Page 23 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

How come Estelle is still here? I can only conclude that she must really like me. Despite all my antics, and the dreadful day I’ve had in anticipation of this date, it’s exhilarating. There’s still a lot of time to screw things up, as there always is, but there’s also so much promise.

We end up on the couch, just like last night, so close our knees are touching.

She’s telling a story about a co-worker at Berkeley who had an affair with her teaching assistant and I’m listening, although not as attentively as I could.

Instead, I’m taking in the exquisiteness of her gestures and how her lips curve when she speaks and the way her voice sometimes dips into a deliciously low register, smooth and warm, like something you want to wrap yourself in.

As she speaks, I fall for her more by the second.

How can I not fall for her? By her own admission, she’s far from perfect.

I know so well perfection is an invention of capitalism in order to make us buy more stuff we don’t need—also Suzy’s words—but when I look at Estelle like this all I see is perfection.

And even though I’m scared, I want her to stay.

Whatever ledge I was on regarding that, she talked me off it with her sweet words and boundless patience.

“Please, stay,” I reply, wholly inadequately, when she has finished.

“That story was not meant to turn you on,” she jokes—it must be a joke, but that’s the other thing about Estelle.

She’s clearly good-natured and able to see through my dramatic behavior, but she’s also full of surprises, and I don’t know yet whether they’ll end up being good or bad.

She says one thing, then contradicts herself with her actions, at least from my perspective.

She’s the opposite of boring. She keeps me on my toes and lets me fall apart.

Just like anyone else, she’s many things, and I can’t wait to unearth all her secret layers.

“You turn me on,” I say, because her directness has rubbed off on me. And it’s true, because a big part of my anxiety is caused by this new desire bubbling up inside me—a desire caused solely by Estelle Raymond.

No wonder I’ve been so confused, agitated and on edge.

I truly don’t know where my head is at. Just as I have no clue how my body will react to her presence in my bed.

I can try to predict things all I want, but it’s a waste of energy.

The only way to find out is to have her stay the night.

The worst that can happen is me suffering a brutal night sweat, like the one I had last night.

It had been a while since my sheets were drenched like that.

“I’d love to stay.” She puts a hand on my knee. “You set the pace. You’re in charge, okay?”

“Sure.” In response, I turn fully toward her and kiss her.

At first, I’m worried about the kind of message it may send—that I might not respect her boundaries—but then I let my worries go and I fully enjoy the sensation of her lips on mine, of her tongue in my mouth, the pressure of her hands on the back of my neck and, admittedly, the wild pulse in my clit.

* * *

Estelle leans against the doorframe, watching me as I brush my teeth.

I’m still clothed but she’s only wearing boy shorts and a tank top and I can’t stop sneaking glances in the mirror.

I do hear Suzy’s voice in my ear when I admire Estelle’s perfect physique and compare it to my imperfect one: “It’s the patriarchy, Cass, to reduce women to how they look.

” But it’s hard to be righteous when the view is so breathtaking.

Then the moment has come. I can’t slip under the covers in my jeans. I wouldn’t want to either. I want to feel as much of Estelle’s skin against mine as she will let me—because this is also an exercise in exploring boundaries.

“Do you want me to look away or do you want me to help?” This is not Estelle’s flirty tone of voice. It’s all warmth and understanding—and how she got me this far.

“Help,” I say, surprising myself. It might be the arousal speaking, which is swiftly winning all the battles in my head right now—another old-but-new sensation.

“It would be my pleasure.” She takes a step toward me and, slowly, undoes the top button of my blouse. Then another. And another.

Instead of worrying about the gradual exposure of my skin, for the first time since she has told me, I get a flicker of understanding of what it might be like to want to touch her and not be able to.

Because how she undresses me is electrifying and, for a moment, all I want to do is press my lips to that delicious patch of skin next to the strap of her tank top.

Or the soft swell of her biceps. Or, by god, the outline of her nipple pushing against the fabric.

She might have explicitly told me that touching her above the waist is okay, but I’m too trepidatious for that.

