Rating: NNNNN
I first see her when i walk into the hotel ballroom for the keynote speech. Later, I learn that she’s an American, one of those jet-setting, conference-hopping types who’s in Toronto for one day, one night.
I’m struck by how hot she is, and I surprise myself by going through my usual flirting routine hair toss, frequent glances. Every time I look back at her, she’s right there, meeting my eyes. But I still don’t clue into what it means, at least not on a conscious level.
That night there’s a mixer for conference attendees at a local bar. She’s there, watching me from across the room. She introduces herself and buys me a drink. I buy her a drink. Then we dance, and then we’re in a washroom stall. I’m pressed up against the door and her hands are on my breasts, her lips somewhere down there as well. That’s when I start to clue in.
Closing time. She tells me that she treats all her girls right, and tries to get us a room at one of the classier places in the city. Apparently, it’s harder for two women who can’t stop groping each other to get a room at a fancy hotel in the middle of the night than you’d think. So we end up at some cheap hotel with sheets that probably have a higher STI count than a student health services waiting room. We manage to keep our mouths off of each other for the entire elevator ride, but our hands are a different story.
We push into the room, and the something, that chemical reaction or whatever, keeps happening. I stop kissing long enough to turn the radio on, familiar top-40 sounds fill the room.
She laughs. “What, do you have performance anxiety?”
She throws me down on the bed and begins to suck on my neck. She starts to pull off my shirt, and when I take over, she moves expertly to my pants. Then she’s naked, we both are, the two of us, our bodies trying to set up a common rhythm, getting hot and wet.
I’m trying not to give away how new I am to this. I’m fumbling around self-consciously at first, trying to get a handle on a new body, new anatomy, so much like my own yet really different, too. But it feels so good, I stop noticing and start discovering.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s clearly used to taking things into her own hands. Now on top, now under, now she’s down there, and I’m welcoming. She has a tattoo across her lower back, something in a language I don’t recognize. I speak with it, using my lips, my tongue.
We wake up in the morning with our arms around each other, still naked but a little more sober, the sunlight streaming in. We shift, and her hand grazes my nipple. And again, and then again, each time with intention.
She’s on top of me once more, my legs around her, pounding out a rhythm that we came up with the night before. My sounds encourage her, push her as she pushes me.
Now it’s my turn with her. A little more skilful than the night before, I desire to make her feel what she’s been making me feel. She gets slick, she sounds right. And then I notice her eyes for the first time. For the rest of the morning, they’re all I see.
We leave our dirty hotel and grab lattes in the bright light of a beautiful Toronto summer day.
She’s heading off to the airport to catch her flight back to Albany or wherever she’s from.
She turns to me on the bustling sidewalk, leans in and kisses me sweetly. Twice.
I’m too smitten to care that some people walking by don’t seem to approve of the sight of two women kissing on the street, outside of the gaybourhood, without a legitimating male presence. Well, fuck the homophobes her lips are delicious.
“I’ll e-mail you, baby,” she says with a grin as she hops into a cab.
Deep down I know she won’t. But at the time, I decide to believe her anyway. She’s that hot.
**
