At Long Last Friday

At-Long-Last Friday

Best Friends Re-Evaluate Their Vows

I'm frying an omelet for breakfast. Just as I check the underside for that perfect sizzle brown, I hear a startled scream behind me and turn just in time to see Suzie's pert, perfect and naked backside run into her bedroom and slam the door.

Again.

"You okay, Sooze?"

"Sorry, I didn't know you were up already! You didn't see anything... did you?"

I bite my tongue again and maybe mutter a bit under my breath. Do I acknowledge to her that I did or do I be chivalrous and pretend I didn't.

Again

. I decide to not-answer.

"It's a beautiful morning, bud. Come out and enjoy it. I'll make you an omelet. I have everything for ham and cheese with roasted almonds -- your favorite!"

This has been going on for two months. Ever since we decided that our friendship was strong enough to live together...

...and still not fuck it up with romance.

"Yes, please, monster. I love your omelets." And I think I hear her say something else -- more quietly?

Almonds? Crunchy eggs? Her favorite -- and, yeah, it's kind of good but so weird I can't do it myself.

We love each other -- in that tentative friends-but-maybe-not-just-friends sort of way. We'd been close since high school. I remembered that fateful day in the cafeteria when she sat next to me in near tears. I asked her what was wrong, and that was the teetering moment when her façade collapsed and she lost it. Sobbing silently in the cafeteria, she tried to say something about her parents breaking up and how it was all her fault. I didn't know this girl well -- and I always sucked at difficult conversations. Look, I was just a kid. But I panicked and asked myself how I like to be treated when I feel bad; awkwardly, I asked "D... do you need a hug?" -- then I mentally thrashed myself for that stupid, childish question.

She'll think I'm an opportunistic creeper and never talk to me again.

She looked at me, then, with those deep brown eyes, seemingly confused. My heart pounded in my chest, worried for her reply. Her gaze glances from one of my eyes to the other and back quickly as if trying to read my mind, discerning my intent. I believed that she was deciding if she could take that leap of trust and let me in. It was a preternatural, terrifying moment, as if fate were building walls, either to trap us in or wrest us apart.

But at last, she committed. A tiny nod, a loosening of the tension at the corner of her eye. It was endearing to realize that she'd accepted me in a way that I felt unqualified to accept. Gently, I took her into my arms, adjusting them so as not to touch her anyplace weird. I felt the wetness of her tears grow on my shoulder. I just held her there at the table, while everyone around us awkwardly gave us space. She held on to me and sobbed it out... me not knowing exactly what to do so, so I tentatively patted her on the back until she got herself under control. When her grip eased and she seemed more under control, I had asked, "Want to talk about it?"

And she did... we moved to the courtyard, our lunches forgotten. We talked for over an hour, skipping first one, then two classes as she told me how her parents were breaking up and why she blamed herself. Nonsense: we talked through that and clearly it wasn't her fault.

Then we lost another class talking about me growing up as a foster child -- my father had left when I was young and my mother died of cancer, leaving me bouncing from home to home, looking for my "forever" family and never quite clicking into one.

We formed a bond that day. A bond of trust, of connection, of shared and similar experiences. We both took solace in each other's stories and despite the recognition that the world was not a safe place, we also felt a nascent promise that there could be safety in each other. Over the school year, we became inseparable.

"I'm ready!" And she struts out of her bedroom wearing that almost-too-tight pink fluffy bathrobe that has a nasty habit of becoming a living wardrobe malfunction.

"Sooze... you need a better bathrobe!"

"This old thing? I've had it since I was fourteen."

"And size two..."

She sticks out her tongue at me. Then takes an appreciative bite of her omelet and makes that face that I've always imagined to be her orgasm face.

"Damn, you make the best omelets, monster. Never in all my relationships has one other man ever done this right..."

"Yeah. Breaking eggs is hard."

She sputters in her food. "It's how you break them." Then she looks in my eyes, stuttering a second. "It's who you break them for." And so it starts... with us, it always starts with one or the other making a comment... and that look that says 'my eyes are about to turn sentimental.'

I roll my eyes. "Don't fuck it up!"

And there it is... the mantra of our relationship.

