I couldn't believe what I was doing ... or could I? I was 24, a recent Arts graduate with a wonderful, loving boyfriend whom I also loved (I think), and yet I was walking through the lobby of a hotel to meet an old boyfriend, one I had never gone all the way with and still had a mutual crush on. My ex and I had messaged, flirted, talked about our respective sex lives, with increasingly more detail, until we agreed to meet, with 'no expectations' apart from catching up.
I suspect we both knew we were being naive, or coy, and that something might happen. That we both *wanted* something to happen. Ever since we broke up after school without consummating our intense young puppy love, we'd stayed in touch. I certainly had thought many times about what it would have been like with you, and had used a toy to supplement that thought more than once. You had told me you had thought about it too, over the phone, until I had become engaged.
And yet here I was, walking to knock on your hotel room door, wearing a simple pale blue summer frock, with a modest cleavage and hem at my calves, on the outside, but underneath wearing my favorite matching deep burgundy bra and knickers set that contrasted against my smooth, very light olive skin. They were my date underwear if I truly fancied a boy, and as often as not ended up on someone's floor (or pulled aside in a dark corner on one or two occasions). I do not wear heels particularly well, and finished the outfit with some low heeled vintage shoes to keep it simple and unfiddly.
Room 2013, you had last texted, ready to meet and greet me after nearly three years since we'd last seen each other. I wonder if you had deliberately booked a room high up, knowing I like the giddiness of heights, or you had plans for the balcony, too high up to be truly made out. I was in the elevator, stomach full of butterflies, a light inquisitive tingle slightly further below. I had freshly shaved my legs and keep my downstairs neatly trimmed most of the year round with a regular appointment at my favorite salon. I felt nervous, feminine, desirous, and ready to run or pounce, I wasn't sure which!
2013. I stood at the door, waiting a moment, before knocking. Nothing will happen that you don't want to, I whispered to myself. But if you have a good feeling, go with it.
You answered and there you were, collarless long sleeve with designer jeans, no shoes, not too tall at just under six feet. Still handsome, freshly shaved by the looks (good boy), and I could smell a pleasing, woody masculine cologne. Short, thick curly hair, lovely green eyes, warm smile. You looked like you were happy to see me. You told me to come in and, after closing the door, we embraced wordlessly for a moment. Nothing sexual, just old friends, and I loved the feeling of being in your arms again. I nestled in a little more and could tell that you had been working out in the years since we'd last seen each other. Your biceps hugged my ribs as you easily encircled me and I felt a strong, manly back with my own hands. I may even have let out a tiny, tiny sigh. It felt good.
We both had goofy grins on our faces and I think we both didn't quite know how to handle the situation at first. "Do you want to crack the minibar?" you asked me, and I said God yes. A serve of vodka and soda for me, the little bottle of Jack Daniels neat for you. There was a couch in the room, but you hauled yourself into the kind sized bed and sat up among the many large pillows. I put my vodka down and undid my shoes. I could have sworn I saw you taking a quick peek at my cleavage as I bent over slightly to take them off, and that tingle returned. There is nothing wrong with a subtle look. I climbed into the bed next to you, picked up my vodka, and clinked glasses. It felt safe and right to be next to you, natural.
We talked as nothing more than old friends for at least half an hour, several drinks in, catching up. Nothing sexual had been proposed or suggested yet, although we touched each other with familiarity, as exes left alone can do. I complimented your new arms and you flexed them for me, playing it up, while I Wrapped my small hands around a bicep and proclaimed them the biggest I'd ever seen. I felt good being silly and girlish again in your presence.
At one point, I lay my head on your chest, perhaps faking exhaustion, or signalling to him that I was ok with going further which I had suddenly realised), and he laughed nervously and said "Does this feel funny to you? I love you being here and I'm having a great time, but this does feel a little wierd: not awkward, just weird."
