Prologue.
I keep having this dream. I am sitting in my therapist’s office with my legs crossed in a velvety blue armchair sitting atop clean, tan carpet. My therapist is facing me from across a round glass coffee table. I always think that glass is an interesting choice in a space that counsels the mentally ill.
What is happening in this dream? My therapist is a full figured Hispanic woman with olive skin and straight black hair. She has rich sienna-colored eyes that burn with curiosity; she actually wants to know more about how I feel and what I am saying.
In this dream, I am in a house. I can never get out and it is never quite right. It is my house, but not my house, you know? Sometimes it’s the same house and sometimes there are different ones, but they’re always mine. And there is always a secret room. Sometimes I find it and it is full of random things. Sometimes I can’t find it at all. I pause here, recalling the rooms and the things I find (or don’t).
The therapist is looking down at her notebook, black hair partially blocking her round face as she leans over to jot notes down on a legal pad. Prompted by my silent daydreaming, she looks up. Do you feel scared in these dreams?
I have to think about that. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. I usually feel more frightened if I can’t find the secret room. Sometimes I am running from someone and that obviously makes me feel scared. Mostly I am happy to be in my own house. But our session is almost over and I just want to get to the meaning of this dream, so I say, not really, unless I can’t find her.
I.
Crystal was a stunning goddess figure: she stood at five-eight with a slender face, dark hair and eyes that were warm and full of life, constantly rippling from their own emotions. She had wavy, chestnut colored hair that reached down to her waist, hugging large breasts and sitting atop an ass that turned most heads, whether out of jealousy or admiration. I met Crystal in undergrad, where we shared an Indigenous Literature class. One day, she came rushing into class late, Starbucks in hand. I noticed her mostly because I sat by the door, but also because of the kerfuffle she made sitting down and the electricity that shot through my skin when she leaned over to tap my arm and ask What page are we on?
I instantly became wet as I looked into her eyes to answer the most boring question I had ever heard. I was sure I was suddenly blushing and sweating. What?
What page are we on?
Oh, uh, we are on page 90.
Crystal smiled and two dimples dove into her cheeks. Her smile made me feel proud–that I knew what page we were on. Thank you so much.
The rest of class was pretty uneventful. But I will never forget the shock of our initial contact. After class, Crystal leaned over again, but this time I was ready for her: What’s your name? I need help with some of these reading prompts. Do you want to grab some coffee and study?
I had never been asked on a proper “date” before–shameful for a 21 year old– but as far as I could tell, she was hitting on me. I raised my eyes to lock with hers. Huh? Well my name is, um, Sara–sure I could, um help, I guess. What the fuck was wrong with me?
We went to a coffee shop on campus. We started across a table from each other in two armchairs, books out and discussing the reading prompts she had invited me here to help with. The reading prompts were critical, but not too advanced; I took this as another green light for my “date” theory. I had heard Crystal speak in class and as far as I could tell, she definitely did not need my help. Our conversation about academics naturally ebbed and we began to read silently across from each other. This dynamic felt so organic, so smooth, so easy, and I peered at her over my book, admiring her sharp facial features, her beautiful eyes, her naturally plush lips. Her brows were furrowed at the passage she was reading, but suddenly, feeling guilty, I looked back down into my own book, as if I had been looking at something I wasn’t supposed to. After that, I swore I felt her blue eyes deconstructing me in the same way, but I was afraid to look up.
After what seemed like a century of reading, I finally truly felt Crystal’s gaze on me and simultaneously heard the lilt of her voice, Hey, I have a confession to make.
A confession already? What is that?
I didn’t really have any questions. I just wanted to talk to you. This has been fun, but can we go grab some food? I am starving.
She picked the restaurant and I didn’t really care, she could have been taking me to pick through a dumpster, all I cared about was finding out more of what was behind her blue eyes and how her lips might feel on mine.
But we went for sushi. When the server showed us our booth, Crystal surprised me by motioning for me to scoot over in the booth and leaning her body in the booth against mine. Her skin had the warmth that her face radiated and while I was confused at the logistics of this arrangement, I was happy that she chose to sit next to me. The hair on my arms began to stand up again as I felt Crystal’s hand on my knee underneath the table. Is this okay?
I smiled and nodded. Crystal ordered for both of us: sashimi and sushi rolls, hot sakes and large bottles of Asahi. I wondered if she usually ordered like this. I wondered how we would get home as we drank another sake bomb. I wondered why I was concerned about how this girl I just met would get home.
By the end of the night, she asked me to come home with her, but hesitant to tarnish my first-date-ever with a one night stand, I refused. We each called Ubers and waited outside of the closed sushi bar. The air nipped at our fingers, so we sat on the bench outside of the restaurant much like we had sat at the booth in the restaurant: side-by-side, snuggly tucked next to each other. After too-many-sakes and a couple of large beers, these logistics felt different. Crystal turned to drape her legs over mine and grab my hands with her own frigid fingers. Fighting off the cold, but hardly trying to fight her off, I interwove her fingers in between mine.