It's a reminder of our joint declaration that we don't want to close that tempting gap between us for fear we'll ruin what we have, destroy what we are to each other. Sometimes it's me that says it, sometimes it's her. But we're really good about not letting it go that fatal step.

She catches herself and snorts. "You wish, monster!"

Monster... That was a nickname I got in college. It had to do with an early attempt to find a relationship where I stumbled into an evening with a girl with submissive fantasies. That girl called me "Master." When I told Sooze, she just said, "Monster is more like it."

We went to separate colleges, but always supported each other, keeping in touch despite the distance. We even made a point to take a spring break together -- in separate rooms -- and a month at the beach one summer, me her wing-man and she, my wing-woman. We were both looking for our core relationship -- and of course the mantra was already well-established between us. We weren't going to fuck it up since we were really the only family we had: after her parents broke, her dad left is a huff and her mom got custody, but eventually grew distant and wound up with a man in Canada, leaving every relic of her old life behind. Sooze doesn't really talk to her anymore, except maybe Christmas and birthdays.

Each of us formed a budding serious relationship in college. Hers exploded first when she discovered his oats had gotten wild when he decided that those years were for messing around. She found out about it in a humiliating way and she called in tears. We talked through the night and also for every evening that week. She wouldn't let me fly to her -- it was finals week -- but we got through it together anyway.

Mine didn't explode, exactly. Well, sort-of. Naomi -- my college sweetheart -- was really unstable. Look, I didn't know how to pick them in school: I had never lived in a healthy household and had a lot to learn about relationships. Well, I picked Naomi. And she picked drugs. And they ended her; one high car ride with a friend and it was over. A sharp curve, a missed reaction -- the car ended up on its roof down a steep ravine and Naomi ended up in a box.

I was so dazed by it that I sat in my dorm staring at the wall for a week, skipping classes. Rethinking life. My frustrated roommate had decided to call Suzie for me since I was too despondent to do it myself. He forced the phone in my hand, while diplomatically leaving the room. Suzie and I talked until we went to sleep. My eyes were still raw from crying but I finally slept through that night: she talked me through it.

And if she hadn't, I might've been with Naomi again too soon. In my own box.

Without Suzie, I was lost.

On that call, we vowed that each other would vet every serious relationship that each other started in the future -- because we were the only ones each other could truly trust.

We could trust each other since we wouldn't fuck it up. We wouldn't fuck up our relationship.

"Hello? Earth to Sam!" That damn bathrobe slipped again, showing a curve of her perfect breast. "I've got an important day today, and so do you. Hey, you've got the dumbass look again, dude. What's stuck up your tailpipe?"

I shake myself out of my melancholy joyride and shrug. "Nothin'. Just enjoying the plug in my tailpipe is all."

She shakes her head. "Yeah. With you, I can never tell you to stick it up your ass... 'coz you probably already did..." And, yes, there's a rather embarrassing story behind that tease too.

"You've got a train to catch in fifteen... hustle, boy!"

"Oh, shit!" I run to my room and finish dressing, running out the door still zipping my backpack. "See you tonight!"

"Yes, you will!"

I barely catch the train but I finally have a few minutes to think. What was that 'yes you will' crack? Is she planning another 'oh, oops, I'm naked' surprise?

Don't fuck it up, Sooze.

I think back to the intervening years. I still had a lot to learn: yes, I vetted two guys for her, but those relationships crashed and burned anyway. And then I vetted Mike, the guy she married: maybe I was blinded by her enthusiasm. Maybe I trusted her judgement too much to be trustworthy. Maybe I just wanted her to have the happiness she deserved. I was 'best man-friend' at her wedding.

And I was there to help pick up the pieces during the divorce.

Me, I had a harder time. Yes, Suzie did the vetting for me. Very seldom did anyone get through her filters. 'You're too good for her.' 'She's gonna break your heart.' 'Are you fucking kidding? Her bra size is bigger than her IQ.' No one was ever good enough for me. But a couple got through her filters by the width of a redhead pubic hair.

One of the selected lasted okay... until she didn't: apparently, her job was more important to her than our relationship and, you know that promotion to Australia that she said she couldn't turn down? Well, she didn't. I didn't cry that one out with Suzie -- rather, it came up like earth tide: some inevitable phenomenon you know is there, but you don't feel until it's past. I'm still distant birthday-and-Christmas friends with that one.

