We're not really sexy people. We're very average, but for me, that's what makes us wonderful, and real, and hot. Normal people in their very normal bodies feeling pleasure.
I'm about 5'6", pudgy, with big DD breasts, pink nipples, pale. Light brown hair, green eyes. I'm bi, a tomboy who never grew out of it, always in tees and flannels with a weakness for leggings. 24.
He's my old friend who recently picked up the other half of my lease and moved in. He's pretty much the same size as me, and same age. Strong in his arms and legs, a college athlete gone soft, with a tattoo on his shoulder. Pure dadbod with a soft tummy. He's Dominican, with brown eyes and black curly hair. When a curl falls down the center of his forehead I find it hard not to look.
I've always been one of the guys in my friendships with men, and his unquestioning acceptance of this behavior is part of why we're good friends. He calls me buddy, we drink beer and watch baseball together. Swap dick jokes.
But every once in a while I encounter him in a way that makes me feel much more like a woman.
He falls asleep on the couch with his arms thrown over his head. I peek at the black hair spreading across his soft abdomen away from his navel in swirls.
One time leaving a diner we're caught in the rain and run across the parking lot. Panting and wet, we tumble into his car. I can hear his hard breathing and I look hard out the window as he hesitates, pauses before he reaches for his keys. I leave whatever that pause was hanging in the warm wet air between us.
One evening he's cooking his dinner in the kitchen as I circulate through the apartment getting my shit together for tomorrow. Together we're riffing a rhyme about how much we hate Mondays.
It's my turn and I'm wracking my mind for a good rhyme.
He breaks in on my turn: "My Sunday is down the toilet cause l let Monday spoil it."
"That's a terrible fucking rhyme. That's not the same sound."
"It's not my fault you're so slow. Keep up dude."
I'm offended. "Oh fuck you!" I grab a towel off the dishwasher and throw it across the room at him, he catches it midair but bends over laughing at my flash of anger.
Something about his laughter and my peevishness wakes something wicked in me. I tease him all evening, but just enough to have plausible deniability. Then, when we're both moving in and out of the pantry, I let my chest graze his back as I slide past him. I don't see his face so I have no idea if he reacts. I'm not sure if I'm trying to invade his space in some show of dominance or just trying to make him uncomfortable.
After dinner, we're standing in the living room. He holds my little dog and rocks her in his arms. I walk over to scratch her head as he cradles her. He coos to the dog, "Oh, is mommy a bad rhymer? Does mommy suck at poetry?"
"Oh, shut up."
He sets the dog on the floor and she scurries off.
"You're sad to lose because you're a stupid moose." He mocks, grinning.
"Jesus Christ that's still not a rhyme." I go to smack his arm, he grabs my wrist. I push his shoulder and he grabs the other one. We're the same size and I'm not gonna be defeated that easily. I shove hard against his upper arms with mine and he lets himself fall backwards onto the couch, laughing. I lean over him with my hand on the wall behind him, and playfully shake my fist at him, ready to be fake-menacing. I see him stare at my breasts pushing against my t-shirt right in front of his face. Suddenly we're silent. We lock eyes. He doesn't move for a minute, neither do I. I lean a little away, chickening out, embarrassed that maybe I imagined the tension. But then I see it, his hardening cock bulging visibly against his sweatpants. He sees me see it. He looks at me again and neither of us move.
