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The rules were simple, simple and necessary. Neither of us wanted anything defined for reasons entirely our own and never fully shared with the other party.
It all came about because of a party, a lock in, and a refusal to abandon the festivities. Home? Those beds were too far away and there were still people to entertain, the company of friends to enjoy. Beds, well. The couples got the rooms. The rest of us crashed in various places around the house. A few claimed available floorspace in the office. Someone even slept in the tub. I’ve never understood that. You can’t reasonably get comfortable when bathing in a tub, and you expect to be able to sleep?
Point being, Tom and I ended up in the living room. He opted for the floor, with a few cushions to spare, while I took the sofa. Which worked for our drunk selves until we realized that we weren’t tired, and someone, in one of the beds somewhere, was having a very good end to their night. The thumping brought about giggles that led to hiccoughs that only subsided with a dash to the kitchen where I swear he stuck his head under the sink rather than bother with a glass.
Men.
By the time that was sorted the activity from the rest of the house had died down a little. They were trying to be quiet, even though there wasn’t any mistaking the vocal noises. Either the rest of the house was asleep or were inebriated that they didn’t care to get up to investigate. Hookups amongst the group tended to happen. Friendships grew into something more. Plus it’s rude to interrupt when you certainly wouldn’t want someone walking in on you.
Too many whiskey sours were what brought the question out of me. “Are you really going to sleep down there?” The sofa was big enough to fit two. He was just trying to respect personal space, and the friendship that had developed between us. But laying there in the dark listening to two of our friends pleasure one another tends to take your not-quite-pickled brain and squeeze until ill-thought-out things are said.
Like inviting him up from his place on the floor to squeeze in next to me on the sofa. The thing about adult bodies and small spaces, like the seat of a cushion, is that there are only so many ways to make two people fit. And only so many places for hands to go.
His quiet laughter vibrated the very structure we were trying to sort ourselves out on, and his laughter was contagious. In the dark, we fumbled and tried to settle, which only met with quiet murmurs of:
“Sorry.”
“Sorry. Ha. Oh. Um.”
“Ah. I – ok wait, how about…”
“Yea, that’s not… oh.”
“Um…”
I had stretched to try to figure out if I could rest my hand somewhere down by our sides and instead ran my hand down his penis. His um in response was broken off when I gave up entirely, bidden on by a marching drum in my head. “Oh, sod it.”
It was all the encouragement he needed to free his hands from whatever restrictions he had placed on them. The quick brushes to my hips from earlier were nothing to the exploration now allowed. We were both half-clothed, giggling and breathing heavily in each other’s arms when he found a way to add a comment again. “You, you taste like whiskey sours.”
“You don’t have to kiss me.”
He’d only seen fit to shush me, the last of his hesitation spared to ask if I preferred the floor. That uncomfortable surface at my back and further delay? He didn’t need much convincing to shove all concerns and continue with what we had started.
It should have been a one off. A shorter one off, for reasons of location and intoxication. Except every time after that the knowledge that we had fucked on a friend’s couch hung between us. The feeling of his lips on my skin. The feeling of him that lasted for days. It became an itch, something I couldn’t help to want to scratch.
The second time, a few months later and after more than a few awkward chats, both of us ended up coming to the same conclusion. It was going to become A Thing between us. Had to become a thing between us… half to prove to ourselves that it wasn’t a fluke, half to prove it to each other.
“It was fun, but a one off, y’know? Well… maybe not a one off but…”
“I’m not looking for a date. Or anything serious.”
“Good. Yea. Me neither.”
“I just. I think we can do better.”
“Hmm.”
“If we’re not worried about falling off the sofa.”
“Which we didn’t.”
“And not drunk.”
“Oh you were so drunk.”
“Speak for yourself, whiskey queen. I’m just saying. I have a king sized bed we can work with.”
“Be still my heart.”
“C’mon. I want to find out what you taste like tonight.”
Each invitation always ended the same way: a promise that set a new boundary. Eventually we’d run ourselves into the very box we wanted to avoid, and when that day happened we vowed we would hold firm and end things. Phrasing was important. My last promise had ruled out phone sex because I’d been careless. He’d accidentally forbade take away.