Pop Rocks

It’s a cool August Saturday night when my neighbor calls to me over the fence. I’m in my backyard smoking a joint. It’s been a long week: work, my ex, my parents, all demanding my attention at various times. But, I have nothing else to do, so I go meet her on her patio. It’s likely to be one of the last good nights for it all year. 

I’ve been here before, for their housewarming a few months ago. They’re a nice couple. He’s a lawyer and she’s a teacher. He’s a lot older than me, she’s just a little. She’s just my type: short, slight, with long black hair that I’ve never seen pulled back. 

“I don’t really smoke,” she says, taking a hit of the joint I brought over. She exhales elegantly, lips pursing, head tilting up. “Not usually.” She takes another hit, coughs, and passes it back to me.

“I do,” I say, smiling at her. I look up. I’m always surprised by how many stars I can see at night in this city. She coughs again beside me. “Water?” I ask, and hand her my Nalgene when she holds hers out. I think she’s gonna lose a lung, but eventually she calms down and wipes a couple tears from her eyes.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. 

“Don’t be.” It’s actually kind of cute. She motions for the joint again. I give her a look that says you sure? And she is, but takes a sip of water before. The second time goes down smooth. 

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t offer you anything,” she says, starting to get up out of her chair. “Do you want some wine? a White Claw?” I admire her legs as she stands, but motion for her to sit down before she goes anywhere. 

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m good. I don’t need anything” She sits back down and runs a hand through her hair. 

“My boyfriend makes fun of me,” she says. “I’m so forgetful.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. 

“So am I,” I say, like I’m letting her in on a secret. I motion to the joint and she takes it from me. Her eyes are already red, a little glassy. When she hands it back, I put it out and back in its little metal holder.

“Not like me,” she says, shaking her head. I’ll just have to take her word for it. “He’s in New York.”

“Doing what?” I ask. I really don’t care what her boyfriend’s doing. 

“Interviewing,” she says, which surprises me. 

“I see,” I say. “How is he?” I continue when she doesn’t say anything. Straight girls love talking about their boyfriends. 

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He’s been really distant.” She looks into her hands. 

“Well,” I say, “I hope he doesn’t get the job. I’d hate to see you go all the way across the country.” She smiles at me, a dangerous smile that could get me into trouble. I like the way the corners of her eyes crinkle. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Why don’t we hang out more?” She asks me quietly. “You’re very,” she pauses, looking for the words, “charming.” She’s blushing a little when I look over, slurring her words a bit. She giggles. “Sorry,” she says, but doesn’t follow that up. 

“For what?” I ask. I am genuinely curious. Or I’m flirting, a little. I can’t help it. She looks so cute with her cheeks pink. Her hair is a little messy, like she’s been playing with it all night. She pulls a vape out of her pocket and takes a hit. She motions to me, but I decline.

“I don’t do nicotine,” I say. 

“It’s cherry-pineapple-coconut,” she says. “But you shouldn’t. My boyfriend hates it.” 

“Oh yeah?” I don’t have much to say about that, except to tell her to tell him to fuck off, which doesn’t seem like what she wants. She cocks her head to the side a little. 

“I don’t really give a fuck,” she says. I’m sure my face betrays my surprise, because she laughs a little. “Is that terrible of me?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. Good for her. 

“He thinks he gets to have an opinion about everything I do,” she says. “I’m too loud, I drink too much,” as she says this, she hiccups—it occurs to me she’s a little tipsy—“He doesn’t even like my handwriting.”

“I see,” I say.

“Sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t complain. I mean, I love him, you know?”

“Sure,” I say. I’m transported back to high school, the last time I really had straight girlfriends. “I don’t mind.” She nods.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with guys,” she says. I laugh out loud at this. 

“Girls are just as crazy,” I say, “maybe worse.”

“No way,” she says. I bite my lip before continuing.

“Imagine your worst fight with your best friend, but you’re also having sex with her. It’s like that.” It isn’t quite, but I should give her the best shot at getting it I can. 

