Tell Me

I can see her in my rear view mirror.

I try to keep my eyes on the road ahead, but the red truck behind me lingers at the edge of my peripheral vision. When I begrudgingly steal a longer glance, I see she’s got one hand at the top of her steering wheel – calm, casual-like – and an unreadable expression on her face. That eternally vague expression gets under my skin like nothing else.

That’s what this is all about, really. It started with the phone call from the manor—they told me they were closing for repairs after a fire had afflicted the old building, the dry wood being perfect kindling to spread the flames. We had to cancel the regal weekend away we’d planned a year in advance. I’d held back tears when I told Cam; our anniversary weekend trip was the thing keeping me going through a tough work year, the thing I was looking forward to for so long. Gone.

Cam had been considerably less upset, hardly phased at all, in fact. And that had set me off.

Five years is the longest relationship either of us have been in, and we’d wanted to make a celebration of it. To have our plans cancelled felt like a targeted affront to our relationship. Stewing alone in my disappointment felt like betrayal. It’s a recurring theme with Cam and I: me being too sensational, and her being emotionally disengaged.

It was part of her charm at first. Mysterious. Intriguing. A difficult puzzle to solve. Initially, our contrast was what we thought defined us as a couple, a strength of our shared character. We’ve balanced each other’s extremes for five years, but this emotional withdrawal was my tipping point.

Granted, I shouldn’t have stormed out like I did. I could feel myself getting hot, knew I was making a futile decision even while I grabbed my car keys. A tendency to be both over-emotional and completely self-aware is a cruel curse. I should’ve initiated a mature conversation, encouraged her to help me understand her reluctance to communicate, maybe try to get to the root of the problem. But where Cam runs cool, I am blazing.

Now, I try not to catch her eyes in the mirror, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of having my attention. My skin feels sticky in the summer heat, and the red hot fever of anger only adds to my discomfort. I roll my window down to let in some air, but it’s too humid and only makes me feel stuffier. I speed up and lower the window all the way. It brings some much welcomed coolness inside.

The road is dusty and dry, and as we drive along, the dirt kicks up from the side of the cars. Either side of the track is farmland, going for miles, crops in various stages of growth stretching as far as I can see. In the distance, cows and sheep graze, the grass burned yellow-green by the Texas sun. The road is mostly used by local farmers, connecting the rural land to the next town. We still haven’t passed another car, and we’re unlikely to, as Cam’s in the farm’s truck and town folk don’t like to get their cars dirty.

I wish she would use the secluded road to make some romantic gesture, drive up beside me and yell apologetically out the window, beg me to forgive her, and disclose all her feelings. But she’s as emotionally repressed as any Southern country boy I’ve met.

Cam’s Mama didn’t expect her to be a girl, having had three sons before and her husband being one of six boys. In her childhood pictures, it was easy to mistake Cam for one of her brothers, especially when she was photographed on the farm. I used to imagine that they all shared a wardrobe filled with four identical sets of shirts, jeans, and boots, and that they all lined up, looking like quadruplets behind the wooden chair in the kitchen, waiting for their Mama to give them identical haircuts. Cam was brought up just like her brothers, and the boys in her area – especially those whose daddies were farmers – were supposed to be strong and collected, the skills to wrangle cattle valued a thousand times over emotional perceptiveness.

I look back in the mirror—Cam has the same expression as she did before. One lazy hand on the wheel, emotionless stare. She hasn’t even taken off her cowboy hat in the heat. I feel my frustration bubbling up again, and I pull over to the side of the road. She follows, and I’m out the door before she parks.

It amazes me that we can be so different. I’m aflame with irritation, and she’s so controlled as she idles over to me, the slow close of the truck door echoing along the deserted road.

“I’m sorry,” she says, the easy drawl of her accent matching her nature – composed, going nowhere fast.

“Are you? You know, most of the time I can’t tell.”

She shrugs. “I’m sorry that it upsets you, but I can’t change who I am.”

One of the only passionate expressions Cam ever reveals is a surety in who she is. I know that it comes from regretful experience, the lost years when she knew exactly who she was but denied herself the luxury of living it. It reminds me of the first – and one of the only – nights she opened up to me, a year after we’d met at a party in uptown New Orleans while she was visiting a friend at Loyola. After too much wine, Cam had told me about the time she’d kissed a guy when she was seventeen. As she spoke, her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cure it. She remembered the weight of his hand on her back, she said, the way he clung to her hips as though if he let go, she’d simply drift away. She said she felt like she did drift away, in her head, like her body had split from her mind like oil and water. It didn’t feel like her body was hers, she said, he had taken control of it, and he would squeeze it and contort it for his own pleasure.