Another went for about three years, and I felt happy. I was getting close to ring shopping when one day she announced that her high school sweetheart, 'the love of my life,' was getting a divorce and she was going back to him. I wished her well, but I can't say I was unhappy to hear, later, that they split after a couple years. Yes, I enjoyed a little guilty

schadenfreude.

I'm not still friends with her.

Two more stops of the train and I can get off and go to work. This is a big day for me.

Work? I'm a senior manager at an investment banking firm. Doing pretty well, but still saving my money to move out of this crappy city. And today, I'm up for consideration to be a junior partner. Sooze is in fashion; in theory, a designer, but she says it seems to have more to do with modeling than design -- but she has the body for it! She's had a tougher time than me, career-wise. She's been laid off twice and fired once... all bad luck. The firing was really bad luck -- that she got assigned to a manager who wanted her to take... personal assignments. She went to HR, but they took his side.

Sooze and Monster... work shit has launched many a call when apart and many drinks at the bar when we've lived close together.

And, yes, Sooze is a nickname with history too. One drunken night and an embarrassing story and I muttered, 'you sooze, you lose... sooooze... sooozzze.'

The tense day of the interview goes well. My stress was so high going into the discussion with the senior partners that it took a half-hour call with Sooze to get my confidence up. But now on my way home, I think that if I didn't ace it, I at least... deuced it. I'll hear back in a week about the final determination.

And my train ride home is an anxiety slough, exhilarating, exciting, exhausting. But now all I can do is wait. Oh, and tell Suzie about it and thank her for the pep talk. I can't get her out of my head. I owe her so much.

I unlock the apartment, knowing she's due back in an hour, but...

When I open our door, I see her immediately. Sitting on the edge of the table in front of the window. She's got her headphones on and she can't see me. Because she's wearing a blindfold.

A blindfold?

And iridescent barely-there bra and panties. She's swinging her legs, listening to music and presumably unaware that I'm back.

Without the pretext of awareness, I can take a minute to appreciate her lovely body. To get that tangible view she keeps tantalizing me with. She's a slight woman -- a head shorter than me and model-thin. She has long, wavy auburn hair and chiseled features with full, pouty lips. Perfect skin and tight abs from all the yoga she does. The light shining from behind her creates a gentle halo around her body, like a carefully lit chiaroscuro style painting. It's a subtle lighting, like framing a perfect portrait with just the right breath of color.

I scan her form, the lines of her body, the curve of her breasts, the carefree, happy way that she swings her legs and rocks her head to the music.

A blindfold? What? Why?

But...she knew I'd be here. She knew I'd walk in on this. This is no accident.

This is an invitation.

I stare as my feelings churn up from chest. She's lit a fire in me, a fire I've been aware of and suppressed for so long after that promise we made to each other. We've spent years goosing each other, and then we stop it like an endless game of tease and denial. But she's no longer denying me and I don't want to deny myself anymore. I want this, damn it. She can't hear, she can't see. She can't tell me not to fuck it up. I can't tell her.

It's like a binding spell has been broken. A hex. Now it's up to me.

My hormones wage a battle with my intellect.

But... don't fuck it up.

I'm telling myself, she's told herself. But we can't challenge each other this time. We can't stop the connection from drawing us in. We don't have words to get in the way of communication.

It feels like vertigo -- a light-headedness. I consider sneaking out. I think about telling her I went out to celebrate the interview with friends. She'd never know I opened the door and saw this, would she?

But my feet have a mind of their own. I find myself pulled toward her, like gravity. Every inch I draw nearer to her, my resolve weakens. I watch her chest swell, and deflate. I see the tendons in her neck stretch as she moves. I feel something... ethereal... draw from her and give to me as I feel her draw the same from me. She may not know I'm there, but our bodies know. Our essences.

Can we do this and not fuck it up?

My head is drawn next to hers... that subtle static feel when you're close but not quite touching. I smell her subtle perfume and the musk of her. I smell her shampoo -- a signature scent from many nights cuddled on the couch under a comforter, watching sappy movies, laughing and eating popcorn. Every mole, every freckle excites a memory.

