How did we get here?
I asked myself as I knelt on the soft earth in front of Sophie's pale, naked, freckled body surrounded by dense firs. My hands trailed down her sides, tracing her slight athletic curves as I kissed her inch by inch downwards, from between her small breasts, over the lines of her muscular torso, down over the trimmed wavy curls of hair shrouding her most intimate of places. As my hands reached behind her to cup her tight, strong ass, I dipped my face between her spread legs and touched the tip of my tongue to her already engorged clit.
A low, guttural moan escaped her lips and her sweet tangy wetness slicked my chin. When my tongue slid along her soft, full folds and dipped past her entrance, she gasped, her knees buckling as her body sank into my waiting hands and to the soft, fir-needle covered ground. I traced figure-eights around her delicious clit, one hand roaming her chest, teasing her nipple, while the other probed her open, throbbing entrance; I watched a flush rise over her glowing skin.
And as her breath became quick and uneven, I asked myself again,
How did we possibly get here, my face between Sophie's legs, lying on the soft earth surrounded by citrus-scented firs?
***
It had only been a few weeks since Sophie and I had moved in together. That was the beginning of November. It had felt like a stretch at the time. We were only friends, and only friends of friends until two months before that. But both of our leases had been up at the same time and we'd gotten along just fine the few times we'd hung out amongst mutual friends. It was enough to avoid having to Craigslist roommates. And it was Portland, so she didn't care that I was gay, and I didn't care that I didn't know how she identified. She'd made passing reference to an ex-boyfriend, but that was it, and I could use a roommate that wouldn't blur the lines after my last situation had devolved into the worst kind of lesbian drama.
It started pleasantly enough. We found we had a lot in common. Our tastes in music and movies and books overlapped but weren't identical; we were both neat and courteous of each other's space; and we both enjoyed cooking, even though our tiny, narrow kitchen required a certain degree of butt and hip grazing to share it in preparing meals together.
There were some moments of awkwardness though. One morning, about a week after moving in together, we were sitting across from each other at our little table in our cloudroom (it's what we call a sunroom in Portland), drinking coffee and reading, when I heard her clear her throat bashfully. I looked up to see her gazing at me with her brows furrowed in a look of concern.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Well..." She looked down sheepishly. "Look, if you ever need to talk...I'm here."
My head tilted to the side, trying to understand her meaning, or at least, why this had come up in the first place. A pregnant silence enveloped us as a blush crept up her slender neck. She cleared her throat again. "I just mean..." she stammered. More silence, her manicured fingers fidgeting with her coffee cup. My thoughts turned as I regarded her in that lingering moment. She was a sweet, petite thing, lean and athletic, all dark lashes, pale skin, abundant freckles, and tumbling auburn hair that fell just over her shoulders.
Her rushed words snapped me out of my reverie, tumbling in a cascade. "Look, I heard you and your girlfriend fighting last night, all the way across the apartment, the pounding, the screaming, and I know she left. I guess I just wanted to make sure you were ok and tell you, if you ever need or want to talk, that I'm here." She gasped to replenish the expended air and exhaled in a long sigh. Meanwhile, I felt the color rising to my cheeks, burning my skin. Now, I was the one examining the coffee in my cup.
She reached over and placed a gentle hand at my elbow. She continued, "Really, I know we haven't known each other long, but you can talk to me, if you want. And I won't pry if you don't."
"Thanks," I said, still measuring my next words, my face down as I breathed.
"It's ok, really." She leaned forward, looking up through her long lashes, catching my gaze.
I sighed. "It's just that..." I breathed deeply. "Ugh, fine...not my girlfriend. And we weren't fighting."
"That's not what I heard," she interjected, and then stopped, realization setting in. "Ohhh...I see, so you and her...not fighting."
"Nope, quite the opposite."
"Well, fuck me; my bad." I gaped at her vulgar ejaculation and looked up. She was smiling, dimples shining. She continued, "Here I thought shit was hitting the fan. I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you."
"No, it's ok. I'm sorry if we disturbed you, or if I've made you uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable, really," she interrupted. She flashed a knowing grin, her eyes sparkling. "Or if I am, it's just that no one's ever made
me
sound like that."
I spoke without thinking, "I guess you're dating the wrong gender then."
"I guess so," she said as she picked up her book and continued reading.
***
I thought that would be the end of the conversation, but it had only been the beginning. In the weeks that followed, she peppered me with questions from the clinical to the personal.
"Don't you miss dick?"
"I certainly don't miss what's attached to them, and that's what a strap-on is for anyway."
"Doesn't pussy smell?"
"Yes, it does. It smells glorious."
"What do you find attractive in a woman?"
"Soft skin, soft curves, an iron will; those sorts of things."
