I've known I'm bi since I was 16, but heteronormativity and sequential boyfriends in my uni days meant I never got to do more than some makeout sessions. I think my favourite was with a girl a foot shorter than me, in front of a club, with the bouncers cheering us on... The height difference meant I had a fabulous view of her bountiful cleavage, and she pressed up against me in very interesting ways.
But time moves on, through sixteen years of marriage, three children, and a sudden and unexpected separation. Right from the time he left, I declared I was done with men. I had a plan in mind, that I'd mark the anniversary of him leaving by finally getting lady-laid in a spectacular fashion.
Lockdown had other plans. The anniversary was spent alone with the Literotica lesbian section. By the end of lockdown in my country, I was bone-achingly lonely and touch-deprived. But on the bright side, the kids could go to their father's again.
I made the most of my first kid-free weekend in two months. I'd been chatting to a woman, B, on Her since December, and we'd hung out quite a few times. She was older than me, with warm, dark eyes, a self-effacing grin, and gentle, strong hands that gave a hell of a shoulder rub. That spark was there, and had been from the start, but we'd both been working through our own challenges, and taking things slow.
Before lockdown, we'd shared a bed, just to snuggle and sleep. After lockdown, after eight weeks of loneliness, there was only one way the evening was going to go, and we both knew it. There was pleasure in the anticipation.
We started the evening, as we had before, with a shared meal and cider on the couch, and a roaring fire. We watched Hannah Gatsby's Douglas, and laughed until we cried. Every giggle became a reason to lean closer, for hands to brush, for our eyes to meet.
As the show ended, I stretched. Working from home wasn't always great for my posture, and my neck twinged. B offered a shoulder rub, and I lost no time in agreeing. I lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Her hands slid around my shoulders, neck, and back, pressing and rubbing, warm and strong. She smoothed the knots away, leaning hard when she had to, in that delightfully painful way. I was glowing by the end, acutely aware of her touch.
I rolled on my side and looked at her.
"Um," I said. "So, I'm going to use my words like a big girl, and, um, check that we're on the same page here. What would you like to happen, and where are you, um, at in terms of, um, expectations?"
So fucking smooth, I know. But I'm too old for coy assumptions and games. That way lies drama.
