I'd met Adrianna online, through mutual friends at a social networking site. At the time, she was off-limits and although her pictures absolutely floored me (I was convinced she must be a professional model), her tumultuous heterosexual relationship that had lasted for over a year and that was clearly damaging her deeply was my main concern. I wanted to be there as a friend. The idea that she, this gorgeous, talented, brilliant soul, could possibly be interested in me wasn't something I permitted myself to consider, not for a moment.
We became closer and closer, like two fourteen year old girls who call and text one another constantly and chat excitedly for hours. By that time, she had ended (and then resumed and ended again) her relationship with her boyfriend and as two bisexual girls, our conversations naturally became more and more flirtatious and then overtly sexual. At the time, I still didn't believe she could ever be seriously interested in me but as I laid on the bathroom floor, my finger furiously circling my clit until I began to black out from the intensity of the orgasm, it was her face between my legs that I pictured every time. And I allowed myself to hope, but it was a forlorn hope, the kind of hope where I run into Angelina Jolie and we fall in love and save the world while making love in between.
By the time Adrianna had decided to ride a plane across the country, though, we had already declared our love for one another multiple times, and the absurdity of this possible long-distance relationship never occurred to me: our quiet breaths over the phone inhaled and exhaled need; our mutually-dripping and throbbing cunts ached with need; our hearts flew as far as possible over telephone lines trying to fulfill that need. Girls in love do not consider whether it is practical to satisfy this love-struck ache for touch, this impossible wish to merely be together. Girls in love just feel the ache and know they will continue to ache unless they can dream away reality and barriers and expectations for just a moment, basking in the sunlight of love lit from within.
Which might be why we only lasted a moment. Which might be why that moment, for me, will last a lifetime.
When I saw her nervously walking toward the luggage area, smoothing down her dress and twirling her blonde hair, I immediately thought: I don't deserve this. I am not good enough for this. My first impulse was to turn away and run. How do you 'meet' someone after you've already permitted to excavate the deepest tunnels of your heart? How do you make the promise of fantasy seem insignificant when compared to the anxious oft-dreamed reality?
It was uncomfortable small talk until Adrianna laid down in my lap in the cab, her liquid brown eyes meeting mine and not looking away. She had the kind of eyes that evaluate and appreciate and captivate and reveal secrets unspoken. The kind of eyes you want to study until you can understand the complexities carried there. She didn't permit me to study them for very long, leaning up to kiss me-an impulse I'd had ever since she walked into my vision as a real person instead of text on a screen or a voice on the phone but I didn't want to rush her.
It was a soft kiss, our lips meeting gently and barely moving against once another. Another soft kiss. Another. Murmurs and purrs of appreciation as we kissed this way in the back of the cab as it made its way to my apartment. I stroked her face, her hair. It had been so long since I'd been with another girl that I'd forgotten the softness, the lack of aggression, the sweet strawberry-glossed connection of two heart-shaped mouths trembling for more.
When we arrived at my apartment, we resumed kissing and made love, the first time we'd make love many times that weekend. The most memorable time (for me) was when she had her first g-spot orgasm and female ejaculation. Since she had never had an orgasm with another person before, I masturbated her clit to the point where her legs were shaking violently and she was on the verge of coming, but her mind wouldn't permit her body to lose control and she told me to stop. So I decided to try another way. I asked if she had to pee (she said no) so she wouldn't mistake the ejaculate for urine. I explained the g-spot and female ejaculation and what it feels like but not to expect it since some women don't experience it and asked if I could put my fingers inside of her. She nodded excitedly.
Once I slipped my fingers inside of her, I was surprised not to feel a prominent swelling, given her slick wetness, and couldn't locate her g-spot at first. So I pulsated and softly rubbed two fingers around various areas of her vagina until she moaned, 'oh right there-it feels so good right there.' As her hips moved against me with each stroke, I felt something amazing: her g-spot literally began to grow in size, like a balloon filled with water. By the time she was whimpering and murmuring 'oh fuck yes ... oh fuck that feels so good,' it was so large I couldn't believe what I was feeling.
Her face contorted slightly and she took a sharp breath inward as her cunt closed around my fingers and a small stream of liquid squirted over my fingertips. She was half-caught between the peak of sexual arousal and the mental fear of letting go like that, not knowing what it would feel like if she did surrender.
As my two fingers continued to rub and stroke that spot in rhythm, I whispered, 'it's OK baby, just let it all out. I know how much you need to let it all out. I know you want to feel soooo good. Just let go and let it out.' As she whimpered again, I kissed her on the mouth and felt her deep and prolonged moan throughout my lungs as her cunt tightened and loosened over and over again and fluid gushed over my fingers, my hand, forming a pool between her legs.
She had moved her head away, so she was no longer moaning against my mouth but staring deep into my eyes as she moaned incomprehensible sounds; her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, occasionally closing to whimper 'oh my god ... yes ... oh fuck ... oh fuck, fuck, fuck, don't stop, please don't stop.' The prominent, balloon-like quality of that area was not like any other girl I'd been with and I marveled at how easy it was to 'read' her arousal through it-then, after one last burst of fluid, I literally felt her g-spot deflate and her legs begin to tremble as she gently grabbed my wrist with her hand and sighed, 'too much ... too much ...'
I withdrew my fingers, licking the dripping wet ejaculate from them, and kissed her. She held onto my face and kissed me back: intensely, passionately, hungrily, before drawing away and saying, 'thank you,' with tears running down her cheeks. She asked me to hold her and I did-I put my arms around her spent, vulnerable body, stroking my arm softly, while she laid her head down on my collarbone and kissed my neck.
'I'm not crying because I'm sad,' she explained, 'it's just -'
'I know, baby. I know.' And I did know. 'A lot of girls find their first g-spot orgasm to be really intense, really memorable. It's OK. It's more than OK. It's beautiful.'
Adrianna wanted to sniff the sheets to make sure she hadn't peed, still unable to believe how much liquid had flowed from inside of her, and that's when we both noticed that the pattern in which she had soaked through the sheets and the comforter was shaped like a heart.
We both squealed, simultaneously, at this incredibly finding, this physical proof of out love. I took a photo because I wanted to remember this moment forever. Because I felt like everything was too perfect. I felt as though the moment she returned to her real life, that heart would be the only piece of her I had left.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it turned out that I was right. I have a photograph, sheets that mean far more to me than they should, and memories. She has my heart. Still.