On route to Glenda’s, I indulged in the memory of the night we redefined our friendship in terms of benefits. I had just pulled the cork on a bottle of easy Spanish wine, when a bolt of easy lightning struck an easy transformer and my basement apartment went easy dark. By the glow of easy candlelight, we sipped warm Tempranillo to the sound of the rain sluicing the streets for spare change; our plans to watch a film dashed by the lack of electricity, but it didn’t really matter what we did, or how we did it, because wasting time together was never about doing things as much as it was about the two of us unconsciously setting ourselves up for the moment of redefinition.
We were easy company. Too easy, for my liking. I mean, I had only ever been involved in complicated relationships that on any given night would start out with a dinner, a few drinks and some chitchat, and a few hours later there were tear-stained faces, shouting voices, and maybe even a little physical violence, mostly perpetrated against me, and deservedly so, because my insecurities and my perceived inadequacies loved nothing more than to luxuriate in the rolling boil of alcohol while gossiping to one another about all the little things that went unsaid. It was as tedious as it sounds, and so was the so-called redemption that arrived in the conventional manner, usually in the early morning when I’d wake up to my erection being deliberately ground against wisdom teeth, and then an hour or two of rough sex would stuff everything from the night before back inside the dodgy suitcase of reality. Glenda, however, changed all that with her lack of convention, her lack of proprietary intent, and her lack of baggage when it came to intimacy and pretty much every other aspect of friendships built for benefits.
We were lying next to each other but apart from each other, under an open window, listening to the rain as it gathered enough spare change for another bottle of warm Tempranillo, and I suppose it was this second bottle of wine that made me say what I said, or perhaps the seedling of my lust had finally pushed its roots down far enough for it to bloom out my mouth like an early April crocus: “Our minds,” I said, pausing at the crackle of electricity in the transformer, “are naked when we’re together.”
Acknowledging me with a smile more Duchenne than flirtatious, she lifted her cashmere sweater over the small swells of her breasts the colour of cacao, and then she looked at me as she unbuttoned her jeans and slid her hand beneath the waistband of her underwear, announcing the play of her fingers with a tilt of her head and a sigh that put a glistening bead of fluid on the tip of my cock, as a river of hot blood tested the banks of my veins. And after reading the plainly written scroll of the moment, I put my mouth on the heat of her neck, took hold of her girlish hips and pressed myself into the heat of her offering.