He agreed this would be a fair exchange. An unpleasant week after, I manufactured an imaginary boyfriend to rescue me. That was the end to my sexual exploration for the next two years. His hands move to her back, at first a gentle rub that no jealous lover could have protested, had one been there to see it. Fingers slide along the curve of scapula and spine, rise to caress her neck and rub tense shoulders, and butterfly-dance along stretches of bare skin.
Palms press heavy against knots of tension, slow circlings.
Fingers rise again to slide through her heavy weight of hair and rest against her scalp. She laughs too, shivers racing through her, muscles clenched. The conversation swirls around them. We had absolutely nothing in common, but those sparks so conspicuously absent two years before were flaring high. Fucking in private and semi-public, on soft beds and concrete floors, to the dismay of roommates and the abandonment of dignity.