Magic Trick

As a girl, I wanted to be a sorceress. Someone like Morgana Le Fay or Hermione, able to summon new realities with a flick of my finger, to call things to me and have them come. For my greatest trick of all: I wanted the things I wanted to want me in return. As an adult, I know things don’t work like that. Nothing’s that easy, and very few feelings in this world are cut and dry.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up entirely on certain kinds of incantations. Case in point: I conjure you almost every night. It’s not the kind of witchcraft I dreamed of, once upon a time. It doesn’t result in any kind of happy ending. But it makes you real, in a way. It allows me to live inside a dream that has never belonged to me, not really. 

The idea first came to me the evening we watched Interstellar with your boyfriend. It was after you and I had fucked for the first time, but before the two of you broke up. You’d invited me over in that strange way, the night before asking, do you want to watch a movie with us tomorrow? And I wanted to see you, so of course I said yes. 

He made dinner, the two of us laughing on the couch while zucchini sizzled on the stove, your hand on my ankle and afterwards you picked the movie saying, this one always makes me cry. I didn’t know where you and I stood, only that I wanted more of the fuzzy, hot electricity that sometimes buzzed between us. I tried to pay attention to the movie, a missing daughter, a time traveling tragedy, all those stars, but I only wanted to watch your eyelashes fluttering when you blinked.

Your boyfriend sat between us. I wanted his spot, to be next to you, breathing in the scent of your neck and wine, so when his fingers touched my exposed midriff, I saw your reaction first. Your gaze flicked to me, and stayed. Interest burned in your eyes, and so I arched into his touch. 

Do you know now that your attention was the only reason? That I would have done anything to keep your hands, your eyes, your mind, on me? I wanted nothing more than you looking at me. If I had to let his fingers roam across my stomach, pressing up my ribcage, to make it happen, I would.

You watched as he slid a hand under my tank top, soft with use, and under the wire of my bra. When he brushed against my nipple I groaned, and your head turned, eyes fully on me. Your boyfriend had flirted with me before, in a way I wasn’t sure you enjoyed, but now, as he pressed his mouth against my throat, you smiled. His other hand, the one not tugging my shirt off, slipped beneath my sweatpants, and when he kissed me, I kissed him back. 

It wasn’t like kissing you, but it was enough. It was enough to taste this mouth that knew yours. He fucked me there, my back against the couch’s armrest while you watched, eyes dark, focused on me. I liked it more than I expected. His hands were large, and warm, and gentle, and I touched the purple marks on my neck the next day, I smiled. But mostly, I thought about you. You, just on the other side of him, breathing as I did, watching as he moved inside me and braced my hands above my head. 

Afterwards he wandered to the kitchen and you picked my shirt up from the floor, tossing it to me with a smile. Thanks for coming over, you said. You didn’t kiss me, but you touched my hand when I left. I went home and thought about you: you while my stomach fluttered, you while my legs spread. It wasn’t like fucking you. But it wasn’t entirely different, either.  

Others followed. Once your now-ex bent me over your countertop, while you sat at the other side and reached out, held my hand when my eyes squeezed shut. He muttered to you, it’s so cool you’re bi, I guess because you could enjoy me, a woman, and him, a man, and remain yourself, a woman, but I was offended on your behalf.

I was offended, but I wanted to please you more, so I didn’t say anything about this man you said you loved. Those times were best, him pressing me against the wall, the floor, the table, because you were there, you with your quickening breath and your eyes on me. 

You told me about the break-up over lunch. We had sandwiches, and relish dripped onto your fingers. I wanted to lick it off, but I couldn’t, because we were in public, and didn’t touch like that anymore. He got tired of me, you said, or I got tired of him. I nodded, even though I couldn’t understand how anyone could get tired of you.

He texted me a few weeks later, a thinly veiled attempt at getting me into his bed, and I thought about responding, but didn’t. At the very least, I thought, you shouldn’t sleep with a friend’s ex. You and I confused me, but I (almost always) considered us to be friends. I liked that, even if I also wanted your fingers in my pussy and your tongue in my mouth. 

