We Did It

OMG, we’re totally gonna do it.

            That’s the thought going through my head as I stand in Chandler’s bathroom after my shower, staring at myself in the mirror, clad in her pajamas. It is super juvenile.

Though they say queer people sometimes go through a second puberty, so maybe this is an appropriate reaction. I don’t know. What I do know is that I was just naked and wet in the same place where my crush is naked and wet every day. What I do know is the white tank I’m wearing is worn so thin I can see my nipples popping out. What I do know is the look she gave me not fifteen minutes ago, right after we finished the last task on our to-do list, was pure, unadulterated let’s fuck.

Unlike me, Chandler has “done it” with women. And at least in my head, they’re all prettier than I am. Way more experienced, too. By which I mean I imagine they’ve all had more than a few fumbling kisses with girls back in college. But didn’t everyone do that? Otherwise, the extent of my sexual expertise has been a series of lustful gazes I struggled to keep hidden as I figured myself out. Which isn’t easy when you’re in your early thirties and still shaking off the early aughts, when smooching other women was okay for attention in bars (ideally with visible tongue) but otherwise not, unless you were ready to rent a U-Haul and swear off men forever, which I wasn’t.

Though after what just happened, maybe I should rethink that.

Breathe. In. Out. Focus on what’s around you, Shay.

I wash my hands once more and the heat of the water stings slightly but grounds me. I breathe in expensive lavender soap, the hand version of the shower gel I just used. “Lavender is calming,” Chandler said earlier tonight, lighting a candle in preparation. I touch my nose to the soft material of Chandler’s white tank: lavender detergent. Even her towels are lavender-colored. Maybe when I step out of this room and into a new world of queer sex with the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, I’ll finally blossom, too.

Outside the door, I hear evidence of Chandler’s sex prep. Chappell Roan emanates from the speakers: “Casual,” my favorite, which I’d put on the jukebox the night we ran into each other. So sweet and sad but lusty too, an effortless journey through angsty notes. The music floods my body, heat rises into my bare face, and I realize the crotch of my borrowed pajama pants is wet.

This is all so…sudden.

I’ve never been alone with Chandler, and I know we don’t have to do anything. “Enthusiastic consent is important,” she told me, her hand soft on my forearm and her brown eyes meeting my blue. “You’re safe with me.” But still, we hardly know each other. We’re not even friends yet, just mutual acquaintances through one of those weird networks you become a part of when you move to the city, college friends and former lovers and ex and current bandmates all making up one big millennial blob just trying to figure it all out. Yes, we’ve locked eyes across sticky bars, downing sickly sweet cocktails at this or that person’s gig. Is that enough for my body to pulse with desire as I stand here in her pajama pants, sniffing her soap?

What exactly am I doing here?

And why am I fantasizing about Chandler using the fireplace poker on me a whole different way than she did just before?

“Shay?” Chandler’s voice cuts through the bisexual chaos in my head. “Are you okay in there?”

Swallowing my fear, I check my fingernails one last time (thank you, queer Instagram, for reminding me to file them down). I nod to the empty air and push open the bathroom door.

Read We Did It here.