I sat across the table from Julie, trying to gauge her interest. We'd been out for drinks before, and shared mani-pedi's, but not in a while. Not since we'd started talking about our common interest in exploring our bicuriosity together. Now, finally, we sat across from each other in a nearly empty hipster bar, telling stories over drinks.
We'd both dressed up a little more than usual. She was wearing a skirt and a knit top with camisole straps, revealing her lovely freckled shoulders and collarbone, not to mention her cleavage. She had mentioned to me before that she wore an A-cup bra, and I had expressed skepticism. Admiring her breasts again now, across the table, I couldn't imagine how they could be A-cups. They were lovely and it was hard keeping my eyes away.
She was tall, nine inches taller than my meager five feet, with short, tousled brown hair, brown eyes, and one of the sweetest faces I'd ever seen. Her smile was amazing, her cheekbones enviable. She was ten years younger than I, and it was hard to believe she had much interest in me.
We almost couldn't be more physically opposite. Besides my stature, I also had longer hair, light brown, and I tended much more to the curvy side, not in the euphemistic sense so often applied to that word these days, but in the sense that my 32DD bra size and my prominent butt often garner compliments from men. But I felt sure this beautiful younger woman, one much closer to the tall, willowy feminine ideal than I, would find those features less appealing.
But was it my imagination, or did I occasionally see her eyes rake over my cleavage as well? I'd opted for a casual knit dress, whose camisole straps were similar to the ones on Julie's top, and with a neckline that was fairly revealing.
"So can you believe that?" I asked her, finishing up a story about a recent uncomfortable date with a guy. "He actually refused to wear a condom, and tried his best to talk me into sex without a condom. As if!"
She laughed, her lovely cheekbones mesmerizing me again. "Boys," she said. "Sometimes they don't seem worth it."
I noticed her drink was empty; we'd already split the check.
"So what do you want to do now?" I asked.
She shrugged. "We could go to a different bar," she offered, "or I have some weed."
Weed meant we would have to go somewhere private.
"Weed sounds good," I said. "How about the studio?"
I'm an artist, and Julie had already visited my painting studio, keeping me company one day while I worked on a piece. I'd been surprised how nervous it made me, having someone watching me paint. We'd opened hard apple ciders that day; I never drink when I paint, but that day I'd needed something to quell the tremor in my hand.
"Sure," Julie said, "I can meet you there." I followed her outside to the bike rack, admiring her long legs and swaying hips. She unlocked her bike and put on her helmet.
"See you in a minute," I answered, and got into my Prius.
At the studio, I was so nervous that I had trouble unlocking the door. I led the way inside, turning on a couple of lights.
"Want something to drink?" I asked, and she accepted a Diet Coke. Grabbing one for myself, I put some music on, and noticed with some disappointment that she had seated herself on a chair rather than on the rather generous loveseat/daybed. This was going to be a challenge.
She pulled out the weed and a lighter.
"You'll have to retrain me," I laughed. "It's been awhile, and I've always had someone doing everything for me but breathing in the past."
She thought I was kidding until I stupidly failed to realize you have to light and inhale at the same time; she had the good grace not to laugh at me, though.
