My stomach hurt.
I was lying in bed, eyes closed, sensing it was morning. I felt a heavy pressure on my abdomen and feared the worst. My brain flashed through a list of ailments that might manifest as stomach pain. I blinked my eyes open and reached down to feel the affected area. When I did, my startle reflex forced me back, scrambling towards the headboard as far as I could go. A smooth, fleshy weight that had been sprawled over my midsection now fell into my lap. It moved in time with a stirring under the covers next to me.
A leg. Miranda's leg. I had never woken up to a leg before.
Miranda was still in my bed. I told myself we would need to restore her bed to its proper place as soon as possible that morning.
I sat up, my back against the wall, and watched her stir. Her arms stretched out and she rolled onto her back. I watched in fascination as her body arched, pushing her chest up. The faint outline of the bottom of her rib cage served as the apex of the arch formed as she moaned. It took great restraint not to throw myself on top of her.
As if reading my mind, she clenched her eyes, placed her hand gently between her legs, and said, "Mmmmm... I am a
little
raw down there." Then she resumed stretching her arms and arching her back. Finally, she lay flat again with a sigh.
"I'm... I'm very sorry," I apologized.
Miranda smiled and rolled to her side, facing me. "Deke, I wasn't complaining. It was more like... bragging. Showing off a trophy. I'm gonna feel that all day and think about last night."
"Oh," I said, trying to understand.
"You did good, Baby," she assured me. "In fact, I kinda just want to stay in bed all morning."
"We should move it back to your room, first," I suggested.
Miranda rolled onto her back and folded her hands across her abdomen. "Yeah, about that. Are you sure? I mean, what if someone comes by for a surprise visit?"
"Would we be under any obligation to show them the bedrooms?" It was an honest query. I really didn't understand such protocol.
"I suppose not," she said. After a few moments of silence, Miranda inhaled deeply, her head near my waist. Then she giggled and reached her hand over to the waistband of my shorts. I froze as she pulled it out a couple centimeters and took a deep breath. "
Somebody
smells like their roommate's vagina," she teased, letting my waistband snap back into place.
My eyes widened and I reached down into my shorts. I felt a sticky crustiness all around my crotch. "I'm going to go shower," I stated abruptly.
Miranda watched me crawl out of bed and trot towards the bathroom. "Are you sure about the beds?" she called after me.
"Yes," I confirmed as the water began to spray.
"Is it really that bad sharing a bed with me?" she asked as she entered the bathroom. I was nearly naked as I waited for the shower to warm up. Startled by her presence, I used the towel in my hand to cover myself from the waist down. Miranda, without seeming to find anything strange in our position, pulled down her shorts and sat on the toilet, less than two meters away from me. I turned my head in uncomfortable disbelief.
"Do I snore or something? Or kick you in my sleep?" she asked nonchalantly.
I stared at the water, watching the steam begin to rise. I couldn't believe she was acting as if it was normal to share private moments like that with someone! I heard her stand and pull her shorts up. She flushed and I remained frozen, waiting for her to leave. Instead, her voice came again, just over my shoulder. She was just a foot away.
"Is the toilet thing a problem for you?"
"It was... unexpected," I said. "And... uncomfortable." I gripped the towel and continued to look away.
"I'm sorry, Deke," she apologized. "I still don't understand the borders of your world. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable on purpose... usually. I just... I guess I assume that since we have sex that certain boundaries don't matter as much anymore."
"That's understandable," I replied, trying to think of how to explain
why
I didn't feel the same way. It seemed like she had more to say, or was waiting for something from me. I urgently hoped she wasn't expecting to join me in the shower, but thankfully she made no such offer. When I turned to look at her, she was staring at the rising steam and resting her hand on her abdomen. She looked at me wistfully, then said, "I'll go make some breakfast. Food first, then cleaning."
"OK," I responded, staying in place until she had left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
*******
By mid-morning, our beds were back where they belonged, my room was much as it was meant to be, and the dirty dishes from the previous night were on their way to being washed and dried. When we had been cleaning the dining area, Miranda hummed a happy tune as she picked up scattered clothes from around the chair that had supported us during our sexual encounter. Picking up my glasses from the middle of the table, where they had been tossed to facilitate better kissing, Miranda walked over to me and gently placed them back on my face. Her features, which had been somewhat blurry that morning, came into focus. Her smile was soft, her hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail.
"You're such a cutie," she said, softly touching my cheek with the backs of her fingers.
I looked at her questioningly, not sure what prompted such a statement. Then Miranda broke our gaze and looked at the clock. She sighed and said, "Hey, I'm gonna take a little break and run out for a while," she said. "You can leave the mess if you want, I'll get to it after lunch."
"OK," I replied, trying to form a plan for my day. It was difficult being off routine.
Miranda grabbed some things from her room and emerged wearing a different outfit. "Wanna come to church with me?"
"I never saw you as the church type," I answered.
"It's been a while," she said, as if that explained it.
"But... but you seem to have such a good scientific mind!" I objected.
She paused and looked at me like
I
was the one speaking nonsense. "Deke, the two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Explain that to my parents," I mumbled.
