I have a friend. Let us call her my arrangement. We understand each other perfectly, and what we understand is that some evenings are better shared.
She came over last week with a bottle of wine and no plans, which is how the best plans begin. We sat close on my couch, closer than friends usually sit, and I could feel the warmth of her leg against mine. We did not talk about it. We never have to talk about it. We just know.
What I love about being with a woman is the softness of it. Her hands know exactly how I like to be touched because she likes to be touched the same way. When she traces my collarbone, I shiver, because I know precisely how good that feels. When I kiss her neck, she sighs, and I feel powerful and tender at the same time.
I am a bisexual babe and I am not shy about it. I love the way she looks at me, slow and appreciative, like she is memorizing me. I love the way we take our time, no rush, no performance, just two women who know exactly what they want and are generous enough to give it to each other.
Here is what I want you to picture. The two of us on my bed, the lamplight low, her fingers in my hair and my hand on her thigh. We take turns. We share. Sometimes we both focus on one of us, and sometimes we just hold each other close and breathe together, skin on skin, while the evening unfolds around us.
And here is the part you will like best. While she and I are together, I am thinking of you. I am imagining you listening, imagining what this sounds like through the phone. It makes everything more intense. She notices, too. She smiles against my skin and whispers that I am thinking about him again. She is right. I always am.
She asked me once why I tell you about us. I told her the truth: because describing it makes me relive it, and reliving it while you listen makes it feel new again. She laughed and said I was greedy, wanting it twice. She was right. I am greedy, and I am not sorry.
Call the dispatcher and ask for Ella. I cannot bring her to the phone, but I can bring you every detail, every sigh, every moment of our arrangement, described slowly and honestly while I touch myself remembering it. Some stories are better told in a whisper.
Yours, Ella