Your desire is to dress me. You're hip-deep in our closet, pulling out things I haven't worn — or seen — in years. We're going dancing, and you want to me to look, as you put it, special. I'm deeply suspicious of what you mean by special.
     My fingers drum against the silk comforter cover, making no noise. You emit a squeal, almost a squeal, of triumph and pull something from the closet's darkest recesses. It's crimson and lacy, with huge shoulder pads and a short, asymmetric petal skirt. Something we bought at Buffalo Exchange back when it was still in business — back when I was still a size 8.
      "This is fabulous!" Your cry is all teasing delight.
      "Get real, Lynn. I'll never fit into that."
      "Don't overestimate yourself, dear." You lay the dress on the bed. The lamp on the nightstand makes splashy highlights all over the convoluted folds of the slick fabric. "Do you still have any thigh-hi fishnets?"
      "No."
      "Not to worry. I think I do." You smile wickedly, bend, and come up with something else. "Oh, here we go."
     Not stockings, but my one pair of fancy pumps; black and shiny with 4" heels.
      "Lynn, I can't dance in those!"
     You looked at me, your smile stretching towards your ears. "We'll work it out."

The club is good tonight. The regulars are out in force: the dance floor is crowded with everything from leather to satin, handcuffs to lace. Over by the door is a cute baby dyke in expensive black leather who cruised me on the way in. In another age, I might have gone home with her; we have the same taste in catalogs. You're dancing with two men; two clean-cut boys in too sharp linen suits. They must be gay — they're much too beautiful not to be.
     Cramps in my calves are making me sit out this set (I told you these heels would never work), but I don't really mind, because now I get to watch you dance.
     I get religion when I watch you dance. You're a much better dancer than I am. When we dance together, you pour me full of your rhythm and I have no choice but to follow. You make me fluid, you give me grace. It's a gift I've never gotten from anyone but you.
     Now I watch you, Goddess radiant, as you spin and weave and twirl. Your dance has captured the two boys dancing with you, drawn them in like moths to a flame — a cliche, but oh-so apt.
     By the end of the song, we're all sweating. You come back to our table, breathing hard, trailing the boys behind you. Catching a waitress on the fly, you order us drinks — I change mine from whatever-you-said to ice water — and sit down. Indicating me with an imperial gesture, you make introductions.
      "Rick and Todd, this is Jen. Jen, this is Rick and Todd." Rick-&-Todd nod and say "Greetings!" in perfect harmony. Definitely gay, probably lovers. We shake hands; the one who's the better dancer, the one on the left — Todd? — has the firmer handshake.
      "You look fabulous," Todd(?) says. "Who does your hair?"
      "The culprit is over there," I answer, pointing at you. You'd teased my hair into this huge, frothy crown, held up with most of a can of hair spray. His own hair is sleek black and he has almond eyes, dark brown with an alarming touch of green in them, and flawless skin the color of caramel just before it burns. He's altogether too lovely, in a kind of way that makes my palms sweat. I'm wishing (not desperately, but close) he didn't have that inconvenient Y­chromosome.
      "Be proud," he says to you. "Good enough to eat. And the dress is inspired."
      "Maybe she'll loan it to you."
      "Could I follow you home then?"
      "Maybe you could follow me home now." The remark is meant to scandalize me, more than them. Just for you, I roll my eyes. You smile angelically.
     Rick(?) laughs. "I should have warned you, Todd's an outrageous flirt."
      "So's Lynn," I answer. You smile angelically and whisper something in Todd's ear, something equally scandalous from the look on his face.
      "Quite a pair." Rick says to me, amusement all over him like cream.
     I couldn't agree more.
     Minutes pass, the waitress brings our drinks, serving them with that little dip of the knees that keeps us glimpsing the crimson silk panties I'm imagining she wears under that tight knit shirt, and I've completely lost track of the conversation. So when you say, ". . . and Jen's an artist," it catches me totally by surprise.
      "Oh?" says Todd with dazzling smile. "And how do you express your art?"
      "With Vaseline or paint brush," I reply, a little nettled by his impish tone. "Depending on my mood."
      "I meant what style," Todd explains, cute lips twitching with a suppressed chuckle.
      "Actually, I'm slavishly representational."
      "Oh! An iconoclast!" laughs Rick. "We've lost him, now. He's completely ensnared!" This last directed at you, with a smile that mimics Todd's, but isn't as bright. "Todd is a recovering dadaist," he says to me, "but we live in fear of his back-sliding."
      "Wad it and shove it, Rick dear."
     And in the midst of our laughter, the band starts up. "Let's dance!" you announce, motioning the boys to join us. I catch your hand, stroking your palm in the tactile code that means sex when we get home. You turn, the rising music swallows the sound of your reply, but I can read your lips clearly — just one song.