“I would have sex with my best friend,” she says, and that is not what I was expecting. I don’t reply, I figure I should let her have the air to fill. “I’m sorry,” she says, burying her head in her hands, “I didn’t mean to say that, I mean, I wouldn’t really. I mean, not that she’s not beautiful, just, I don’t really, I’m not--”

“Relax,” I say, my voice deep and a little playful. I’ve decided she’s very cute. “I won’t tell anybody.” She coughs again after taking what I imagine to be a very soothing hit of her vape. I am suddenly curious as to what cherry-pineapple-coconut tastes like. 

“Thanks,” she says, and is quiet for a while. “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” 

“Would you fill this up?” I say, gesturing to my empty water bottle. 

“Yeah,” she says, “yeah.” She gets up from her chair and heads inside. I hear the faucet go on and off, then her footsteps back to the patio. When she gets back, I start to stand to get up. She should honestly probably go to bed, sleep off some of the confusion. “Where are you going?” She says and sounds so sweet I sit back down. 

“I was just going to head to bed,” I say. She shakes her head. 

“What are you talking about, it’s 10:30 on a Saturday.” 

“That’s true,” I say.

“I mean,” she says, seemingly realizing her insistence, “of course you can go home if you want, I won’t keep you.”

“No, no,” I say, “I’ll stay.” It’s quiet for a while, but the kind of quiet where I can tell she wants to say something. 

“What’s it like?” She asks, and when I don’t reply, elaborates, “With a girl?” There it is. Straight girls love to ask that question. Especially straight girls who are about to ask you to show them. I’m not about to let her get it that easy, though. I don’t really care that she has a boyfriend. He’s not my problem, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not even concerned that she’s straight. I do want her to be sure, though, and I figure if she’s insistent enough I’ll be able to tell. 

“What’s what like?” I ask, mock-curious. I take a sip of my water and watch her fidget. She twirls a strand of hair and looks away from me, fiddles with her hands. “Come on, what’s what like?” I can’t sleep with someone who can’t even say it. 

“Sex,” she almost whispers.

“Oh that!” I say, matching her tone only loudly, a whisper that could be heard two doors down. She blushes again. “Lesbian sex.” I lengthen ‘Lesbian,’ enjoying the contours of my favorite word in my mouth. I don’t make her say anything to confirm. “It’s great, I mean, I have nothing to compare it to, but it’s really, really fun.”

“You’ve never been with a guy?” She asks, like it’s unfathomable. She takes a long pull from her vape. 

“Well, you’ve never been with a woman, have you?” 

“I haven’t,” she says. “I--” she begins but doesn’t finish the thought. “I better,” she starts again. She starts to get out of her chair, but I place a hand on hers. She doesn’t snatch it away, like I thought she might.

“This is your house,” I say. 

“So it is,” she says. 

“Do you want me to go?” I ask, giving her one last out. I look in her eyes and, through the mist of weed and alcohol, see desire, plain, simple, and irresistible.

“No,” she says, and takes my hand in hers decisively. 

“Okay,” I say, “I won’t.” I almost say something more, but her lips on mine cut me off. It’s awkward in our lawn chairs, she’s half-standing to reach me, and, surprised for a moment, I don’t know where to put my hands. She pulls back.

“God, I’m,” she says, shaking her head, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t’ve.” She rakes a hand through her hair. I just smile at her. 

“It’s okay,” I say. She pulls out her vape again and hits it. “Don’t be sorry. Do you want me to go?” 

“No,” she says, “please don’t.” She turns her back to me and I can tell she’s hyperventilating. 

“Okay,” I say. I stand and place my hand on her back. I really do want to comfort her. That’s one reason for doing it. She throws her head back and takes a deep breath. 

“Fuck it,” she murmurs. Before I can respond, she turns around. Her eyes flutter shut and she kisses me again. Pop rocks. The vape makes her taste like pop rocks. 

I react quickly enough, this time. I grab her waist with my left hand and her cheek with my right, pulling her close and keeping her there. She melts into the touch and stifles a moan, then places her hands over mine. I can feel her heart beating in her fingertips. I flick my tongue out between my lips, and, to my surprise, she opens her mouth eagerly, taking me in. She pulls me closer than I’m holding her and rolls her hips into mine. It always goes one of two ways with the straight ones: they either try to consume you whole or you have to draw them out. It’s evident she’ll be the former. I lace my hand into her hair and grip lightly, not pulling, but letting her know I’m there. She really moans this time, and I enjoy the vibrations of it in the kiss. One of her feet actually pops up behind her. She pulls back for a second but her body stays pressed to mine. She clears her throat. Her voice is about three octaves deeper when she speaks.

