Fucking With Friends

We’re sitting on my bed, watching a movie, and I wonder what’s going to happen next. Mostly because I remember what happened last time we were here: hours of sex. Which wasn’t a new thing or a first time when we did it last time we were in some casually, laid back bedroom repose, but it had been a while since we had fucked. And that’s why I’m wondering what happens next: does one of us turn to the other with that glinting look in his eyes, and utter those beautiful, magical, romantic words: “Let’s fuck.” Or are we going to sit here, politely not touching each other too much on this bed while we wait for the movie credits to roll, and then he leaves, and then we hang out again, and we continue to not fuck on and off until we fuck again. The exact tenets of this sexual relationship are currently unspecified, which is why I’m sitting with my hands in my lap, right where they should be, in plain sight, and not creeping up around zippers or under shirts or on top pant bulges or slyly pulling up the hem of my own skirt to reveal a few extra inches of wet, raging thighs as the impetus for inspiring a little bit more lust before the sexual tension breaks heaving and fucking and licking and dripping like I want it to. There are no sexual guarantees when he walks into the room, which is fine by me because we’re just friends, but which is also why I’m sneaking little glimpses at my phone as I’m waiting for my Saturday night booty call to come rolling in as a contingency plan on the off chance that I don’t get to take off my clothes within the next thirty minutes. But we’re just friends, so I know that doesn’t bother him.