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When you’re 18 years old, things you’ve done since you were 12 have lost their meaning. The routines tick along, safe and unexceptional, until you stop for a moment and ask yourself what’s really happening.
I don’t remember what movie we were watching the night after my twelfth birthday, but I do remember the chill in the basement and the sharp scent of dog piss. Maxey slunk away from my sleeping bag, which sat in the closet and served as the old dog’s nest.
Dad took the dog and the piss-drenched bag upstairs. “Why don’t you girls open Miranda’s sleeping bag and use it as a blanket?” he said.
We tried, lying on the fold-out couch with the slippery make-do blanket pulled to our chins. It didn’t work. It wasn’t wide enough to cover both of us, and the cold seeped through my PJs, and I could tell by Miranda’s shivering that she wasn’t any better off.
“We should zip it back up and both get in,” I said. The cold was starting to make me hurt.
“Can we fit?” Miranda asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Neither of us thought to worry about the physical intimacy required of two people, even two scrawny middle schoolers, trying to fit into the same sleeping bag. There was nothing left between us to feel awkward about. What didn’t I know about Miranda, or she about me? We had seen each other pee, poop, cry, bleed. We had twisted each other’s nipples after some boy explained what purple nurples were, just to see why everyone wanted to give them to each other. I had shown Miranda my first pubic hairs, and she had been jealous because she didn’t have any yet, and we had tried unsuccessfully to figure out why anyone would go to the trouble of shaving them off.
Nothing we did felt particularly sexual to me. It was Miranda. Did her fingers on my nipples feel kind of nice? Yeah, I guess. But that was just my body feeling nice. It felt the same way when I touched them. My hand or hers—there wasn’t much difference.
On the night after my eighteenth birthday, we didn’t need to debate whether to use a single sleeping bag. We zipped in, both lying on our sides, my body fitting against hers as well as always. The bag quickly became toasty. She wrapped her arms around my waist, and I rested my hands on top of hers. Her face nestled into the nook where my neck sloped toward my shoulder.
Then her leg crept between mine, and I felt the same jolt I had every time for six years. I squeezed my thighs together and pushed my ass back into her, bringing the intruding limb flush against my pussy. By moving my hips forward, I could drag myself toward her knee, my underwear doing nothing to decrease the friction. I knew from experience that my labia would swell and turn bright red. Her mons slid over my cheeks, giving her the perfect angle to grind her clit into my ass when I rocked back.
We started in silence, as we always did, moving with pace and deliberation, trading pleasure with each thrust of our hips. Her arms tightened around me, giving her more leverage. I linked my hands under her thigh, pulling up to increase the pressure between my legs. Our clothes were soon soaked with sweat, especially Miranda’s. She wore jeans, because denim was my favorite fabric to rub against.
Our quiet yielded to increasingly heavy breaths. Miranda panted, hot against the back of my neck. Finally, with coordination born of long practice, we peaked, legs and arms and pussies crushed together. I shook, like I always did. Miranda kept still but needed to press her mouth into my hair to muffle her yelps.
Once our bodies were under control, Miranda pulled her leg back and loosened her grip without taking her arms from around me. We almost never talked after the sleeping bag, which is how we referred to the act. We just fell asleep.
By the standards of 18-year-old girls in conservative Oklahoma, Miranda and I knew a decent amount about sex. We knew what orgasms were, and we both masturbated. Miranda had a handful of ex-boyfriends. She had given blowjobs to the last two, and started doing anal with the most recent one before she lost interest in him. I hadn’t dated, but I had watched enough porn to figure out, more or less, the mechanics. I found myself drawn to the sweeter videos, like the ones where two women got turned on as they gave each other massages.
Now, people who haven’t been paying attention will say that I was obviously a lesbian and, if the porn hadn’t tipped me off, the fact that I fucked my best dikmen escort friend’s leg on a regular basis should have. On the contrary, I thought of myself as a normal, straight high school girl, just like all Oklahoma girls are. I was physically close with my best friend, but that was nothing unusual. The sleeping bag was simply another thing we did, something we had been doing for years, the thing that happened when one of us was sleeping over and we were drifting off watching a movie. It never crossed my mind to think of it as sex, nor to think of our peaks as orgasms. It was just me and Miranda.
The change came on a scorching spring day when I got my rejection letter from the University of Oklahoma. Miranda, who had already been accepted and offered a scholarship, was set on attending. It seemed obvious that I would follow her. But sitting at the plastic table in my blue linoleum kitchen, clutching the letter in one hand and the torn envelop in the other, I learned that being with Miranda was no longer an option. My only acceptance was Oklahoma State, a school she hadn’t bothered applying to. I would be in Stillwater and she would be in Norman, and there would be 80 miles between us.
She started crying before I did, but soon we were clutching each other and weeping together. I felt a completely unfamiliar kind of pain. It was like my lungs were shrinking, like a fishhook had lodged in one of my ribs and I was being yanked forward on an invisible line.
