I allowed him that dignity, and pretended not to notice when I found the sweatshirt in the trash a few hours later.
May
A noise filled the bedroom, rending the night and pounding my eardrums. A great sawing, a loudness of indeterminate origin dragged me from my dreams of Clooney. I was sweltering, with a very warm body wrapped around me from the back and horrible noises pouring forth from his mouth, directly into my brain. I grappled for a cool spot on my pillow, his heat billowing toward me in waves as the snoring—oh my sweet Lord, the snoring—rattled my insides.
Even Clive had retreated to a safe perch on top of the dresser.
In a completely shit move reminiscent of schoolyard playgrounds, I drew back my legs and kicked the mass of sweaty, snoring boy that was filling my bed and ruining my sleep.
“Oof!” He woke with a start, inadvertently pressing more of his hot skin against mine. I peeled myself off the bed to stand over him, brandishing my pillow, which no longer contained even an ounce of coolness.
“Babe, what’re you doing? Did you kick me?” He curled back in on himself like a roly-poly.
“You have to stop!” I yelled.
“Stop? Stop what? Come on . . . come back to bed,” he mumbled, already slipping back into his dreams, where he seemed to be a lumberjack.
“Don’t you dare go back to sleep! No! More! Snoring!” I yelled, wild inside and out now. Being deprived of my sacred sleep turned me into a woman possessed.
“Snoring? Come on, it can’t be that bad—what the hell!”
I’d snatched his pillow away, dropping his head to the mattress.
“If I can’t sleep, no one will sleep! You are loud, and you are hot!” I shrieked.
“Well, the hot we knew, right?”
“Aaarrgghh!”
“Wait, are you PMS-ing?” he asked, almost immediately looking fearful as he realized his mistake.
Simon finished the night across the hall in his own apartment. I needed my sleep.
July
“Goddamn, Caroline, that was amazing.”
“Yes, yes it was,” I purred, stretching my legs around him, clutching him closer to me, feeling him still inside me. His breathing synched with mine, relaxing into me as I scratched at his scalp and made little patterns on his back with my fingertips. After a few minutes he raised up on one elbow, and I smoothed his hair back.
“You didn’t come, did you?”
“No, sweetie, but it was fantastic anyway.”
“Let me make it up to you,” he insisted, moving his hand in between us, surprised when I stopped him. “Babe?”
“It’s not always about that. It can still be amazing, you know? Some nights, being here, being close with you, is all I need,” I said, bringing him down for another kiss, slow and sweet. “I love you so much,” I whispered in his ear, his answering grin making my heart swell.
After the Great Orgasm Hiatus, which in my head is how it was officially known across the land, was she always there for me? Of course not, not every time. But mostly she was there, and mostly she was there for multiple Os, and sometimes she brought G with her. Those were the nights I damn near passed out.
But while I loved the countertop sex, and the shower sex, and the kitchen floor sex, and the stairway sex—well, one night of stairway sex—the quiet sex was still my favorite. When it was Simon on top of me, letting me feel his good weight and his good love pressing down on me, inside me, all around me. And if on occasion the O stayed away, it was okay.
I knew she would always return.
Simon shuffled back toward the bed, bringing a bottle of water with him, Clive close at his heels. Clive wisely stayed away during the relations; he’d attacked once and was almost punted. So now he took cover away from the action. Simon getting water was the signal that he could come back in to snuggle.
As Simon passed me the bottle, I turned on the news to check the weather for the next day to see if I’d need an umbrella. Each on our own side, with Clive in between us, we watched the forecast. Our hands were clasped on the pillow in between.
Pretty fucking great.
? ? ?
August
“Go ahead, I know you’re dying to say it.”
“I don’t think I have to, Caroline. Your moaning is saying it all.”
“No, no, I know you want to. Go ahead.”
“Fine. I told you so.”
“Feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now shut up and let me get back to my noodles.”
Simon laughed as I slurped up my pho, a delicious Vietnamese noodle soup. For years, I thought I didn’t like Vietnamese food. I suppose eating it in Vietnam made all the difference.
Once again, being Simon’s girlfriend had proved to be a windfall. He’d invited me along on a trip in Southeast Asia: Laos, Cambodia, and ending in Vietnam. I couldn’t join him for the entire journey, but I was able to meet him in Hanoi and spend a week with him as he photographed for National Geographic. We toured cities and villages, sandy beaches and quiet mountaintops. We ate amazing food every day, and loved our way through every night.
Our current state of amazing found us floating in Ha Long Bay, eating a wonderful meal that had been cooked on the houseboat we were staying on. I gazed at the tiny islands, which broke the surface of the water like the backs of dragons swooping up from underneath. The sun was setting, and to cool off from the sweltering heat, Simon had taken a dive off the back of the boat. Water trickled off his skin, his cargo shorts stuck to his legs, and his shirtless torso made my mouth water even more than the pho, so life was good.
Of all the trips I’d taken with him—the quick weekend getaways or the weeklong journeys to exotic places—this was the one that had taken me truly outside myself. Vietnam was magical, intoxicating, and magnificent. I already wanted to come back. I wanted him to bring me back.
I continued to slurp my noodles while he popped open a Tiger beer, and we grinned at each other. Our months together had created a shorthand where no words were necessary. As I turned to watch the sunset, he pulled me back into his lap. We were warm and sticky, salty from the water and our sweat. I had lived in my green bikini top and sarong for almost two days now, and his hands spanned my hips, thumbs dipping just under the fabric.
“It’s good, right?” he asked.
“It’s so good.” I watched the sun dive into the bay, then I turned back to kiss him, feeling the butterflies that had never gone away. I hope they never do.
September
“Hey.”
“Hey, you.”
“You awake?”
“Not really. Wait, what’re you doing here?”
“I caught an earlier flight back. I missed you.”
“Mmm, I missed you too.”
“My, my, Caroline. What are you wearing . . . or not?”
“It’s too hot for clothes.”
“That’s a very good thing,” he whispered.
Lying behind me, his warmth felt welcome in spite of the heat. Hands moved across my ribs toward my hips, angling me backward as I moaned at the feel of him, my body always ready to respond to his hands on my skin. He stopped momentarily to join me in my nakedness, and I arched into him when I felt him again, anxious and ready to love me.
He stroked my breasts, his movements deliberate and teasing. He knew the instant reaction he’d receive. Nudging between my thighs, he brought one of my legs over his, opening me to him.
“Yes?” he asked, his breath warm in my ear.
“Yes.” I nodded, reaching behind me and tangling my fingers in his hair. With a groan, he thrust inside me. I sighed as I felt him, insistent and tangible, where he belonged.