This is it. I breathe subtly on her neck, below her ear. She jumps a little, then make a little purring sound, canting her head to the side to give me better access. She knows I'm there. She wants this.

I didn't decide to do this, but it happened. And it's too late now.

Did I just fuck it up?

I exhale softly down her neck to the top of her shoulder and see goosebumps raise as her breathing deepens. And so does mine. I'm inhaling her. The air she's occupied. Traces of her breath. Her pheromones. I'm taking her into me. Into my lungs. Letting her penetrate my very core. There is a miraculous sustenance in this one breath.

There is sustenance in her.

My hands graze the air all around her: never touching, but a hair's breadth away. I know that she feels it: that heightened sense when deprived of other senses. Even without contact, still I watch her body react, move, as if by a magnetic force that conveys that which is unseen. When my hands move through the air that outlines her breasts, she moans subtly, instinctively. When my hands move on either side of the back of her head, her head straitens and freezes, ready for whatever happens.

Ready for me.

We are each breathing faster.

And without me telling them to, my lips move to hers. She can feel me breathe on her as I feel her breath on me. Every motion is a forbidden pleasure, and my mantra is no longer inhibiting me. There is no mantra if we can't communicate. It is no longer forbidden.

Our lips touch. I don't know if it was her or me that closed the last gap, but they touch. I hold my breath as our mouths melt into a tender kiss -- almost there and almost not there. At that moment, I feel a static rush through my veins as if my whole body has been screaming at me for eternity to do this and it's celebrating that I finally have. My hands converge and entwine in her hair, cupping her head, caressing it like precious china, holding her to me as our lips unite. She opens her mouth slightly and licks my lip teasingly and I reply. Soon, our tongues are dancing and she's embracing my head to hers, completing this circle of our first true kiss.

The sounds we're making, the breath we're sharing: it all feels like a calm urgency. We're committed now and it's a fight to sustain the moment forever and yet complete it instantly with animalistic, primal energy. She whimpers softly, the sound muffled on my mouth, so I deepen the kiss and she responds with equal fervor.

She presses her body to mine, and as our sexes touch, the thin gossamer of our clothing leaves little doubt that our bodies are ready for each other. She nestles her hips yet closer to the edge to suggest better contact.

My breath shudders at the invitation, rational thought being overtaken by lust and need. I reach around her and lick her neck as I unfasten her bra, running my tongue up behind her headphones while she pulls me tightly to her body, willing our souls to meld as our bodies converge. And she feels so good, the tightness of her breasts pressing into my chest, their nibs poking me and her tongue on my ear: the breath sending chills.

This close, I hear what she's been hearing in the headphones and realize she's been listening to a love song that we had enjoyed together when I took her to a concert while in high school. Such a sweet memory.

Her breath is quick and needy as I drop her bra on the floor and caress her beautiful; creamy breasts with their tight, hard pink tips. She arches her back and pulls my head to her chest, her fingers entwined in my hair and urgently massaging my scalp. I wrap my warm tongue around her pebbled nipple, causing her to jolt and moan in a way that should've seen excessive, but it's not: I know the moment is as profound for her as it is for me. Her squirming is delicious and her urgency in moving my head to worship her sensitive skin is divine.

We are not just touching flesh, rather we're massaging an ache we've denied each other for our whole lives.

Her hips buck, seemingly involuntarily, then pulse and roll, seeking contact, friction. Her actions are so essential, so wanton, so

primal

that I can no longer think: all that remains to me is to just act. I am driven to show her the depth of my feelings and the intensity of our connection. I leave a trail of kisses and licks down her chest and stomach, over her hips and inside her thighs, now slowly working up to her core, teasing her as she rocks, seeking that magical contact. She's mewling in an almost beseeching tone, igniting my passions, yet I stretch the moment before this next step of our celebration. The world narrows to her motion, her sounds and the connection between my mouth and her body.

I untie her fancy panties -- strings on each hip -- and they fall away, as if knowing they were a nuisance in a grander play. She moans as she parts her legs wider, still rolling her hips and I enjoy that deep essential musk. Every woman smells different, but somehow I always knew exactly what she would smell like. It's beautiful, sweet and intoxicating.