So I didn’t text him back. I found new ways to cast the spell of you, bring you into my room when you really sat across town, doing the things you did at night alone. Lacy, who worked the front desk at that gym I went to three times, asked me to dinner after I snuck out of cycling, and I was tired, and missed you, so I said yes. I feel like I am always missing you, wishing you would text me back, wanting to know about your day. 

So Lacy ordered drinks for both of us, and I sipped mine while she touched my wrist with her pointer finger, and I thought of you. She kissed me by my front door, mouth hot, body pressed to mine, and I invited her inside. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine you were there. 

Then Angelina, from one of the apps, embarrassingly swiped on because her hair reminded me of yours, the gloss, the fall, the way she flipped it over her left shoulder. Tiffany had a tattoo winding up her calf that reminded me of yours, and Bets, a friend from college, held me so close I thought I might not cry when I opened my eyes and saw her instead of you.

As an act of protest, I asked Ingrid to go dancing, Ingrid who looks nothing like you, who has a laugh all her own, and she moved her hips against mine while the music pounded around us with what I can only call dedication. 

I cried in the bathroom, shoes sticking to the floor, and she found me leaning against the sink and wiped my face with a paper towel and her cool fingers. I thought again about magic while she called us a car, unable to remember if the sorceresses and enchantresses of my childhood were happy. If all their power to summon and shift brought them closer to any kind of love.

Ingrid was a perfect date, and liked me, and still, she wasn’t you. She kissed me goodnight, and I opened my mouth to hers. I asked her to come inside and she smiled at me and shook her head. I don’t think that’s a great idea, she said, and kissed me on the forehead.

I guess I want to tell you this because I want you to understand the way I’ve loved you. Unnecessarily. Confusingly. But I still want you. I want you enough to love your boyfriend a little, to like every girl who reminds me of you.

I was going to tell you this, to say that maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore, that I don’t like straddling this line between friends who’ve never kissed and something else. I understand that we aren’t some sort of romance for the ages. Most of the time, I don’t even know if you like me, or if I’m convenient. But then you texted, I miss you, do you want to come over tonight? and of course I do. It’s not even that you’re lying, that you ever lie to me. You just think about me less than I think about you. 

I wore an oversized t-shirt from college and short bicycle shorts. And matching underwear, but not because I thought anything would happen. I just couldn’t forgive myself if it did and I wasn’t prepared. You opened the door in jeans and a striped cotton tank top, clinging to your stomach above your belly button. Your hair, sleek and shiny, a curtain down your back, mesmerized me as you turned, inviting me inside with a smile. The real you is always better than my imagination. 

Your apartment smelled like dinner and perfume, and I opened my mouth to ask if your least favorite coworker had caused any trouble that day. But then you turned around, grinning. I missed you, you said. I’ve really missed you. All of a sudden, I didn’t need to summon you. You were just there. You walked up to me, eyes sparkling, and suddenly your hands were around my waist, my fingers tugging at your belt loops. You leaned in slowly. So slowly I felt my lungs spasm in anticipation. 

When you kissed me, finally, mouth open and soft and hot, my whole body burned. I groaned without meaning to, half relief, half begging for more, and you understood all of it. You laughed, mouth against mine, and I laughed too, bumping my nose against yours as you tugged me even closer, pulling our bodies together without leaving any space between.

I thought to myself: there is your mouth against my throat, there are your hands under my shirt. You bit at my collarbone, the scrape of teeth sending electricity down my spine, and then your hands moved past my ribs, up to my tits. 

You know, you always know, exactly how to squeeze them, palms firm and warm, fingers teasing, and when I gasped at the friction you found my mouth with yours, swallowing the noises. A tingling, fluttering sensation, something like joy and something like hunger, overwhelmed my body, my skin jumping at your touch. You can leave marks, I wanted to say, I want to remember this tomorrow. 

I don’t know if I said it, or if you just knew, or if it was the perfect thing to do because you did it, if I’m rewriting everything you did as the best choice. But you sucked a bruise, purple and warm, against my throat, then another at my shoulder, and I felt like I was melting, like I was the Wicked Witch of the West and you were Dorothy, turning into a puddle of goop at your feet.

I touched you in every way I could, grabbing for your arms, your ass, your shoulders. I wanted to take my time, running a finger down each rib bone, over the curve of your hip, but then you lifted my shirt over my head, and it got caught coming off, stuck in my hair, half on my forehead. 

