"So, um," she murmured, "What's your favorite sex position?"
In the darkness she couldn't see the width of my grin. I rolled onto my side to face her. We were lying on a thick air mattress in the center of the living room. It had been blown up an hour earlier in anticipation of party guests drinking too much and needing a place to pass out. It was the night after Thanksgiving, and on this night the previous evening of stoic family pleasantries and discomforts had evaporated as old friends exchanged hugs and matched shots. I and all my friends from high school, including Abigail, were home from college for a few nights, and we intended to make the most of the short time we had.
The party had been a festive one, and all our geeky party-time favorites had resurged, now with the added lubrication of drink -- games like Mario Kart and Werewolf took on new dimensions as we downed shots between rounds of play. Abigail had boasted at the beginning of the party that she could out-drink me, and the challenge was maintained throughout the night. We laughed and guffawed together, and before long we were light years ahead of our other friends in terms of intoxication.
Throughout high school there had always been a strained attraction and sexual tension between the two of us. Abigail joined my group of friends in our Junior year when she moved to the school district. Though I was an attractive individual, at least in the face, I never had much luck with girls. I found it difficult to relate to them about my interests, with every date I went on ending in mutual dissatisfaction.
Abigail was the first girl I was truly able to get along with. She could chat endlessly about the mythos of the Batman: Arkham games and The Office. She would laugh until she snorted when we watched comedy specials together, and would embark on long, proud explanations of her fantastical lucid dreams. She was wickedly smart, always ready to debate with me about philosophy or politics.
It didn't hurt that she was also gorgeous. She had a round, full face with rosy cheeks. She was pale, and her face was punctuated by chocolatey hazel eyes, speckled with green. Her lips were crimson and full. Her dirty hair was blonde and wavy, flowing was casual carelessness over her shoulders. Abigail's body was just fleshy enough to give her luscious curves in all the right places. Her ample breasts could rarely be contained by any top she wore, a fact that she was clearly proud of, and I knew well the mischievously sweet smile that tugged at her lips whenever she caught any of my other friends glancing at her chest.
In the two years we knew each other before college, I became infatuated with Abigail. However, I deliberately chose not to act on my feelings, naively determined to preserve our friendship above all else. It tormented me every day of high school, but I persevered, and made it to graduation without any physical encounter, at which point I promptly left the state.
Now, after many months away at school, I found myself staring once again into those wide, hazel eyes, illuminated in the room's darkness. During our time apart, she had become even more beautiful, and I, decidedly less awkward. We had stayed up much later than any of the others, playing Lego Star Wars until 3 or 4 in the morning. After finally tearing our reddened eyes away from the screen, we scoured the small student house for a place to crash and found the air mattress to be the only thing unoccupied. There were no spare blankets remaining, so I instinctively wrapped my arm around Abigail's gently shivering body as we lay down. She had eagerly curled up next to me, brushing her lips across my ear as she whispered goodnight.
My body tightened. I felt her warm breasts pressing into my side, undulating slightly with her breathing. I stared up at the ceiling, thoughts racing through my mind too fast to decipher, accelerated by alcohol and lust. I lay this way for several minutes, practically holding my breath and sweating until she stirred, announcing that she couldn't sleep. I exhaled carefully. She began to tell me about a dream she had had the night before, and before long we were exchanging recollections of wild dreams. After a short back-and-forth, she turned the subject to sexual dreams she'd had. My heart pounded ferociously in my chest. I replied with a similar fantasy, to which she did not respond for several gut-clenching seconds. Then she opened her mouth and in a near-silent whisper, asked, "So what's your favorite sex position?"