“Just come in, we can turn around quick and drop off the burrito, roll a joint.” He made it sound so innocent. Part of me knew this wasn’t all that would happen, but I played along.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, and followed him into his plant-filled bohemian oasis of an apartment. We were “just” friends. The line had been drawn and we were not to cross it. But what was the line exactly? Intercourse? I’d just flashed him in the cafe so not the most platonic of gestures. He sat down on the leather couch and started to roll the joint. I put the burrito on the counter and looked at the photos of his girlfriend on the fridge. She looked so sweet and loving. I came to sit next to him.
“You do this thing with your mouth where you lick your bottom lip slightly. It’s very sexy.” He twirled his mustache like the douchebag hipster he was. I flushed.
“I didn’t realize.” I said, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded and like I was already stoned even though we hadn’t even lit the joint.
“We’d better get going,” I said, “to the creek.” If we stayed on the couch much longer who knew what would happen. And with the way he was looking at me, it wouldn’t be long. He opened his legs a bit wider and I could see his bulge through his pants.
“We’re not going to cross the line, Rebecca. Just relax.” That was never a good thing to say to a woman, let alone a woman like me.
‘Just relax.’ That was the first chapter of what not to say. But I was still getting turned on. Every door in the apartment hallway opening and closing sent a thrill through me, the thrill of being caught.
She would barge in. “How could you?!” she’d scream. “Our sacred oath! Our intentions and manifestations!” Fucking hippies.
“Can I suck on your nipple?” He said, breaking my reverie.
“I mean, can you? Is that allowed?”
“Do you want me to?” he said emphatically. My thoughts drifted to the wetness pooling in my underwear.