I first wrote this story in 2003, and it reads as written by a far more naïve me, so I left most of that there (nostalgia, I'm full of it). It's less graphic than some of my current works, more erotic perhaps? The intervening years have modified my perspective on sexual activity, opened my view? Either way, I have several of these gems lounging about, and I'll be going through them, keeping them mostly intact and publishing them as I can. E
The hour had grown late and one by one our group of friends excused themselves, retiring to their respective campers, tents and cabins. From a party of nine, we were reduced to five, then four, three and then finally, we two who would not give up the game.
Seated in the screen tent assembled earlier in the day by the engineering-minded males in our group and decorated to resemble a Nevada bordello with suspended lights and sheer curtains by certain female members, only a male friend and I remained as the day grew older. Again and again, we shuffled the dominos, both intent upon winning, intent more upon the tiles in front of us than who remained to keep us company.
Occasionally I would raise my eyes to meet his, trying to read the reflection of his hand in those deep blue eyes. He would catch me and smile; a friendly, teasing grin that I readily responded to.
The campfire had burned low, embers glowing from beyond the zipped screen of our tent. I chugged the remains of my beer bottle and raised it, questioning whether he required a refill.
"Sure, if you'd grab one for me that would be great." He gestured with his elbow, studying the layout before him, contemplating his next move.
"Okay, but the next round is on you." I stood up, aware of the thin cotton of my PJs rubbing on tanned skin. The summer air eddied around us, undecided whether to blow warm or cold, heralding an impending storm.
As I unzipped the screen, a rumble of thunder announced the approach of rain, and I smelled the wetness in the air. Zipping the screen to keep out the mosquitoes was the responsibility of whoever opened it to leave, and I turned to re-zip once I stepped outside.
"I'm grabbing a couple; we may end up trapped in here." I darted across the grass, already wet with dew and opened the red cooler just outside a friend's camper. Ice clawed at my fingers as I thrust my hand into the tub, seeking the long neck of a beer bottle. Clasping four bottles in my right hand, I scooped up several pieces of the ice, a half-formed idea blossoming in my mind.
"Knock, knock." I stood before the tent and announced my return, unable to reopen the door with the booty occupying my hands.
"Yeah, just a second." He stood fluidly from the bench and strolled over to where I stood. "What's the password?"
In the dark I could not see the expression in his eyes but the teasing tone in his voice alerted me to his mood.
"How about, 'Let me in before I kick your butt?'" I responded with a wide smile on my face.
"That's not exactly what I was anticipating, but okay." He bent to reach the zipper and I stared at the top of his head, wondering if he would appreciate the joke I planned to play upon him. We shared similar personalities, jokes coming faster than compliments and teasing was the main way we communicated. I had not known him long enough to make a judgment on all elements of his personality, but we responded well to each other on a superficial level.
That might change significantly once I found the courage to drop the ice down the back of his shirt.
He held the flap of the tent back and I ducked under his arm to enter. Closer proximity than usual and I ignored the ripple of unease that flowed through my stomach. Setting the bottles down on the table, I lingered, uncapping one of the bottles for myself and waiting for him to resume his seat. Nervous, shaking hands on the slick bottle; I clutched the ice in my left hand, wondering if he had noticed my awkwardness.
Once again seated and intent again upon the trains of dominos, he didn't see as I moved closer, bottle held in one hand, ice in the other. There was no need to tiptoe on the grass and I was reminded of my childhood, a stealthy game of kick-the-can with neighborhood friends. Sneaking around the back of the garage and darting across the blacktop to propel the empty coffee can as far as possible, thus freeing my captured partners.
Setting the bottle next to him on the table required leaning close to his body, close enough to smell the chlorine from the pool on his hair and the earthy odor of his white t-shirt.
"Taken a shower lately?" I distracted him with my voice; still close enough to rest my hand on his shoulder. I pivoted away suddenly, slipping the ice, now accompanied by a handful of water, down the back of his t-shirt.
"Shit!" He stood up and danced around the tent, trying to dislodge the ice and water running down his back. "What the hell was that?"
I giggled as I dashed back to the other side of the picnic table. "Just thought you might want to cool off. It's gotten rather steamy in here."
"You don't KNOW steamy." He was perplexed; the puzzled look on his face matched by the unease in his voice. As friends, we maintained a physical distance and now I had crossed that boundary without notifying him first and he was unsure how to respond.
From the comparative safety of my side of the picnic table I gestured towards the top of the table, "Are you going to sputter all night or play?"
"Play, of course." He sank back down, shaking his shirt in a vain attempt to dry it. A wide grin split my face as I watched him process the event, his head shaking from side to side, attempting to deny my impetuous behavior.
He tipped the beer bottle up, taking a long drink and I found myself fascinated by the swallowing motions of his throat. The atmosphere had become charged in some way, whether from the electricity generated by the approaching storm or my actions, and I busied myself playing my turn. Shaken by the change in our relationship put into place by my action, I was unable to return to the comfortable familiarity of earlier in the evening.
Silence joined us, both simply moving the dominos around the table in an attempt to recapture the spirit of the game. I felt the hardness of my nipples against the fabric of my pajama top and rested my arm against the table, ineffectively trying to recover my modesty. Half of an hour ago I was perfectly comfortable with my lack of clothing but now I wished for the armor of a bra and jeans.
