Love / Places & Travel / Sex & Love

Cuddle Puddle In Portland

“So, should we go lie down next to L?”

He was standing over me, 6”4, shirtless, sweat beading on his belly, rugged and raw and manly in the unrelenting Oregon sun.

I emptied my cup of wine in one quick swallow and wordlessly walked over to the grassy patch where my best friend was drying off after our dip in the lake.

“I want to be in the middle,” he declared, stretching himself between us.

“Wha? What’s happening?” she murmured, momentarily lifting herself on her elbow, drowsy with sun and red wine.

“Shhhh, Blondie,” I coaxed her back down, gently petting her warm hair.

We rested on either side of him, barely touching, hardly breathing. We stayed like this for some time, but then slowly, imperceptibly, our faces crept up to rest on his shoulders, and then, somehow, his chest. Our thighs wrapped around his, hers in a “death grip” as she would later tell me while we collapsed into laughter on our bed.

He began to massage us, knuckles kneading our shoulders, strong hands moving underneath our blades and down our spines, practiced fingers pressing on our lower backs, fingertips drawing slow, luxurious circles on the flesh right above our bikini bottoms (Oh! Those fingers! What manifold pleasures we derived from remembering his fingers that night and many a morning shower thereafter!).

“I always look at a man’s hands first. I think they tell you everything,” L whispered in the dark hotel room hours later.

“Me too!” I exclaimed. “Mmmmm. Hands. Fingers. But they have to be just so, the right length and the right width and the right – -”

“Taste,” she interrupted, setting us off into another bout of delirious laughter.

We had ample opportunity to delight in his fingers as they slipped ever so slightly underneath our bikinis, gently shifting up and down, up and down, moving no more than a millimeter, as we both arched our backs in unplanned synchronicity. My eyes trailed down to the impressive outline in his trunks as my thighs edged upward, pressing and caressing and not giving a damn about the family of five frolicking in the lake. We had our own pleasures to attend to, after all. And it had been so long for the both of us. So very, very long.

Which is why we had decided the night before that we would, well, share him.

We had met him just two day earlier. He walked into a café, shirt unbuttoned far past any appropriate place, head full of brown, shaggy curls, soft facial hair sprouting in no identifiable pattern, restless as his long, lean legs and the dog that never left his side. “Mmmmm, they don’t make ‘em like that in New York,” I grinned.

I watched in mild shock as he sidled up next to L.

“Hey. Told you I’d find you.”

“Hi!” she flashed her famous smile at him, mouthing “Oh my effin God” to me as he leaned in for a hug.

They were Facebook friends, meeting in the flesh for the first time.

We downed beers and devoured tacos and talked about feminist strip clubs, while he drove us all over Portland. The car smelled like leather, like dog, like sweat, like heat, like cigarettes, and the sort of sexual energy that hums and makes you aware of every miniscule movement. Like when our hands touched as we reached for the radio, when some of L’s hair spilled over and tickled the side of my neck, when she leaned over and her breast grazed his shoulder, when he caught me eyeing him and smiled.

Later, L and I would compare notes about what had happened while one of us was in the bathroom or getting a drink and the other one was alone with him. After he bought her some tequila, he opened his shirt even wider and told L that she can have the salt off his chest to go with her shot. “I think I literally licked my lips,” she said.

Standing on line at the coffee shop, he told me he wanted to carry me on his shoulders – something he would do the next day in the lake, asking why I was “so slippery.” Because I lathered myself in ten pounds of lotion this morning hoping you would touch me I thought, but only laughed as I slid out of his hands, firm on my hips, and did a back flip in the clear water, kicking my legs, faster and faster, swimming out further, gulping in air and lake water.

While the sun dried my bathing suit, I parted my mouth ever so slightly on his chest and wondered what would happen if I ran my tongue over his neck. When L and I had agreed to share him the night before, we hadn’t laid down any concrete plans. We had simply recognized twin desires in each other’s eyes and wanted the other to feel good during this brief, beautiful stay in Portland. It had felt so wonderful to be flirted with, to desire and be desired in return, to feel a man’s scruff against your cheek, to watch him softly rub a pink petal between his thumb and forefinger, hearts racing because we had snuck into the rose garden and because we were lying on the moist grass in the dark.

No, we hadn’t established any rules, set no parameters, expressed no expectations. We had merely decided that we loved each other and both deserved whatever joy would come our way. We had almost forgotten how lonely we were, how hard it has been to be untouched for so long. But that day reminded us, both of the passion we were capable of and the hunger.

And so I wondered what would happen if I let my fingers slide down his stomach, lower, and then lower still, what would happen if I rubbed my thigh over the outline in his shorts, what would happen if I leaned over and kissed my friend on the mouth? What then would this innocent threesome become? Suddenly, L took my hand in hers to rest on his chest and whispered, “I am so happy right now, I could die.” I looked at my beautiful friend through the soft chest hair of the gorgeous man we were cuddling with on a stunning summer day in Portland, as he pressed both of us closer to him, gurgling with satisfaction. And it was delicious.

Marina R. is an English teacher, an online entrepreneur, a foodie, and above all, a feminist.

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