I sat there, a little stunned, blinking at the cool air against my nipples and the lopsided weight on my scalp and you looked at me, eyes warmer than I’d ever seen before, and laughed. I’m so sorry, you giggled, pressing your face against my neck, I thought that would be a smoother move. I laughed too, buoyed by your cackle, and tugged my shirt all the way off, both of us snickering.

I still get a little self conscious when I’m naked and when the giggles subsided I hunched into myself, aware of my bare chest. But you stilled too, looked at the curves and planes of my torso and your eyes got darker, full of something like awe. I didn’t know what to do with that. 

So I pulled you back to me and slipped my hand down to unzip your jeans. You bit at the air in front of my nose, gently, playful as a kitten, and then I slid my fingers into your underwear and there wasn’t anything funny about that. 

Your hips bucked against my fingers, so I stroked you once, twice, three times, before sinking two of them inside you, warm and wet and soft. You shuddered against me, moving with measured urgency, hips rolling as my fingers curved, gasping each time I pressed my wrist against your clit.

We were still standing, I realized distantly, fucking in the middle of your kitchen, so I pulled my hand away, and you huffed, frustration on your brow. Tease, you murmured, nothing but affection in your eyes, and I kissed you, gripping your waist with my tacky fingers, then slid my hands under your waistband and pulled everything down. 

You stepped out of the pile of clothes, nothing but socks and your tank top left, and took a few steps back, until you hit the counter. I knelt, grinning up at you, and you placed a hand against my cheek. I turned my face to kiss your palm, then settled onto my knees.

You threaded one hand through my hair, nails tingling against my scalp. I licked a stripe up your thigh without any particular aim, wanting nothing more than the taste of your skin, the feel of your muscle against my tongue, and your leg twitched under my grasp. I laughed, and pressed a kiss to your knee, swiped my tongue against your shin, wrapped my fingers around your ankle, and then you groaned and tugged at my hair, laughing. 

Come on, please, you said, biting your lip, and you were friend and lover, joke and plea, there and gone, all at once. I dipped my head up, licking into you without any further hesitation, flicking and probing, one hand at the back of your thigh and the other higher, moving gently, softly, rubbing against your clit before sliding back inside your pussy. 

I would stay here, quite happily, for a long time, years and decades and everything past that, nothing but your breath and hands guiding mine. But then I twisted my fingers again, tongue flat and broad, and you shook under my hands, panting and shivering through your orgasm. Oh my god, you released your grip on me and I leaned back, admiring your flushed face. I really, really missed you. 

You knelt onto the floor in front of me, our faces level, and kissed me again, slow and sweet, your tongue along the seam of my mouth. Our chins and foreheads knocked together, sloppy, eager, and you pressed your hands back against my tits, making me shiver. 

I went to kiss you again, to hold us in this place, the floor cold underneath our bodies and you smeared across my face, inside my mouth. You pressed your fingers against my lips instead, and I opened my mouth to lick your palm. You squealed and held your other hand out to me.

 Care to change locations? You tugged me to the couch, the same couch from our evening of Interstellar, from other days like this, and kissed me, the kind that makes my head spin, and pressed me against the cushions. I felt myself open for you, the soft give of the cushions against my skin.

You brushed your hands up my thighs and pulled my shorts off and I wasn’t embarrassed at all. Not by the slippery skin between my legs, not by the muscles in my stomach twitching when you ran a hand over them, not by the gasping, whimpering sounds rushing from my mouth. 

As you slid into me, slowly, then faster, I reached for you. Our eyes met, crackling, ecstatic, and your focus, the intensity of your gaze, flip-flopped in my stomach. You leaned down, all our bare skin touching, gentle again with your mouth on my throat. 

I tensed again, then came, giggling and breathless, squirming against you. It wasn’t a spell that called you. My wanting hadn’t made you any more real. But you were there, sweaty and charming and unmistakable, better than any proxy, and I wrapped my arms around you as tightly as I could. It wouldn’t last forever. But just then, between your breath and mine, the nervous fluttering want in my chest stilled. Like I didn’t need to work any magic tricks at all.