The night it becomes about making love and not sex
What does that moment of decision feel like? Does anyone ever have an answer?
How does it start? What does that moment of decision feel like, when you wipe out the lines you drew in the sand and cross over to the other side? The first time you give yourself to someone, even when you know your heart belongs to another?
This is how.
He's not your type, you know that right away. You're the kind that goes for the good bad boys. Men who fill up your senses and cloud your judgment. Who make you go a bit crazy. Who make you forget your words and stumble over your thoughts. You really want to be the kind of girl who wants to fall in love slowly and cautiously. But you're just not built that way. You have to crash into love. Your worlds must collide. If it's not worth writing about, it can't be worth living, that stupid voice in your head keeps insisting. Your mom's always so disappointed with your inability to stick with the simple nice guys, but you can't seem to help it. Anyway... This one isn't anything like that.
You smile disinterestedly at each other and say polite hellos when the introductions are made. You don't want to get to know him. You don't want to let him get to know you. It's too much effort. And you're exhausted of playing nice. He has a funny name, you think fleetingly at some point in the night, as your eyes meet and you smile at each other vaguely. You notice the girl he's dancing with. Pretty, but weird, you think uncharitably and move on to more people-watching and bitchy monologues in your head. You wait for the alcohol to kick in so you can finally start dancing yourself. Come on, come on, come on, already!
Weeks later, when you think of how it happened, you draw a big, frustrating blank.
The night's a vignette of memories. Like scenes from a movie, dislodged from their proper order in the narrative. There's one where he's playing with your hair. Another where you're dancing in the water together. A third where he's asking to take off your stockings... You even remember wondering why so many men find that particular garment-divesting activity so erotic. Maybe because he's never seen a woman wiggling to get into one, you conclude. That memory makes you smile. It reminds you that he's too sweet, too innocent, too something for you. Your kind would have wanted to rip it off. It's wasn't the alcohol, you know, because you're a grown-ass woman with no use for schoolgirl excuses.
Suddenly he's lying in bed next to you without his shirt. You're lying in bed next to him in your shorts and T-shirt. You're both so drunk, but so damn awake. It's quiet. It's nice. He has a nice chest, you think. Tanned and neither too hairy, nor waxed. You don't say it, but it makes you smile. He tells you he likes your smile. That makes you smile some more. He reaches out and touches you. You like the feel of his fingers. They're gentle, unobtrusive... safe. You scoot closer. He hugs you. You're not a cuddler, but with him, you like it. You really like it. That surprises you, but you don't want to think about it right now. You kiss. It doesn't light you up like a firework, but it definitely makes you feel like a woman. It's been a while since you've owned yourself this way.
And then it happens.
You can't remember which one of you asks the first question, but before you know it, you're talking. Or he's talking and you're listening. Which is good enough. Which is perfect, in fact. You share stories. Some silly ones, others incomplete. But all of them make him more real to you. They help you write his character in your head. He likes that you're a writer, but it makes him conscious of his words. It also makes him a little nervous of being misinterpreted. Normally, the fumbling, bumbling explanations would have been fodder for the bitchy voice in your head. But from him, you find them oddly touching.
You kiss, really kiss, instead of "making out" in the pauses between the stories. He's a really good kisser. Neither of you sleeps that night. It's morning, all of a sudden. The friends see him walking out of your room, buttoning his shirt, eyes red with lack of sleep. You know you look the exact same. You can feel them grinning, ready to pry. They think you had sex, but you actually had a lot more.
How does it start? Does anyone ever have an answer?