She’d stopped kissing him then, and when she got home, she told her parents and brothers that she was a lesbian. On that night, she told me that every time she kissed a woman, every time her hand slid up a soft thigh, and every time she smelled the hot wetness of desire, it was her reward for being brave. It served as a reminder to be grateful to be able to live authentically.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t want that. I just want you to let me in on what’s happening in your head.”

As usual, there’s a pause where there should be a display of emotion from Cam.

“I’m kind of hungry,” she offers.

“Cam.”

“What?” She chuckles. “I’m telling you what I’m thinking.”

“Hunger is not enough. I want substance. I want… I want to know when you’re sad. And I want to know why you’re sad, and how we can deal with it. I want to know what I can do to make you feel better. I want to know what you want. I know it’s not how you were brought up but it’s normal to talk about those things. It’s healthy.”

She looks away from me now. Even talk of talking makes her uncomfortable.

“Okay, look, I’ll go first. I love the way you look in that hat, but it’s driving me crazy that you can wear it in this heat.”

She laughs at the ground, tsking under her breath, “You’ve always got it out for my damn hat.”

“Right, now you go.”

Another pause. She looks to me, as if for help. When I don’t prompt her, she shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, Cam!” I throw my hands down. I hate how childish it is, but I’m on the last straw. “Can’t you just tell me how you feel? What can I do that will give you what you want? What can I do?”

“You want me to tell you what to do?”

“Yes.”

She smirks, somewhat smugly to herself, then says, “Lean back.”

“What?”

She ambles towards me, keeping her eyes on mine the entire time. I’m taken aback by how dark her gaze seems, like she really is as hungry as she said and I’m the meal. Hard, steady, determined steps crunch the dust under her boots until she’s just a pace in front of me. A breath gets caught in my throat, and in the silence, it sounds deafening.

She chuckles, clearly pleased at the effect she’s having on me, but then her face is straight, serious, and she enunciates in a low voice, “Lean back.”

I rest against the front of my car, the heat of the hood making me gasp as it touches the backs of my thighs.

“The metal’s hot,” I say.

Her fingers begin to work the buttons of my blouse. “Let’s take some clothes off you, then.”

My blouse falls from my shoulders, and the hot wind blows past gently, swirling the dry dirt around our feet. I stand in just my jean shorts and bralette, and Cam’s in her typical dusty blue jeans and shirt, topped with her beloved hat. Even after eight years, it still perplexes me when Southerners hardly bat an eyelid at the searing heat. The sun is beating down against the thin skin of my chest, and the absurdity of it all hits me. I can never understand how we end up in these situations, how Cam knows how to twist me around her little finger so effortlessly. We have some sort of organic, chemical connection that no amount of compromise can alter.

Cam presses her palm to the small of my back. I think she’s going to kiss me, and I close my eyes, ready for the pressure of her lips on mine. Nothing happens. I open my eyes to see her looking at me and doing something behind my back. I want to lift up and kiss her myself, but something about the look on her face makes me stay still. With a tap to my side and a nod of her head, I hop onto the hood, where the blouse is draped under me. I can still feel the warmth of the car through the blouse, but it’s pleasant, almost soothing.

She takes several steps back and smiles a dirty smile, observing the hunt she’s got spread on the front of the car. “Open your legs.”

My cheeks erupt in redness, and instinctively, I glance around to check for passers-by.

“No one’s here. Now, open your legs for me.”

Slowly, I do as she says, and when a hot breeze blows by, it cools against my wetness. I can feel her eyes on me as tangibly as if they were her hands, burning my skin and making me ache for her.

“Come here,” I say, but she stays in place.

“No. I want to look at you.”

My heart speeds up. It’s both arousing and intimidating to be under such a scrutinous gaze. I take a big steady breath to collect my desires.

“Are you alright, baby?” Cam asks with an entertained lilt. “Is this turning you on?”

I don’t say anything, just challenge her by holding eye contact. I run my hands down my torso to between my legs and bite my lip, hoping it’s enough to get her to come forward and replace my hands with her own.

“You like that, huh? Come on baby, tell me how you feel,” she croons, clearly pleased with herself and her imitation of me.

“I feel like you should come here and fuck me. See? It’s easy for me to say what I want.”

She points a finger at me, “You better watch that attitude, otherwise I might just hop in my truck and drive away. Leave you here sprawled on the hood wet and wanting.”

“Cam, please,” I croak desperately, squeezing my tits.

Finally, she moves between my legs, and I pull her flush to me with one leg around her waist. My hands go up to her head, but she grabs my wrists and presses them down onto the hot hood.

“Don’t touch the hat,” she says, her eyes unwavering, as she leans in to kiss me.

