The Wallflower Responds

Door Number 3...Or The Wallflower Responds

Ooookay. Something’s going on. Guests gone, finally, after a housewarming party that’s reached into the wee hours. I’m still here, odd choice, but something in her quiet touch made me stay. He’s here, too, this man I just met tonight who made my mouth water when I shook his hand, he smells so good, like what I want a man to smell like, all motorcycles and pipe smoke. And other things, grease-stained fingernails and a smoker’s breathlessnesss, his hands looking like they’d know what to do with a woman’s body. And so I am woozy in the delirium of the instantly smitten, and she passes by, dainty as an hors d’oeuvre, with her lustrous hair and caramel skin, puts her arm around my waist in welcome and something else, her wrists infusing my clothes with the smell of sandalwood, and later, as most of the gusts are leaving, I kiss him, a bold move on my part since I didn’t know him at all practically, only want to emblazon my mouth on his, and he is alright, stays there, murmuring his assent, and she returns to the room where we are sitting, my leg thrown over his feet, and she sits down, pats my thigh and swirls her fingers through my hair and giggles and it fees like thoughts are being generated but not articulated and then suddenly, it is just me and him and her and her housemate and it is so, so late and she’s saying “Why don’t you guys just spend the night with me? It’s too late to go home,” and there is something there, some hint of a something, I can’t place it, don’t want to place it, don’t know what it means just yet.

No. Scratch that. I think I know what it means, and can’t quite wrap my mind around it. What is she saying, exactly? Stay with her? Like, as in sleep? As in sleep with me, as in a threesome? Omigod. What would my mother/father/sister/brother think? But before I even have time to figure out what I think, I am being guided through to her bedroom, him too, and we stand there not quite knowing what to do with our hands as she lights a single candle and fluffs pillows and - am I imagining it? - giggles softly, warmly, under her breath. And then she is disappearing, shutting the door behind her, and we are there, he and I, lying on the bed, turning to each other like question marks. “Do you think...” I’m saying, not finishing the sentence, afraid of the words that are there on the other end. “I don’t know,” he finishes for me, and there is silence, we are waiting for footsteps to return, we are waiting for instructions, and there are none.

The air turns gardenia. I roll onto him, kiss him like he’s mine already. Without restraint or caution. Night does this, gives permission. And he’s answering back, ardent tongue, wet, wet mouth. I switch gears, decide she’s not coming back, decide this room is ours. I am relieved, yes - this isn’t me anyway, is it? this threesome thing? - but after he and I have collided for a few more minutes, her absence begins to feel palpable. Where’d she go, anyway? and I am saying this now, aloud, to him, not realizing that what I mean is that she should be here, too, this is her bed her room her house.

“I’m gonna go see where she is,” I tell him, getting up, knees not quite ready. He doesn’t tell me to stop, looks prepared for anything now, eyes wide and hungry. I find her in her housemate’s bedroom, wrapped up in his blankets, giggling with him. They are chattering away, and I enter cautiously, sheepishly, fumbling and cotton-feeling. “Hi!” I say brightly, as if this is what I normally do on the weekends, as if I am no stranger to this sort of scenario. They are beaming from his bed, she’s giving me this grin, this grin, another giggle, I’m not sure what she’s insinuating. I hop on the bed with them - it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, I don’t care about decorum right now, I want to get this straight - hey, now, what did you intend by plopping us into your room like that - but I don’t say this at all, of course, the language isn’t there yet, the scene’s too foggy, and I’m afraid of the answer just a little, afraid but titillated and wanting some of the old rebelliousness back, something I wouldn’t want to share with my mother/father/brother/sister, something totally mine.

“I’m going to go check in on him,” she says, giggly again, and so I am there, with her housemate I barely know - although enough to sense he’s gay - and I relax a little, get comfortable, and he asks how I’m doing and I say “I don’t know what’s going on” and he laughs and says “What do you want to go on?” and I’m confused, I didn’t realize it was my choice, too, just thought I was being drawn into a picture imagined by one painter only and no, that’s not true is it, I wanted to be in there, somehow, positioned myself accordingly. I am afraid to say it, afraid to tell this man, this gay man who probably wouldn’t judge anyway, that I think I am being invited into something, into this omigod mother/father/sister/brother what-would-they-think threesome, and it...is...too good to pass up.

“I want to see what’s behind door number 3,” I say, the best way I can understand this situation, the elusive prize that’s only going to be revealed once I choose it, the first and second perfectly good but the third way out of proportion to the rest, that’s what it is, and I’m hopping out of his bed before I can think too much, hopping out the door, happy bunny realizing the cage has been left wide open and I go back to the room where I came from and the door is closed.

And I’m standing there, not knowing what to do, not knowing if the invitation’s still there, and then wondering if I misread everything - his kiss, her tousle, the candle. No, no, I’m not stupid, even if I’ve never done this before, this is, like, over-the-top-blatant. I’m supposed to be here, right? Right? Oh, shit, what am I supposed to do, what I am I doing, what am I doing now turning this knob and stepping into a room, scented with gardenia candle, nuanced with sex, and wait, they’re kissing, noisily, wetly, and I am standing there looking at this man and a woman making out and wondering what I’m doing there and then they’re turning to find me and everything stops for a really long minute and there’s a giggle from everyone and then I plunge in, just dash myself on the bed, unthinking.

And now there is no time for second-guessing. His tongue is in my mouth. Her hand finds my left breast, pins it with her thumb. His fingers are going down, down, down, flicking the snaps off my jeans and - bent on reaching cunt - crawling inside, squirreling under my underwear. And it’s not just them. It’s me. My body’s doing this, too. But it’s not my body on her own, no, it’s me, it is me here, that’s who it really is, on this bed at 3:30 in the morning, dancing between this man and this woman, swapping mouths. Her lips are almost more than I can handle, all pillowed strawberry. My kiss unwraps itself of a dormant desire, and I graze and linger and taste everything, my hands on his ass now, and it is a brilliant choreography, I can’t believe what I can do with my limbs all twisted like this, but here it is, here we are, supple, gorgeous, elongated, the night delirious and my timid mouth finally opens, opens wide, finds her breasts and articulates their shape with my tongue, and his body straddles us both, and then my body’s sprawled out, too, reaching into the far corners of their bodies and 4, 5, 6 a.m. swoons by and mother/father/sister/brother disappear for a little while into a tiny sort of oblivion and all the while gardenia is blooming, blooming blooming from that single candle.