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.
She met my awkwardness with honesty, as I knew she would. "I'd like this to happen," she said, "and I don't have expectations of you. I know you are really busy with the kids, and I'm busy, too. Let's just enjoy each other when we can."
Perfect.
I leaned towards her, one hand cupping her cheek as our lips met. We kissed, and an electric jolt shot through me. I was already wet, wetter than I'd been in years. I wanted her, wanted to touch her, to taste her.
Kisses grew bolder, and hands started to explore, brushing casually up arms and across stomachs, trailing sparks. Her hand brushed my nipple through my shirt, and I gasped. Our eyes met, and without saying anything, we stood up and headed for the bedroom.
We lay down beside each other, kissing as our hands found and teased the soft, secret places where you might not expect sparks; the inside of an elbow, the line of a collarbone, the area where waist becomes pelvis. The exploration was slow and languorous. We had time.