All I wanted in that moment was for her to kiss me and never stop. That’s when I knew.
I dragged her upstairs to my room, where we flopped on the bed. I was on the right side and she the left. Like always.
I imagined looking down from the ceiling at the pair of us lying on our backs, sweating through our clothes, hair mussed, faces ugly with tears. Then I removed Miranda from the picture, leaving myself crying alone, and thought, I can’t handle four years of that.
It was April, so we still had almost two months of school, plus the summer, before we were split. In my sniffling, semi-functional state, though, I became convinced this was my one chance to tell Miranda I loved her, as if my epiphany had a harsh expiry date. If I didn’t roll over and say something right now, I’d become the girl crying on her bed all alone. The only way to prevent that fate was to roll over, right now, and tell Miranda that I wanted her to be my girlfriend, not in the way straight Oklahoma girls had girlfriends who painted each other’s nails and gossiped about boys, but in the steamy, passionate big-city lesbian way where you came home from a day at work and kissed with tongues and ate dinner and then bent her over the kitchen counter because you needed her too urgently to make it to the bedroom.
The second I pictured myself bending Miranda over—to this day, one of the most vividly erotic moments of my life—our nights in the sleeping bag snapped into focus. We were already lovers, had been lovers for years. To the world, and even to ourselves, we were best friends, closer than most but well within the realm of the ordinary. In the sleeping bag, however, we took care of needs that best friends leave for others. We learned each other’s bodies. We discovered the joy of each other’s pleasure. I truly can’t explain why it took six years for one of us to see the ritual for what it was, except to point out that humans have a great talent for ignoring the implications of their actions.
In the time it took to roll toward my best friend and prop myself on my elbows so my head was nearly over hers, my brittle confidence crumbled. What if things weren’t as obvious to her as they were to me? Could I bear it if her expression turned to disgust and she told me never to call her again?
She looked innocently up into my eyes. I fumbled with words, feeling like an idiot, until I had to wipe my nose to stop some snot dripping onto her. I pulled a sheepish face that made her laugh. That gave me the courage to start talking.
“Miranda?” I said.
“I’ve been thinking. About the sleeping bag. And other stuff. I was wondering, if I asked you a weird question, would you promise not to hate me?”
“Of course,” she said.
I repositioned myself so I was lying on my side next to her. If she turned toward me, we could easily reach out and brush lips. My free hand felt across her belly for her hand. I found it and held tight. elvankent escort
“What would you do if I kissed you?” I asked.
“Kiss you back, goose,” she replied lightly.
“Not like a friend kiss,” I said, dreading the sight of her smile draining away. “Like a—people who are dating kiss.”
The smile did fade, but only to an expression of honest thought. That was one of the things I admired about Miranda. She didn’t answer questions until she had found exactly the right words.
As it happens, she needed none. She turned her head and our lips touched.
Technically, we had pecked each other on the lips before. This would forever be our first kiss.
A small part of me, the irritating part that stands back and comments on everything I do, was elated to find Miranda awkward and unsure as the kiss deepened. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. One would hover on my forearm, then flutter back. It would sneak toward my breast, but veer away at the last second to rub my side.
I, meanwhile, had banks of videographic knowledge about lesbian foreplay. It felt easy and right to take the lead. I sat up on my knees, gently pushing down her shoulder to keep her from following. One leg swung between hers so our bodies nearly overlapped, and I felt her very faintly start rocking her hips. By this point it was probably a conditioned response.
The feel of her lips had suffused me with a reckless certainty, a faith that nothing could happen today to sour our bond. Trying not to think about what I was doing, I took each of her hands, interlocked fingers, and pressed them into the bed above her head. Her breath caught as she realized she was pinned under me. The grinding on my leg intensified.
Very softly, I said, “You’re mine.” Miranda’s reply was a small, wide-eyed nod that nearly brought my tears back. “And I’m yours,” I told her.
She was less tentative now, her body starting to buck in time with her hips. When she rose, our chests and stomachs met. Even through layers of fabric, the sensation was divine.
I released her arms. With building confidence, she wrapped them around my neck and pulled me down until my entire weight rested on her.
Then I felt her touch the bare skin between my shirt and shorts. Slender fingers slowly explored my lower back, sometimes dipping under my waistband to trace the top of my underwear, making me shiver.
She changed direction, scraping my skin ever so softly as she lifted the hem of my shirt. Traveling higher, revealing more of my back, she eventually arrived the bottom of my bra. I wondered if she would unhook it, and wondered, if she did, whether the terror or the lust in me would win out. Being nude in her presence, which used to be completely unremarkable, might overload my system.
Miranda turned me over and suddenly I was on my back with my best friend straddling me, tugging my shirt. The message couldn’t be clearer. I complied, raising my arms above my head so she could slip it off. Before she could pay much attention to my chest—an activity I would not want to interrupt—I pulled her shirt up, too. She took it off with a shy smile.
