Maybe I'm just feeling petty.

But my recent experience with my other friends haunts me every waking moment.

And I'm turned on.

And embolden based on my recent successes.

'Do you like to play with yourself?' I ask in the dark.

No one ever called me subtle.

There is a gasp. Silence. Then, her voice cracks. 'Ye-es?'

I smile. Gotcha.

'What have you tried?'

I don't know what I'm hoping for. A new thigh humping buddy to replace the one who just moved?

I want to feel a warm, soft body curled up in my arms. But I don't know how to ask for that yet.

'I use my fingers?' she answers, hesitantly.

Useless tip, for me. I know this already. But, I smile. 'Do you have a bobby pin or two?'

It's my turn now--to be the expert. To help her explore her pleasure.

Turns out, she was just as turned on by mutual masturbation as I was, but never tempted to touch me. Or let me explore her.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm on this woman's #Metoo list. Because three years after this, she had a teenage pregnancy.

I wasn't always lucky at finding friendly lovers.

Two years after that, at a slumber party for two, I made the mistake of suggesting mutual exploration to a girl I had the hots for--but hadn't carefully vetted yet.

Within days, that secret was no longer mine. She'd shared my advance with the entire class.

I was ostracised for the rest of that year. A painful lesson--one that followed me until I changed school districts.

***

My friend sits there, wide eyed. A new smile creeping on her face. 'Sounds like you do know what you're doing.'

Her pupils flare. She licks her lips.

And then it hits me.

This is our third 'coffee' in cafes where she asks, and I answer. She won't even call them dates--not that I asked for clarification.

Why the fuck am I the one who has to justify myself to her?

I know she likes women. Exclusively.

So why have I been working so damned hard to prove to her I do too?

And with that, I stop the chasing.

Because you know what I learned from that moment with my friend back then?

I like to be in control.

I don't mean I need to be the dominant with a slave--though, let's be honest, that features in most of my fantasies.

No.

I'm the alpha in a relationship. I'm the one who protects and nurtures--because I'm a mother.

But I'm also the king.

It's why my partner and I worked so well. He was content to let me rule the roost. Crow over his cock. While he supported me from beneath. My fucking bedrock through life. Until he passed away.

But this?

She's expected me to perform for her pleasure across this table, sipping coffee when it's really our slits we think about.

She's come to this with expectations--judgement, really--without ever just being open to what unfolds.

The second lesson I learned?

Be open. Be willing, and the universe will blow your mind.

But her?

She's got her world so regimented, so labelled--and now she's finally slotted me into some pre-written role in her fantasy.

And now I'm meant to read her gods-damned mind and act out the part she's assigned.

Her the seductress. Me the confused straight girl or the not-so-straight married woman.

I don't have to ask. I don't have to clarify. Because this subtle unspoken message comes through--time and time again.

I'm not queer enough.

Just like that jerk who shared my secret to the whole class.

I'm me. Like it or lump it. I don't need to fit any labels to know who I am: sensual, and committed--to my partner, to my truth.

I finish my coffee. Don't want the rest of the cake.

She said on date two that I could stand to cut back on sweets.

Yes. I say date.

She says coffee.

Label this, woman.

I stand up. 'I appreciate the time we've spent together. But, now I think about it? You're right. This isn't what I'm looking for.'

As I gather my backpack, she clutches her chest. 'We were finally connecting. What the fuck?'

Yeah. See? That right there.

Because I was connecting to you on our first date.

I deserve a lover who wants me for who I am: messy, muddled, confusing--but not confused.

I've learned a lesson from her, and I didn't even have to orgasm on her black ripped denim.

I smile. Stand proud with my shoulders squared back. 'I hope you find peace and the grace to figure out what you want in life.'

And I stride out.

Down the street.

I hear her cursing behind me. I hear that C-word.

And it washes off my back.

I know what I want.

And I'm in no rush to settle for less than.

Until then, I've got a chocolate muffin, a coffee mug, and a newly knitted acrylic blanket that knows exactly what I like.