Can we do this again sometime?
Crystal smiled in a way that made me afraid she would say no. Yeah, I would love that. Crystal kissed me on the cheek as she untangled herself from our pretzel on the bench to leave in her Uber. I remember being surprised at the warmth of her lips; a stark contrast to the frigidness of her hands. As she kissed me, I could feel the warmth of her neck and smell of her perfume. Her perfume clung to me as she walked away and after that, it was hard to tell if I was drunk from the sake or just drunk off of Crystal’s tunneled gaze.
II.
After the coffee/sushi date, Crystal always sat next to me in class, but she was never late again. At our next lecture, two days later, it was I who approached her after class: Should we go get food? Again, I saw the smile that made me anxious of her rejection, but instead she agreed.
This time, I picked the restaurant. We went to a pub down the street from our college and when Crystal sat down first, I scooted in next to her. It already felt natural, even though this was only the second time we had proceeded in this way. I wanted to sit next to her like this forever. This time, I put my hand on her knee under the table and asked, Is this okay? And she smiled and nodded.
I ordered for us: pitchers of Ultra and wings and fries with curry, white gummy bear shots and a shared reuben sandwich. While it sounds like a lot now, it didn’t seem so over the course of several hours. There were no pretenses that this was somehow an academic meeting of the minds, just two young women, out getting to know each other as… Friends? Lovers? The uncertainty didn’t bother me as much as it seemed to bother onlookers who snuck glances at us trying to differentiate between the two.
We didn’t care. We talked about art and life and our families and our childhood pets. We spoke normally at first, then gradually leaned closer into each other as the night wore on, as though we were telling secrets, but really, we were just talking about music. As we leaned into one another, the scent of Crystal’s perfume clung to me again. Memories of our first evening together rushed back: actions that culminated in the kiss on the cheek that left me drunk and floating; now I found myself thinking about how I might try to feel her lips on my own.
As we waited for the next pitcher and dish to arrive at our cozy little booth, we agreed it was a good time to pause for the bathroom. As girls do, we went together, both to keep each other company (and perhaps because we couldn’t bear to be apart). In contrast to the rest of the pub, the hallway to the bathroom was quiet and calm. Before we entered the bathroom, we both paused in the cool stillness of the hallway, still standing side by side, backs against the wall. I like you. I’m not sure who said it first, or if we said it at the same time. But I remember smiling like an idiot and feeling adorned by angels as her smile reflected back to me.
Interlude.
The first kiss
would not be
the last…
Would there
ever be
a last?
As soon as
your lips
pressed
against
me–
I wanted
You,
everywhere
As your tongue
caressed
the roof of my mouth–
I wanted
You,
inside
of me;
to taste all
of me.
It
will
never
be
enough.
III.
Crystal and I became inseparable. More often like best friends than lovers, then more often like lovers. We came to class together and left class together for dinner. We read before class together and discussed what we were reading: indigenous boarding schools and philosophy. We bonded over discussions of Louis Althusser as we got stoned at the park. Despite all of the time we spent together, we had never seen each other’s homes. Personally, my shared dorm room seemed cramped for reading or studying by myself or with my roommate, let alone Crystal. The dorm also did absolutely nothing to inspire intimacy. Crystal was not my first, but I knew once we had our first kiss, I needed all of her.
IV.
On a particularly clear day, I sat on our blanket at the park and watched her read. The sun spilled onto Crystal just so in the afternoon, making her appear ethereal. As she laid on her back, I studied her sharp features, the way she brushed her hair behind her ear as it fell into the way of her reading. I no longer felt like I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to. I often did not see anything else besides her when we were together, but today I saw the lush, green trees creating a mystical background behind Crystal and I remember wishing I could make this a postcard. As I looked on, Crystal caught me in her gaze; she put down her book and rolled over on her stomach to look up at me. God, I loved it when she looked up at me.
She said something, but it took me a minute to break from her gaze before I processed the words I had been longing for: Do you wanna come to my house to listen to some records? I couldn’t help the smile that I felt on my face and replied, I thought you’d never ask.
Crystal’s apartment was only a block from the college, which made sense given that she rarely seemed to leave campus, although she claimed she did not live there. On our walk home, she made it known her roommate was away to visit family–this reminded me of the first time she touched my arm in class–and I was not surprised.
The apartment was nice, not fancy, but not rundown–definitely above average for an undergrad. The open living room and kitchen turned towards a small hallway with three doors, presumably the bedrooms and a bathroom. Crystal lived on the second floor of her complex, facing unfinished development that (for the time being) allowed a beautiful view of rolling hills and sunset. She walked over to a window facing the hills and the sun to put Fleetwood Mac on the record player, then sat next to me on the couch.