"Hm?"
"Nothing."
"Besides," she went on, glancing at her face in a mirror by the door, "Dottie and Thomas will be there. They'll probably take me to lunch after. You'd be welcome to join, even if it's just for lunch."
"You go ahead. I'll probably stay here all day."
"'K!" she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading out the door.
The quiet of the house as soon as she left was familiar but not as welcome as I had expected. I looked around at the yet out-of-order house and decided to return to my room. At least that one place had been returned to its proper state. I could watch a movie on my laptop. Or read a book. Or go out for a walk. I noticed that a part of me was really just trying to fill the time until Miranda got back. And that seemed odd to me.
*******
Thanksgiving break had ended, and students returned to campus for the last frantic rush towards end-of-semester exams. Those who had been spending the past few months on other pursuits tried to make up for lost time with long nights at the library. Miranda found the library wasn't as conducive to her research during those weeks, and she asked if I minded if she paused her reading until after exams. Her output had been more than satisfactory in both quantity and quality, so I had no objection.
Consequently, she was at the house more than usual. She spent much of her time preparing for her own exams, but because she had been preparing well (at least since, as she explained, I had begun helping her to "control her hormonal distractions"), she was in good shape entering finals week.
And so I began to notice small things changing around the house. Certain rooms that felt cleaner. Particular arrangements in a closet – arrangements that improved the efficiency of my storage space. Flowers and plants in unexpected places – small and unobtrusive, adding a curious brightness to the living space.
As for me, having almost reached the limits of what I would be able to do on my current project without further funding, I at last submitted my grant proposal to the appropriate agencies. And having prepared well in advance for exam week, I, too, found myself with time unaccounted for. I even resumed doing some of my own research, just to pass the time.
And every evening, Miranda would serve us dinner. Sometimes we would converse, sometimes not. And as we cleaned up our dishes afterwards, she would always ask, "Any special plans for the evening?"
And I would usually respond by explaining what I planned to read or what movie I intended to watch.
And Miranda would wait for me to finish, and she would look at me with eyes that seemed to expect something more. Perhaps she thought I led a boring life; and compared to most people she knew, I probably did.
She insisted on helping me wash our dishes every evening, even though the space around the sink was limited and we jostled each other. Miranda, who had ceased complaining about how warm I kept the house, had taken to wearing a variety of thin, spaghetti-strap tops which would have been inappropriate in public. And she always seemed to get water on her top while we cleaned up. I tried to politely ignore the way this made her top nearly transparent, chiding myself for so easily turning her into a sexual object.
That's not to say I didn't desire her. I had become enamored of the feel of her skin. But to approach her as if that's all she was... just a biological machine crafted to excite and relieve my reproductive urges... it seemed I would be taking advantage of her vulnerable position.
But as I watched a movie the next Sunday afternoon – some poorly written space adventure that at least
attempted
to be consistent with the laws of physics – I was surprised by a line of dialogue during an unnecessary scene between the protagonist and his colleague. In a shallow attempt to add emotional depth to the story, the hero was struggling to pursue a particular goal but was stymied by his own fear of failure. As the emotions were teased to a boiling point, he finally shouted, "
But if I don't try, then they can't reject me!
"
I paused the movie and pondered why that line of dialogue resonated with me. Sometimes our reason runs ahead of cognition, and I was sure there was some significance to those words, an idea that my conscious mind needed to unravel.
Surely I had spared no effort in pursuing my career goals. There was no correlation there.
And I was not interested in pursuing any personal relationships that might expose me to the fear of rejection.
I wondered if an epiphany was hidden there, some special relationship to my research... perhaps regarding host rejection...
And then Miranda walked in the door. And she was so simply beautiful. She smiled at me as she kicked off her shoes and said, "I have to use the bathroom." I watched her hips sway as she walked down the hall away from me. And I thought of the few moments I had spent in sexual union with her and how utterly accepted I had felt in those moments.
That
was the deep subtext of sexual activity, I realized: the longing to be accepted unconditionally by another. That was why I never wanted those moments to end. And perhaps we wouldn't ever
let
them end if the urge to climax were not so compelling.
I furrowed my brow, realizing with shame that I craved that acceptance. Was it from
her
specifically? Or would any soft, feminine body suffice? Perhaps there were aspects of both. And then I had a flicker of understanding regarding why these students would throw themselves at each other whenever they had the opportunity. They were casting about for a place to belong, even for just a moment.
And me? Even though our every physical encounter had been at her instigation, Miranda had seemed to indicate that our relationship was bilateral. I was free to initiate sexual relations with her in accordance with my own desire. And yet I would not. I could not. Because if I didn't ask, she couldn't reject me. Even when I had first resolved to accept her proposal (of sex, not marriage), I hadn't been able to communicate it, but had waited for her to make it happen.
Just then, she walked down the hall and stood looking at me. I glanced sideways at her and knew... it was
her
acceptance that was more significant to me than any other woman's. Perhaps my limited experience was to blame – I had experienced sex with Miranda only – but I wanted to experience it with her again.
"Are you OK?" she asked.