“Would you, um. Like to come inside?” I give her a second to think about what she just said before I respond. 

“Are you sure?” I ask. 

“Certain,” she says, nodding as if to confirm the truth to herself. “Yeah.” 

“Then yes,” I say. At my agreement, she turns around fast and pulls me along with her. From there, everything feels like a blur. I swear one of us knocks over a lamp in the dining room, and we don’t make it to her bed. She pulls me down onto the couch by the drawstring on my shorts and kisses me just as enthusiastically. I let her have her fill of the kiss for as long as I can stand it before I lower my head to her neck. I test the waters, ghosting over her pulse point first, and when that gets me a gasp, I lightly nibble there. When that gets me a moan, I go harder, before I remember. 

“Fuck,” I say when I see my damage, “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” she says, “whatever, please, keep going,” she whines. Who would I be to refuse such a request? When I give it to her she whimpers and throws her head back. I’m glad she’s so responsive. I wonder, when was the last time her boyfriend did anything like this for her. Eventually, she starts to pant and squirm. I know what she wants, but I’m going to make her tell me. The angle is awkward, as well—we’ve slumped so I’m basically on my knees on the floor. I motion for her to lay her head on the side of the couch. I give her one more out.

“What do you want?” I ask as innocently as I can, knowing the words are dripping with want. I look at her laying there: the nipples on her small breasts are hard and peeking through her pajama shirt, and I can see her hip bones too. The spot on her neck is purple. Oops. 

“I,” she says. I can tell her urge is to hide her face, but she stills her hands. She takes a deep breath. 

“Go on,” I say. I’m trying to encourage gently, “tell me.”

“Fuck me,” she says, in that same whisper from earlier. I’ll let her get away with omitting the please this time. The words alone make her shiver visibly, her hips rise and fall ever so slightly.

I kiss her lips again and say simply “Good.” my hand dips to her chest, but I linger there only shortly, I better not delay this for her. I push the fabric of her shorts, underwear, out of my way, and am met with glorious wet heat. 

I aim for gentle, but I’m afraid I miss the target. Her thighs are sticky with wetness. Her breath catches in her throat when her cunt draws me in and I feel her walls wrap around two of my fingers desperately, like her body has been begging for this. It occurs to me that we forgot to shut the door behind us: the whole neighborhood could be hearing what I am—her sounds are not reserved. I don’t think she could hold back if she tried, judging by how she’s writhing under my touch. I place my free hand on her hips and steady her there. 

“More,” she chokes out, and I oblige. I fuck her with three fingers easily, exploring, lingering longer over the spots that I notice get her whining more. I can tell she’s going to come soon when her back arches and she starts to shake, so I trace her clit with my thumb. For a silent second, she looks right at me and in her dark pupils I see ecstasy. She bites her bottom lip for a moment and whispers “Oh, oh, God!” 

She comes explosively, and I kiss her as she does, delighting in how she moans into my mouth. I feel every rumbling tremble of her orgasm in my fingers. She shudders when I pull out. I lean away from the kiss and take her in: fully clothed but utterly undone, her hair is a mess and her face is flushed. Her eyes are watery, the mascara on her lower lashes has started to bleed. She smiles at me and reaches for my hand. I squeeze and return the smile. She takes a deep breath, stands up, and removes her shirt, then her shorts, then starts walking down the hall. 

“Are you coming?” She says over her shoulder, and I follow. 

Later, when I feel her cumming in my mouth, I think, as I often do, there is no better feeling than this. After I let her catch her breath, she asks if there’s anything she can do for me, which surprises me a little. 

“No,” I say, “I mostly top.” She looks confused, and I don’t feel like explaining, so I wave my hand and say, “I’m good. Are you good?” I ask, shifting the focus back to her.

“My boyfriend is gonna kill me,” she says. 

“Fuck him,” I say, and she laughs sweetly.

 “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck him.”