Just Friends

His name was Ben. Tall, at least a few inches over six feet, his height, coupled with his broad shoulders and well-built body always made me feel small. Safe. Maybe even a little helpless.

We struck up an acquaintance at work; both of us bartenders at a local pub. He struck me as arrogant, cocky, self-involved. Not my type.

In retrospect, It was actually this skeptical first impression that led to the first conversations over after-work drinks. He looked the part of the macho gym rat: big muscles, tight T-shirts, and that cocky swagger that made me roll my eyes more times than I can count. But as I am continually shown time after time, it's unwise to judge a book by its cover.

Ben had warm brown eyes, and a truly contagious smile. I found myself watching the way he talked to customers. People of all ages and walks of life; when Ben leaned his elbows on the bar and rested his chin on his hands, he listened. And when he did you could see the person who had caught his attention light up. It really was a special gift he had.

Our friendship started innocently enough. We had a similar situation with our brothers, and we spent many hours lamenting their difficult plots in life. Sometimes the conversations were while he was still working and I would stay after to have a couple of beers. Sometimes we migrated out to my car to share a bowl and giggle and talk nonsense. He quickly became my favorite person to catch a buzz with.

Months passed, and other than a few hugs and backscratches, nothing happened between us, and I had no feelings of wanting anything more. We became closer and closer, and our fellow employees teased us about being like brother and sister with the way we would banter and play-fight behind the bar together.

One night a group of us went out after work to a seedy dance club that is definitely not my kind of place. I prefer craft beer and small quiet bars to shots and flashing lights, but I floated along with the group to the club, loosened up by enough beers to not have any hesitations.

Walking down the sidewalk, my arm around his waist and his around my shoulder, the laughter of our group carried down the street and we skipped along in that half drunken cocoon that makes everyone in a group feel closer.

I found myself slipping my hand into his back pocket and enjoying that comfortable warmth that comes with an innocent, intimate gesture. I felt his hand run over the roundness of my butt and give it a little squeeze. It wasn't that much of a leap. By that point in our friendship it was known that he was a butt guy and that he didn't think mine was too bad. Sex had of course come up in conversation, and our views were about we opposite as you can get. He had had ample opportunities to take home a pretty girl after a night of bartending, but he never did. He said it was because he just didn't want to deal with it- the kissing, the foreplay, the awkward time after. I often joked he just needed a wet orifice to stick it in. Conversely, I love all that comes with sex. I could kiss the right person for hours, I love giving head and snuggling and trying new things. I believe sexual touch is one of the most powerful things in the world, and I try to focus as much as I can whenever I'm with someone in that way.

We made it to the club, and I found myself increasingly wanting his attention in that way that sometimes happens when girls get tipsy. I also began noticing things I had never noticed before: his thick, dark eyelashes and his oversized, strong hands. His hands especially distracted me. I started to think about them sliding under my shirt whenever he hugged me, feeling the rough softness of them run up and down my back...

A few hours and too many shots later, we bid our group adieu and headed out into the cold to find my car. I had to drop him off before I could make the longer trek back to my own house. As I pulled up to his apartment, I realized I was a bit more drunk then I thought and decided to come up for some water and chill out for awhile.

As I sat on the overstuffed chair in the living room, the lateness of the night and the booze really started kicking in. I announced that I was going to sleep over for a few hours, and skipped to his bedroom, where I took off my jeans, and snugged under the covers facing the edge of the bed. So confident was I in the solidness of our friendship and our mutual lack of real interest, I knew nothing would happen.

A few minutes later as I lay in that peaceful overtired half-dreaming place, I felt the bed shift as Ben settled in for the night. I of course wanted to turn over and put my head on his chest and my arm around him; the warmth and smell and heartbeat of a man is about the nicest thing I can think of to fall asleep to. I stayed put out of his self-declared disdain for snuggling; no need to make him uncomfortable or have him mistake my closeness as something more.

Seconds after he laid down, I felt him come closer. He softly fit his body behind mine and slipped his arm around my waist. My heart started beating faster and I had the unmistakable feeling of tightness between my legs as the lengths of our bodies pressed together.

Trying to keep my breathing quiet and even so as not to let him know the effect he was having, I was hyper-aware of every movement. I noticed his breath, shallow, and when he swallowed the tightness of his throat made it audible. That's when I knew he was feeling it too.

His hand moved up my belly and rested at the top of my chest. His thumb so very lightly traversed the line where the cup of my bra met the soft skin beneath and I could feel my body start to respond. I arched my back just enough to move my butt towards him a fraction of an inch and I could just barely feel the hardness of him grazing my backside.

I was still unable to fully process what was going on: He's my friend! He hates this stuff! I don't even like him like this! My body was betraying me. I found myself turning over to face him. I kept my head buried in his chest; I, the lovey, cuddly, sex-positive one, was too scared to look at him, and I definitely didn't want to kiss him.

I slid one of my legs over his, and he pushed his leg in between mine until the hardness of his thigh was pressed up against me. I gasped a little at the sudden rush of sensation and my hips immediately began pressing more and more urgently against him. The silk of my underwear slid across his bare leg and I clutched his body in my arms, unsure, face still hidden.

I felt his hand on my butt, gently caressing at first and then more urgently grabbing and pulling my body towards him. Both of our breaths were coming in little gasps now and I was acutely aware of everything: the feeling of his bare chest against my face, the sound of his racing heart and how tightly he held me in his arms.

His hand traveled down my butt, lower, and suddenly it was between my legs. He pressed gently but insistently against the fabric covered softness, and I froze. I wanted him so badly, but we couldn't, right? His fingers found the edge of the material and the softness beneath and the sudden contact of his bare skin against mine made me jump. His fingers circled around slowly, caressing gently, exploring. I held my breath, torn by the thoughts in my head and the urgency of my body. I wanted his fingers inside me, now. My hips pressed towards his hand and when his fingers moved lower, my body instinctively strained to get closer. I gripped him tighter, feeling his body harden against mine. His finger gently spread me open and started to push slowly inside me. My back arched and I moaned as the new sensation took over body. Then, it hit me. It's Ben. I can't. Putting my hand flat against his chest I pushed away and said the two words that had been swimming in my head. "We shouldn't."

To be continued...