“People who are demisexual, typically, only form a sexual attraction to a person once they have formed a close emotional bond with them.”
“Oh.” That doessoundlike me. “Huh.”
“Have you ever had sex with someone you had an established relationship or bond with?” she asks.
“No, not really. After a few dates it felt sort of obligatory? Not in a bad way, just, no.”
“And you and Evan… you’ve known each other since forever, right?”
“Since we were nine, yeah.”Oh.“But, I don’t really feel that with her. Like I don’t want to rip her clothes off either.”
“So maybe youarestraight but need that connection first.” Jen shrugs, smiling politely.
“Yeah, maybe.” I take a languishing sip of warm coffee, feeling it soothe my throat and settle in my stomach. “I just think maybe I’m not a sexual person. I honestly could go without it just fine.”
“Which is a cruel irony because you’re insanely hot.” Jen and Leah high-five in agreement and I can’t help but laugh alongside them.
“Well, ladies, it’s been lovely chatting but I better be off. Engagement shoot today.” Jen checks her watch and grabs her bag off the table.
“Mmm me too. I’ve got headshots at a marketing firm downtown.” Leah pretends to gag and waves at me over her shoulder. “Have fun being gay tonight!”
“Thank you?” I call back to a suddenly empty apartment.
For the next hour, I sit quietly, pondering every time in my life I’vewantedsomething and trying to decipher if anything of that level of intensity was ever felt towards a person. I definitely got butterflies in eighth grade when James Tonaka asked me to dance with him. But that may have been from knowing the other kids were watching us and the jealousy I could feel radiating off some of the girls who had crushes on him.
And probably because she was already on my mind, memories of Evan begin popping up like bright, fleeting flashes of a lens. Snapshots of us in my bed, falling asleep watching Gilmore Girls the summer between tenth and eleventh grade. The fan in the far corner of my childhood bedroom, circulating the dry summer air. The count of exactly eleven seconds between oscillations, blowing the loose threads of her braid over her shoulder and the scent of her flowery shampoo in my direction.
The soft cotton of her pyjamas under my hand when I was trying to pry the remote away from her when she insisted on putting onThe Bachelorcome 9 pm.
Her laughing as she held it extended far enough away that I had to climb on top of her to reach it. The way my heart sank when she froze under me. The awkward pause when we both looked down at our laps, pressed together. The moment I rolled off of her, claiming not to care what we watched anyways.
But that wasn’tdesire, right? That was just a strange, fleeting moment of…
Would I have let her kiss me? Did I want to kiss her?
I imagine it. What could have happened if I didn’t roll off her lap right away.
Her hip bones digging into the inside of my thighs as I straddled her. Exploring each other’s bodies with tongues and wandering hands until our matching cotton pyjama shorts came off. Soft hands. Evan’s hands. My hands. Everywhere.
Her hair wrapped around us both as we’d meld into one. Me pressing gentle, sweet kisses down her spine and back up, unclasping her bra along the way. My knuckles caressing her collarbone, assisting the straps off her shoulders. Then I’d have moved my hand downward to—
A horn blares outside and I’m submerged back into my body like an ice bath. I attempt to catch my breath, unaware that I’d been panting at my dining table, lost in a memory that never was.
“Oh, I’ve fucked up,” I whisper to myself, wiping the faintest bit of sweat off my brow. “Shit, shit, shit,” I chant, gripping onto the roots of my hair in two fists.
That may have been the most turned on I’ve ever been.
I’m either a narcissist—and can only get off using myownimagination bymyself—or I’m not as straight as I thought I was this morning. Hell, an hour ago.
I might have a crush on my fake girlfriend.
Chapter Eight
Evan
I haven’t been able to focus since lunch. At first, I thought it was a natural reaction to seeing Natalie. Not only seeing her but hearing her borderline talk shit about me inourplace of workwiththe woman she left me for. Because that’d be enough to set me off on any given day. But, strangely, that wasn’t the vision playing on repeat while my students ran amuck this afternoon.
Nor is it the memory I'm reliving now either, snuggled up with Bagel on the couch. It’s Clara’s voice I’m repeating on a loop. The way she sounded after just waking up. Most of the time she speaks like there isn’t enough time to get everything out. One thought poured out after another, sometimes so on top of each other it’s hard to keep up. But today was different. Husky and breathy and slow. Raspy and, I know I shouldn’t think this, but… sexy.