Although we sat next to each other quietly for a moment it didn’t feel awkward; more like we were taking a pause together and sensing one another. Crystal turned towards me and lifted one leg to straddle me as I sat on the couch. I turned hot and felt the blood rushing through my body: fear, excitement, anticipation, relief, all at once. Her perfume clung to me and I remembered the first night, at sushi, when I wanted to go home with her but I didn’t. I wondered how often she asked girls to come home with her? But I pushed it all out of my head when I felt her in my lap.
I slipped my hand behind her neck and brought her closer to me. I wanted to drown in her scent, never leave, I wanted to be hinged like this with her forever. I turned her full lips to mine and playfully sucked on them until we pressed together and I could taste her tongue. I wanted this. I wanted this… But I found myself repeating this in my head as if I didn’t quite believe it. I forgot my anxieties as her hand slipped up my shirt, unclasping my bra so she could slide her hand under the next layer. She cupped my breast, then rolled my nipple between her fingers as her tongue drew letters going into my neck and ear. I was drunk again, like the night at sushi, except this time, I didn’t have to resist.
I slid her pants off and clumsily lifted her shirt off, I was grateful when there wasn’t another layer. I wanted this. I kissed her chest and spelled my name on her nipple. I kissed her neck and began to squeeze her hips as she rubbed herself onto my leg. I felt her begin to seep onto me and asked if this was okay. Yes, she whispers, then spelled it on my neck. She grabbed my hand and slid it in between her legs. Do you feel that? I want this. And her hand moved away, but I didn’t want to move mine, so I spelled her name inside of her.
I wanted to know every inch of her skin, every fold of her body. I wanted us to become one. I slid myself in and out of her as she held me to her chest. I felt her melting into my hands, giving me all of her. I heard her heart beat and synchronize our bodies. I stopped only to feel the folds of her lips, to touch all of it, to write it in my heart. Her hands curled into my hair as she thrust into my hand. She was hot, she was wet, she was ready. As she came, she howled, the unmistakable sound of relief. I didn’t want to move my hand as she throbbed through her orgasm.
We spent the night tangled up and after that first Fleetwood Macrecord stopped, we forgot to put on another one. We ordered takeout at midnight and fell asleep in each other’s arms, lamenting that we both had early classes.
When I woke up at 7, I was surprised to see she had left and I was completely alone in the apartment, mostly because neither of our classes started until 9. The night before seemed like a dream, except that there were remnants of Chinese takeout on the kitchen counter and the record player was still open as though it would start playing Fleetwood Mac again. On the nightstand I found a note: Thanks for a great night.
The note was not signed and it didn’t mention another time to meet, or if she would call. Just the simple thank you. Then I realized, we don’t talk on the phone. We followed each other on socials, but we had never exchanged numbers. We were both always just there. Although my body was still tingling from the night before, I felt unsettled as I gathered my things to leave for my class. I suddenly felt as if I did not belong at the apartment, and I made sure not to touch anything I didn’t need to as I left.
V.
I didn’t see Crystal after that night. She had been everywhere and suddenly she was nowhere. She no longer showed up on my socials. She didn’t even come to class, except we only had a week left and I presumed, when I didn’t see her, that maybe she was sick. As we moved into break, I thought maybe she went home, or dropped out of school, or something really terrible had happened. Although we hadn’t spent a lot of time together, I felt attached to her. I couldn’t forget drowning in her floral golden perfumes that smelled like she looked. I might see a woman with long, wavy, chestnut colored hair, and a perfect ass, from behind at the coffee shop and think it was her– once, I reached out to tap one such woman on the shoulder, but was saved from embarrassment when she quickly turned around after she grabbed her coffee order.
Classes began again, another quarter, and I hoped I would see Crystal in one of my classes. Despite being obviously ghosted at this point, I still hoped to see her again. I still wanted her. To be her, to be with her, to be inside of her, for her to want me. But I didn’t see her. I sadly ate dinner at the sushi bar from our first “date” and took walks at the park where we used to get stoned together.
After a couple of weeks, I grew tired of pitying myself and went to the pub I had chosen for a date, so I could replace the memory of my sharing a reuben with Crystal with my own pleasure and enjoyment. As I waited for a pint of Ultra and my reuben to arrive, I couldn’t help but listen in on other guest’s conversations. Behind me, I could hear two women discussing dancing and as one asked the other to go dancing, I heard her reply, Yeah, I would love that, and all at once I wanted to puke.
I could smell Crystal’s perfume and remember drowning in it and the visceral electric shock her touch caused in my body. I felt her tongue and her hands and the way I felt when her eyes looked at me as she rolled over onto her stomach at the park to ask Do you wanna come to my house and listen to some records? I felt the tingle in between my legs as I thought of how she had straddled me on the couch.
Everything in me wanted to look and see her. I swore I felt the woman looking into my back, but I was paralyzed. And by the time I finally got up to use the restroom, and maybe I would have finally seen Crystal, the two women that were discussing dancing were gone.