The First Lady
She had been my best friend since college. We were roommates for four years and had shared all the joys, pains, successes and failures of life since the day we met. Next to my husband, I was more comfortable with her than with anyone else. She was beautiful, smart and popular; everything I had always wanted to be, but wasn’t. She was a brunette with brown eyes that were deeply penetrating so as to be erotic without even trying. She was slender and firm with beautiful hands and perfect teeth. She was the total package. I had always felt that I rode into the “in crowd” on her coattails, but she never looked at it that way. She always treated me as a person of value and I loved her for that.
She came from out of town to support me when my mother died, and now that her mother was near death, it was my turn to be there for her. Her fiancée was in Paris on business and her dad was distant, having divorced her mom only six years earlier. I provided her with a shoulder to cry on, a ready ear and an open heart. She provided me with the most amazing and unexpected gift of my life.
We were exhausted after a long afternoon at the hospice center. Starving, but too tired to cook, we stopped for Chinese take-out on the way home.
I’m not sure how it began. It seemed natural; as if somehow our romance had been predetermined, like fate.
She had opened a bottle of Merlot and reached up beside me to retrieve the wine glasses from her cupboard. Her breasts were at my eye level and very close. We laughed, more nervously than we should have for such an innocent occurrence.
Two glasses of wine later, the closeness of her breasts to my lips was still there with us. The closeness, the smell of her and the look on her face had been intoxicating. I’m not a lesbian, nor is she, but somehow, in all the joy and pain we were sharing, we needed to explore new ways of expressing out friendship and love.
I gazed across the dining table and watched her in the candlelight as she seductively slid the last of the lo-mein noodles between her slick lips. I felt flushed and uneasy. I wanted to blame it on the wine, but I’d been drunk before, and it didn’t feel like this.
I stood to clear the table. “Another bottle?” I asked, reaching for the empty wine bottle.
She clasped her hand around my wrist gently.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate your being here with me,” she whispered.
“I do know,” I whispered back. We had never spoken in such hushed tones before. It was almost as if we knew we were entering forbidden territory and somehow felt ashamed or unsure.
I wrapped my arms around her, cradling her head in a reassuring embrace, dying inside to see how she would respond.
She repositioned her head into my bosom, inhaling deeply. I thought her inhalation was her way of holding her tears in, but as she looked up at me with dry eyes, I knew at once that this was something more.
“You smell good. Familiar. I like it, “ she said, continuing to whisper.
“What are we doing?” I asked, almost terrified of what her response would be, and not knowing what I wanted it to be.
She seemed to ignore the question.
“Up until now we have shared almost everything. There’s so little left to share, except…” her words trailed off.
“Except this,” I completed her sentence, and, I felt, I completed her. We completed each other.
I slid onto my knees and parted my lips across hers. It wasn’t a tangled web of lips and tongues. It was a still, gentle pressing of my lips onto hers, nothing more.
Our eyes were open in disbelief, bewilderment and amazement, each trying desperately to analyze the other’s thoughts. Then I took the bolder step of surrendering the anxiety and closing my eyes. She accepted this gesture, and in doing so, intensified her kiss, allowing her tongue to dart across my lips and meet mine.
I could taste the alcohol on her breath. It tasted good and reminded me of all the drunken nights my husband and I made crazy, reckless love. This had all the same elements of danger and passion. I felt as if I had no choice but to continue.
We stood up together, arms wrapped securely around each other’s waists.
“Are you okay with this?” she asked me.
“I’m okay,” I answered steadily, never averting my eyes, so as to avoid a mixed message.
I felt my hands fall into hers and she began to lead me to her room.
“Would this be okay with Michael?” she wondered aloud.
“He’d be aroused. He’ll wish he’d have been here to watch,” I smiled.
“He can,” she said, motioning to a camera on her dresser.
The idea intrigued and terrified me. None-the-less, I consented. All she had to do was push “record.” It was already set up.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought if I closed my eyes, it would all come naturally, but this was not a man, and I couldn’t help but wonder, at the height of my arousal, if I wouldn’t hunger for more, for a deep penetration that her tiny fingers couldn’t deliver. Then, in the manner of best friends, she read my thoughts and pulled a vibrator from her drawer. My anticipation was growing and, I was surprised to see, it felt the way I felt as I prepared to receive my husband.