Our hips had been moving the whole time. I found that, on my back, I could spread my legs a little and bring my clit into contact with hers, through our shorts and undies, as she angled herself down into my crotch. The roiling sensation of my orgasm began building, and I could see by Miranda’s flush that she was getting close too.
Then the sly little rat swept the hair away from my neck and ran the tip of her tongue from my collarbone to the sensitive skin behind my ear. I had been planning to do that!
I moaned. It’s hard to describe the charge her tongue sent rushing through my body. I didn’t come on the spot, but it was a close thing.
Her mouth moved down to my ear lobe, which she teased with her teeth. Wildly, I grabbed her ass and made her grind even faster.
We peaked together, as usual. But unlike ever before we were face-to-face, skin-to-skin, lips smashed together. I could sense in her the same furious, billowing ecstasy that was carrying me to my crest, slipping me over till I was swirling, weightless, powerless, pressed against the woman I had given myself to.
Then I started shaking, she yelped, and it was over and we were both gasping and she collapsed on top of me like all her limbs had turned to noodles.
“You emek escort always figure things out before I do,” Miranda said. She was lying with one arm and one leg thrown over me. I hadn’t moved, although I was beginning to regret it. The huge sweat stain on my sheets felt icky.
Something needed to be made clear, even if it was a bit of a formality at this point. “So, I mean, you definitely feel—”
“Like I’ve been in love with you since I met you and only just realized it?”
It was nothing new to hear Miranda complete my sentences. The bliss these words left behind, though, was surreal. Ever since her first boyfriend, I’d thought of Miranda as much more desirable than I. That left a residue not easily wiped away, even by the events of the last half-hour. But she just told me she loved me, she loved me.
“Yeah, basically,” I said.
“I definitely feel like that.”
I wondered how this would change us. Certainly the college issue was even more of a cataclysm now. However, the coming four months, which were full of days, each of which could be spent with Miranda, felt like a gift from heaven.
Ten minutes later I stood my best friend up and pushed her against a wall. I kissed her hard, then told her not to move or make a sound. She nodded.
Sinking to my knees, I hooked my fingers on the elastic of her shorts. We never broke eye contact. I remembered how unspeakably hot that was in my lesbian porn.
When I saw anticipation, not anxiety or refusal, I started the shorts on their slow descent. She was wearing laundry-day cotton underwear, but the sight of her in bra and panties, up against the wall, eyes imploring, was still enough to give me goosebumps.
I tapped her legs apart, though not to the point of vulnerability. When they were shoulder-width, I hunched almost to the ground and licked her ankle.
My tongue traveled the length of her leg. The reactions it elicited were beautiful. I felt her tremble, and then clench her muscles to stop the trembling. Once I passed her knee, she subtly bowed her legs, making a little more room for a head to fit in front of her pussy.
It was pure delight to lick the top of her inner thigh. She rose onto her tip-toes, making little peeps with every exhalation. Then my cheek met her underwear, which I was thrilled to find soaked.
Finally I was there. I was on my knees in front of Miranda, our eyes locked together, my open mouth pressed over her pussy with nothing but a layer of cotton fabric between. I bathed in her expression, equal parts helplessness and desperation. Then I gave her a long stroke of tongue, concluding by wiggling the tip into her clit. She screamed.
I wiggled it again, a little lower, parting her outer lips. For control, I cupped her ass with both hands. She grabbed fistfuls of my hair.
Miranda was reduced to long, low moans as I worked my tongue harder. I felt her inching down the wall, bending her knees and spreading her legs farther apart. Soon she fell into the breath pattern I was so familiar with, the one that meant her climax was close. I started pistoning with my tongue, using my lower jaw to lend speed and strength, hoping her sensitive clit was taking just a little bit more stimulation than she thought she could bear.
The fists in my hair yanked. She had slipped farther down the wall until only her upper back was making contact. The rest of her body was thrusting in counter-rhythm to the tugging of my head, and I yielded to it, letting her mash my eyes, nose, and mouth into her panties. My tongue wasn’t the object of pleasure anymore. She was getting off on my face.
After a final, long thrust, which she held for five seconds—it felt longer to the one who happened to be on her knees getting suffocated by pussy—she let my hair go and nearly crashed to the floor.
“Come hold me,” she said. “I don’t think I can move.”
In a way, I feel guilty. I recognize how lucky I was to find out I was gay with barely any suffering. Even luckier, the girl I fell for loved me as much as I loved her. The more I learn, the more I wish every gay man and woman could blossom as happily and painlessly.
Which isn’t to say that Miranda and I escaped all the tough questions. Do we tell our parents? When, and how? Do we come out publicly? How can we order a strap-on online without getting into trouble? And most pressing in our minds, what happens when college starts?
I see something now, though, I didn’t see then: a certainty that, when it comes to Miranda, things will work out. Even by age 18, that conviction had been part of me for so long it was less a belief than simply the way our world worked. Her future or mine—there has never been much difference.
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