At home, I lower my head between your open thighs. Eyes closed, you use one hand to nudge me closer while the other parts your dewy lips for me. You're wet — have been wet since we'd gotten in the car. I smelled it: the hot, heady fragrance of you, smelled it on your fingers when you kissed me — short and hard ­- at a stoplight, biting my lip in that special way that lets me know we aren't going to make it to the bedroom. . .
     We haven't. Our clothes are scattered in the tiled entry way and I'm lying across the naked tangle of you on the plush Tabriz rug in the living-room. Our veins are full of adrenal fire from the dancing; from the noise and the smoke and the heat, and I keep seeing Todd's dark alarming eyes overlaying yours and wonder: did you ever fantasize about guys when we fucked?
     I brushed a knuckle along your large and elaborately furled inner lips, preparing to enter. Your hand stopped me.
      "No," you whispered, so softly I had to strain to hear it. "No fingers. Just tongue — just give me your tongue."
     I let you pull my hand behind my back and hold it there. But I'm surprised — you usually like penetration. Your other hand tugs gently on the back of my neck, and I lean forward for my first loving taste. You shudder, your breath catching.
     What are you thinking of? You are a match, you and Todd; the same sleek dark looks; the same well-oiled, tight-sprung grace on the dance floor. Well — not exactly the same, but closer than I've ever seen before.
     In the car, I'd asked what you'd whispered in Todd's ear. You said, "I told him, if I was a man, I'd let him follow me anywhere." The words burned, deep and unexpected, igniting unaccustomed fires. If you were a man —
     I dragged my tongue through the ornate swirls of your labia, your rich juice smearing my cheeks and chin, inhaling your musk, richer now and salt-sharp.
     How would you smell if you were a man? Earthier, I guessed. Deeper and more pungent.
     I washed my tongue over your swollen lips, reached for your clit tucked tightly in its folds of sweet flesh. Yours is bigger than mine — redder, the hood longer. I kept my lips around it, holding it tenderly, like a tiny cock. You moaned and your hands slid down to your calves, spreading your legs wider. Between my lips, your clit twitched, swelling against my tongue — just like a cock. I felt the texture change, get pebbly, as you seemed to grow and lengthen in my mouth. . .
     If you were a man —

I imagined your cock in my mouth, filling me with your rank, hot man-taste. Sliding it between my lips, I revel in the many textures; the silkiness of the thin skin, the thin lines of the veins, the delicate granularity beneath the oval crown. I feel it grow hard — hard, soft, and silken altogether. Your hips begin to push, daring to me to take it all, face-fucking me. I open my throat to you willingly, drinking your swelling male force. The muscles in your hard-ridged belly start to roll and I know you're about to come —
     Will I let you come? Let you spurt your tangy cream into my throat? Or will I push you back, squeezing down selfishly at the base of your shaft, so that you plop from my lips, wet and urgent? Yes, I think I like that idea: denying your orgasm, your burning impatient need; calling from you a guttural sound, a sound that says how much you want to fuck me. You won't be denied long. You'll flip me over on my knees and yank them apart. My ass lifts high as I present for you. You pull my hips up against yours and your hand on the small of my back pushes me down, tilting my pelvis farther up, opening me wider. My face rasps against the harsh pile of the rug as you take my wrists and imprison them behind my back. You run that hot tense length between my lips — my slick, waiting lips — and then, grunting, push into me. I feel your hard, hairy thighs against the backs of mine and my cunt is full of your heat. I moan, and moan louder as you pull out and fuck into me again, squishing through my wetness. I slam my ass against you, grind my ass into the coarseness of your pubic hair, wanting — no, demanding your cock, your fucking cock, grinding forbidden words between clenched teeth — fuck me yes fuck me fuck — and you wrap a fist in my hair and pull my head back, arching my neck, holding me taut as you do just that, hard and sharp, making me cry out; cries you answer with bestial noises, noises that tell me how close you are to coming. I feel your cock swell, you grab my hips with both hands and spear into me, driving deep, making me scream as your thick hot jets splash off my nectar-running walls. . .
     Suddenly you arch, pushing your fragrant cunt up to me, cramming my face against your wide-open carmine mouth. My tongue is reaching deep into you, licking at your heart through your honeyed tunnel. You moan from deep behind your solar plexus and your hips pulse. You capture me with your fierce, passionate, tender hands and hold me still as you rock your clit in my mouth. I suck and suck until you scream loose a trashing, hollering orgasm that I mouth-surf until you finally fall back gasping, quivering. Spent.
     Grinning, I raised my head from between your legs and wiped my face on the sweaty skin on your inner thigh. You watched me with huge, fevered eyes. "Jesus! What got into you?"
     In response, I dipped a finger into your pussy and brought the liquid up to your nipples. As I rubbed it in, you caught my hand. "Don't. Oh God. You'll kill me. Jeesusss . . ."
     I crawled up you, sliding my sweaty body along yours, to join our wet soft lips; to learn you again, cherishing your smooth, sweet woman-shape warm beneath mine. And afterwards, when we were both snuggled into bed, you enfolded me deliciously in your arms, and asked again, "What got into to you?"
     I shook my head, my eyes shut tight, my face pressed into the damp hollow of your neck and shoulder, and shrugged. You took an answer from that and rocked me gently until I fell asleep.

But the night was restless, and full of unquiet dreams.