I try to stand, but the couch really is comfortable and extra squishy. It’s the kind of furniture that you sink into and don’t easily get out of. I have to brace my hand on the cushion in an effort to push myself up. Then my hand slides sideways, slipping into the space between the cushion and the arm of the couch. My fingers find an object down there, something hard and cylindrical. I curl my hand around it and bring it up with me as I finally manage to stand.
“Oh my—” Realizing what I’m holding, I immediately drop it back onto the couch. It lands next to Addison’s hip, and we both stare at it, eyes wide in horror. It’s bright purple, tapered at the bottom, a set of buttons on the side, and a round, flared head at the top.
Oh.
My.
God.
I almost don’t believe that this is really happening. But the evidence is still right there in front of my eyes in all its plastic phallic glory.
Even though, according to the media, I’m constantly in a relationship, that doesn’t mean I don’t know what a vibrator looks like. And that one seems pretty top-of-the-line. So good for her, really.
But holding another woman’s sex toy in my hand isnotan experience I ever planned to have. I’m pretty sure my face is on fire, and I’ve lost all my motor functions.
The moments drag out into an eternity as all that awkwardness I thought we got rid of comes rushing back with a vengeance.
Addison regains her senses first, snatching up the vibrator and shoving her hand behind her back as she stands. As if out of sight, out of mind will work here.
Nooope.
I won’t be able to forget what I saw so easily. That purple object is seared into my brain. And my mind is quickly conjuring up some new images now to go along with it. Images of her, lying in that bed I only caught a glimpse of upstairs, holding the vibrator between her spread legs. Of her on this couch, doing the same thing. Because she must have been doing it here, right? For it to be down here?
Oh my god, I need to stop.
“Holy shit, I amsosorry,” she says, her eyes still wide. “That wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—You shouldn’t have seen—Fuck, I am so, so sorry.”
Something about the way she’s stumbling over her words snaps me out of my state of shock. Ever since I’ve met her, I’ve been the one who is awkward, nervous, uncomfortable, unsure of myself. She presents herself with such a bold confidence, and I’ve just wanted to make her like me.
I always feel the need to make everyone like me. To the extent that Ican recognize it sometimes as a flaw. But it’s been different with her. I can’t entirely understand why, but for some reason, itmatterswith her. I haven’t wanted her to like me simply because I want everyone to.
I’ve wanted her to like me because I likeher.
Now I’m here in her house, and she’s standing in front of me hiding her sex toy behind her back, clearly mortified.
And I do the only thing I can.
I start laughing.
It comes out of me in a short, unexpected burst at first. But it grows longer and louder until I’m cracking up, bending over at the waist with the force of it. Then she starts laughing too, and now we’re both cackling like idiots.
It takes a minute before we manage to calm down and straighten up. She’s still holding the offending toy behind her back, but she’s smiling at me. Hints of her embarrassment remain, but at the same time, she looks bold again. Unapologetic.
“Well,” she says. “That should have been in my nightstand drawer. I guess I forgot to put it back after its last adventure.”
I laugh again, my cheeks aching from it. I want to say something witty, but I’ve got nothing. Sex toy humor isn’t my forte.
“Um, you can go on up,” she tells me, nodding toward the stairs. “I’ll... take care of this. Then I’ll show you where the spare towels are.”
She nods toward the stairs again and waits until I start making my way up them before following me. I can still feel the sense of amusement in the air, knowing what she’s carrying with her.
She ducks into her bedroom while I go to the spare room to grab my toiletries and a change of clothes. When I meet her back in the narrow hallway, she leads me to the bathroom. There’s a linen closet inside, which she opens, instructing me to take whatever I need. Then she tells me she’ll be downstairs and leaves me to it.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up before I stepin. A few minutes later, I’m standing under the blissfully cascading stream, lathering shampoo into my hair. And that’s when the amusement finally fades.
All of a sudden, those dirty images of Addison that I conjured up flood back into my mind. It’s silly of me to pretend I only want to be friends with her when I know in my gut that I’m interested in something more. I’ve never had thoughts like this about a woman before, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
My skin feels hot in a way that’s unrelated to the water temperature as I picture her in bed again. Brown hair against the pillow, brown eyes gazing at... me? It must be, although I don’t really see myself there. I only see her.