We’re gentle at first – slow, timid, closed-mouth kisses to see who will be the first to break – but soon enough I feel her hot breath in my mouth, and I lose control. I lick over her lips, and when her tongue comes out to meet mine, my hips thrust forward, trying to get close, closer, but it’s never enough. I open my jaw wide. I want her tongue to carve every crevice of my mouth. I want it so far down my throat that I choke. She holds my tongue between her lips and sucks, up and down, up and down, and when her hands squeeze my hips, I moan into her mouth. As we kiss, wet and deep, her hand moves to undo the fastening of my shorts.

She pulls away and my jaw aches, lips swollen and chin wet. I slide off the car as she kneels in front of me and pulls my shorts down. I feel her hot breath against my panties and stifle a groan. I paw at the shoulders of her shirt; she’s still fully clothed, and I’m in my underwear.

“Get back on the car.”

“Aren’t you going to–”

“Get.”

When I’m back on the hood, Cam places her hands on the tops of my thighs, splaying her fingers until they cover the entire breadth of my thighs. She smooths her palms down the length of my legs, and when she reaches my shins, she suddenly hoists my legs up and pulls them further apart, resting my feet against a ledge in the car’s front. With her fingers tight around my ankles, she finally breaks eye contact and leans towards my center.

“Mmmm,” she hums. “I love the smell of your pussy.”

Cam licks the length of my pussy over my panties, and I feel the fabric dampen with her saliva and my wetness. I pinch and pull at my nipples through my lace bralette as I watch her push my panties to the side and run the flat of her tongue over me, then wrapping her lips around my clit and sucking lightly. I lift my hips up for Cam to pull my panties off, and she discards them somewhere brazenly in the dirt. She pushes my legs further apart and buries her face so far into my cunt, all I see is that fucking cowboy hat. I feel her tongue sink inside of me and hear the wetness of it as she moves her face forward and back, fucking me with her tongue. I moan loudly, reaching to the side of me for some leverage, but I’m met with the sting of hot metal.

“Fuck,” I gasp, placing my hands below Cam’s hat and launching it into the road. I grab her hair in my fists and push her deeper into my pussy and grind into her face. Her nose bumps my clit, and I circle my hips, undulating against the pressure. It feels so good, I could come any second.

But Cam peels my fingers from her head and removes herself from me. I look down, flustered and confused at the loss. Her face glistens in the sun with sweat and saliva and my juices.

“I told you not to touch the hat,” she says, out of breath.

I reach for the ends of her hair to bring her back to me. “Cam, I need you.”

“You wanted to know how I feel? I’m mad that you touched the hat after I told you not to.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Cam, get up here and keep fucking me good like that.”

“Okay,” she says, creeping back towards me, a smug smile painted on her face. She licks a line from my navel to my chest, pulling down my bralette to lightly tug at my nipple with her teeth. “But you should know,” she smirks, “that I am very, very angry.”

She crashes her lips to mine, tongues messily battling, before shoving two fingers into my mouth. She inches them to the back of my throat, pushes them in and out, watching in rapture as my eyes water and my throat convulses. I gasp for air and reflexively swallow as she pulls them out of my mouth, and saliva drips down my chin.

And then they’re inside me, and it’s like relief, like I’ve been parched and am finally given water. It feels so right, my emptiness finally filled. Cam fucks me with her fingers, the back of her wrist pressing against her own crotch, thrusting forward with her hips, as though she were fucking me with a strap on. The car softly rocks and squeaks as she shoves inside of me. Her thumb rubs rough circles against my clit, and she rests her mouth at my ear, and I can hear her sighs as she exerts herself.

“What would you do if I stopped fucking you?” She asks, low and dark.

“Don’t stop,” I groan, clutching at her back, pulling her shirt up to feel the slickness of her skin. “I’d die. Please don’t stop fucking me.”

Her mouth envelops my ear lobe, and she whispers hotly, “Come on, baby. Be a good girl, come on my fingers for me. I want to feel your pussy pulse around my fingers.”

I reach the edge, and bright light erupts behind my eyes. As I come, my body shakes, and Cam keeps caressing me slowly. My body tries to recoil, the feeling almost too intense, too raw, but Cam slackens her motions, helps me ride through it, milking my orgasm for everything it’s worth.

“Oh my God,” I groan through a sated smile when my body has fully come down, and the twitching has subsided.

Cam rolls her head onto my chest, and I stroke a hand through her hair. We’re both slick and weary, eyelids too heavy to hold up against the harshness of the summer sun.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against my sticky skin.

“I’m sorry, too.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head and let my lips rest there, in the sweaty softness of her short hair.

“You know, we’re not as different as you think.”

“No?” I ask.

“We’re both stubborn as hell.”

We laugh together, that sort of heady silly laughter that’s reserved for intimate moments like these, when we’ve exposed our innermost selves to each other and both decided to stay.