I let her lead, mostly because I don’t know what I’m doing. Because the landscape of another woman’s body feels both foreign and familiar. Because I am uncertain of how delicate to be, how rough. And I am curious if all the things that work for me will work for her. I feel like I’m in college again. The inaugural hand job that was 17 percent successfully eliciting pleasure, and 83 percent assessing his dimensions in the dark. The thought makes me smile.
She is suspended above me. Her mouth on my breast, her tongue soft, deft. Her cool fingers move across my stomach, and south, her thumb playing over the waistband of my underwear. Testing, teasing.
I flinch. But I don’t stop her.
It is tremendous to give yourself over to someone new. I can’t stop my brain from working. From racing forward and darting behind and whirling without end. I could use some mindful awareness, I think, when her hand is between my legs. I could use a gummy. Or two. Judgmental Jamaican parents be damned. Anything to pause this carnival ride in my head.
This is not her first time. Her fingers move against me. Slick, seeking, spreading me open figuratively and literally. Her eyes never losing contact with mine. Watching me and gauging. Reading my response. I am reminded of that night in Cabo. In her hotel room. The blood. The shards of glass. Her fingers pressed against the inside of my thigh. The waves of pleasure. The way I fled.
But this time I allow it. I hold her gaze until I no longer can. Until I am completely consumed and writhing in a manner that is neither delicate nor ladylike and I’m not sure I care.
She hovers above me as I return. Her hands stroke the side of my face, my breasts, my belly, my thighs. I am shaking. In her arms. In her bed. In her aura.
In the aftermath, the moment sinks in, and the realization that something has shifted.
“Okay,” I say, because nothing else comes to mind.
“Okay.” She laughs. “Just okay?”
“Okay. That happened.”
“Ouais. C’est fait.”
It’s done.
I do not feel guilty. I wonder at what point François had with Élodie. Assuming he had at all. I imagine with him it would take more than a good fingering. They would have had to progress to actual intercourse for him to think, Oh, wait. My wife.
I wonder what qualifies as actual intercourse in my current situation.
But no, I do not feel guilty. What I feel is light. Giddy. Like I’m in my twenties with a new lover. Or like I’m in my forties and have finally gotten out of the house. Tomato, tomahto…
“I just want to warn you,” I say at last. My eyes meet hers. She is propped up on her elbow, leaning over me, her hair falling in her face. Her beautiful face. I reach to tuck her hair behind her ear. As I do, I’m struck by how intimate the gesture is, how natural. We are already here. “I might not know what I’m doing exactly. So please be patient with me.”
She nods, smiles. “Okay.”
And she is.
In the morning, it is damp, gray. It has rained during the night, a rare occurrence in Napa at this time of year. We take it as an omen to stay inside. Entangled in the sheets. We order room service—fresh berries, yogurt, a lobster omelet—and we pop open one of our three bottles of champagne (day drinking be damned) and return to lovemaking. Is it lovemaking if neither of us is in love?Fucking, I have decided, sounds too crass. Andsexlacks a certain gravitas. What Anouk and I are doing, what Anouk and Ihave,feels wholly different. It lacks a label.
“Is this what you were referring to, at Gjelina? When you said you and Frederick had an understanding?”
“Did I say that?”
“You did.”
It is early afternoon, and the sun has peeked out from behind her clouds. We are still in bed, debating whether to go for a hike or a bike ride or a swim. Or none of the above.
“Ha.” Anouk smiles, rolling onto her back, gazing up at the ceiling. Her breasts are firm, small. They do not slide into her armpits as I fear mine are starting to do. “Maybe,” she says, finally.
“Do you do this a lot?”
“Definea lot.” She laughs. And then, “No. No, I do not do this a lot. Do I seem like someone who does?”
I shrug. “You have far fewer hang-ups than I do.”
“I’m French.”
We both laugh at that.