She seemed so prepared.
“Have you done this before?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “No. Never.”
Then suddenly she began to seduce me. Her hands found my breasts first, but touched me so lightly that I found myself holding my breath in anticipation.
“Are you cold?” she asked as her fingertips pulled gently on my erect nipples.
“Just nervous,” I replied. As if to reassure me, she pulled me a bit closer.
Her fingers continued their game with my breasts and I joined her, returning the foreplay.
“You feel good. You’re so beautiful,” I observed as I moved to unbutton her blouse. My hands barely traced her shoulders to the tips, where her blouse gave way to gravity and floated to the floor.
She was beautiful. Her face radiated with the most contentment I’d seen there in days, and with a sense of confidence that appealed to me sexually.
“I want to take my pants off too,” she said.
“I’ll help you,” I offered, pulling at the drawstring waist just under her navel. Her pants fell to the floor revealing her nakedness. I was surprised.
“I stopped wearing underwear a couple of years ago. I feel sexier. Do you mind?”
“You are sexier. I’ll have to try it myself,” I responded.
“You’re sexy enough already,” she grinned. Then she did something completely unexpected. She backed away from me, picked up her vibrator and turned it on. But instead of using it on me, she placed it between her own thighs and traced her way up to her labia, which I could see was swelling. I could see a glimmer of wetness in the soft bedside light. I became aware, sometime later, that my mouth hung agape as I watched her. I felt totally helpless, spellbound. She sat herself on the floor and leaned up against the bed by this time, spreading her legs wide and pressing the humming vibrator deep between her clitoral folds. She would climax in much the same manner that I had so many times, using my own vibrator at home. I could suddenly understand why my husband enjoyed watching so much.
There is something enormously sexy about a woman’s shapely curves, flush with excitement, breasts heaving uncontrollably under the weight of her desire.
She tossed her head back as she came, throwing her hair across the down comforter behind her, and letting it cascade back down around her shoulders. Her brow was wet with sweat. Then she reached for me.
“It’s my turn to watch,” she said, handing me the vibrator.
“Help me. You do it for me.”
She began my unzipping my slacks and pulling them over my curvaceous hips. Then she touched me with her fingers in a gentle tapping motion, right over the opening of my pulsing sex. There was a rhythm to her touch, like drumming, softly at first, then building in intensity before easing up again. It was a tease. I slid off my own underwear and felt my own moisture instantly on the inside of my thighs.
She reached for her vibrator, still glistening with her own wetness at the tip. I held her hand in mine to stop her.
“Put your mouth on me,” I commanded.
I searched her face for uncertainty or reservation. I found none, and closed my eyes. She rose to her knees and found me, legs spread, genitals engorged. Her tongue was exquisite inside me. Only another woman could know how this feels. Only another woman could find the right spots without guidance. I moaned loudly without any degree of self-consciousness. She responded in kind and thrust her tongue deeper into me. I held her head in my hands, cradling her; encouraging her. Slowly I lowered myself to the floor. I never lost her. She remained with me, though now her tongue was flickering my clitoris. I couldn’t catch my breath.
“I need to be penetrated,” I almost begged her. She reached for her vibrator again, and this time, I did not stop her.
She slowly placed it inside me, gauging how far she could go by the sound of my gasps and the arch in my back as I rose to meet her.
She leaned over me, planting her lips firmly on mine. I could taste myself on her mouth. I was not repulsed or shy. I devoured her kisses and delighted in my own fragrance.
It took me only moments to reach orgasm, but the orgasm itself was full, long and satisfying. My nipples felt as if they could explode as I cusped my hands around them. She removed my left hand and placed her warm mouth around my nipple, then repeated this on the right. I shuddered once more under the weight of her.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I inhaled.
Her mom died the next day. There was a greater sense of peace about her than I expected. Perhaps it was our lovemaking that calmed her. Or the way we fell asleep in her bed the night before, wet with sweat and locked in one another’s arms.
As I got into my car to head home, she hugged me tightly and placed her full lips over mine once more. Then she handed me a small package. Inside was the videotape of our evening together. We each knew this was one occasion that was not likely to repeat itself. I would cherish this always as one of my memorable and private experiences.