The moment is too delicate. Our connection too recent.

She has reached the bottom button and pulls open my blouse. I ignore the curve of my belly. It’s not that hard under the circumstances, with my blood raging in my veins as though I’m at least twenty years younger.

What does she feel? Will I ever know and, if I do, will I be able to comprehend it?

I should, because I know perfectly well what it feels like for your body not to respond to a sensual touch.

To an intimate approach by a loved one. But I can’t possibly imagine it in this moment because Estelle has just flipped open the button of my jeans and is now lowering the zipper and who the fuck is this woman and what is she doing to me?

Least of all, I recognize myself. I may accuse Estelle of saying one thing and doing the opposite, but I’m no better.

I’m not usually this fickle—if anything, according to my ex, I was much too stubborn when it came to this.

When it came to enjoying intimacy with this changing body I just couldn’t get used to.

So what am I doing here? My jeans decidedly on their way down and, oh fuck, what will she do once they’re off?

I soon find out, because Estelle is very adept at undressing a woman and before I know it both my jeans and blouse are draped over the back of a chair and I stand before her in just my underwear.

“Do you want me to take off your bra?” she asks.

I don’t think—I can no longer think. I just nod.

She looks me in the eye as she brings her hands behind my back and unclasps it.

Ever so slowly, she guides the straps off my shoulders.

As opposed to my jeans earlier, this takes forever.

Inch by inch, she bares my breasts, and all I can think of is how improbably hard my nipples are. And, also, how much I want her.

None of this is plausible. My level of arousal is beyond anything I’ve experienced in the past five years, since the sudden death of my libido with no resuscitation possible.

When my body started acting so erratically, I grew more and more disgusted by it.

Then the extra pounds came. Then, nothing.

Until Estelle Raymond came to town—and told me she was asexual.

“You’re so beautiful, Cass,” she whispers, and the most absurd thing of all is that I believe her.

I don’t question her words for a single second.

Because there’s no room in my brain for doubts.

My mind is suffused with lust, and my clit thumps wildly against the fabric of my panties.

I honestly didn’t know it could still do that.

She slides my bra along my arms and throws it over her shoulder, as though she can’t keep her eyes off me for even a short moment.

“Can I touch you?” Her voice is so soft and low and smooth, it feels like a caress.

Again, I just nod.

She cups my breasts in her hands so delicately, as though they are the most precious objects on Earth. So much for just spooning tonight. Featherlight, her thumbs skate along my nipples and I lose a little more of my breath—and of who I’ve been the past couple of years.

“I want you,” I say, because I’m supposed to be setting the pace. Yeah right. But oh, do I want her.

As though she’s been waiting for me to say those very words, her grip on my breasts intensifies.

Just as my clit has roared back to life, my breasts are suddenly hyper-responsive to her touch.

It certainly didn’t feel like this when I tried touching myself the other day.

All I felt then was inadequacy and indifference—a pretty lethal combination when trying to coax your body toward orgasm.

Her solemn expression as she gazes at my chest changes into something mischievous.

She doesn’t say anything, just leans closer and I expect another heavenly kiss, but her head dips lower and she wraps her lips around my nipple.

The warmth of her mouth nearly floors me.

An arrow of lust shoots through me, from the depths of my core straight to my clit.

Her tongue skates along my nipple and it’s as though all the lust I’ve been unable to feel catches up with me in the space of a few moments.

I don’t even care if this results in a climax because this sensation already feels like a huge win.

For once, instead of letting me down, my body is giving me pleasure.

Or maybe I’m allowing it to. Or maybe the hormones in my blood have gone haywire because of this woman with her mouth on my nipple.

Estelle lets go of my nipple and looks me in the eye.

“Come.” She’s the one who leads me toward my own bed.

Somehow, it feels right. Everything about her feels exactly right.

Although, to be honest, I would very much like to peel that tank top off her.

I’d love to see her breasts, wrap my own lips around her nipples.

But I don’t because we need to have another conversation about that first.

We lie on the bed and she glues her body to my side. Her fingertip circles my improbably hard nipple.