I met Jenny at her place. The pace of this Thursday night matched our express exit from my share-house mere hours ago. Inside her apartment, we entered the world of coupling without words.
The physical frame of our sex, Jenny's bed and her open body. We combined in an ungraceful yet sublime fusion. Jenny and I joined, embracing instinct, like knowing where the edge of the bed is as you sleep.
As it happened, it generated excitement, rhythm, and enthusiasm. Our bodies paired exuberant as they aimed to please. Jenny's dark V was beckoning as our catalyst. The unfathomed, amber-eyed lass laid on her bed, her legs parted and bent at her knees. Jenny's chin rested on her chest. She watched as I thrust between her thighs. My gaze descended to her mound, where my member buried its head.
This encounter was so unlike the previous night's tender-covered manipulations. Here, we initiated sex on the edge of her bed: stark and candid bodies under bright, unshadowed bedroom light.
I lacked prior experience in this position. Jenny moved confidently and eased into a receptive pose. No coy femininity, modest and demure, was inapplicable as she spread overtly and led. Her position expressed immediate want in an unflinching and resolute determination.
I gauge now, imbued by her vivacious need to avail herself of immediate reciprocation. This night became the most hot-blooded of my life. Our flesh contact overpowered.
At the same time, memory shaped as bodies fastened in a young woman's bedroom.
Yet intent on her body, I can't recall a single room detail. None of her life memorabilia distracted my focus. Nothing diverted me from Jenny to her possessions. No clues gathered to interpret her broader self garnered on this exciting night.
My body over her body. Her flesh splayed beneath mine. Jenny, though, watched over the sex. The unrelenting mood stirred neither sensual nor romantic. Instead, acutely human in a way neither of us could have imagined or planned.
In memory, I see the scene inside and outside. I perceive myself, I discern Jenny, and I probe us together. Receptiveness plunged us together for no other reason than being young and sexual beings. This is the uncomplicated version of a Thursday night in a girl's bedroom. Jenny spread-eagled. She desired it, and she presented to receive maleness. We screwed.
The complex version emerged on reflection, including the conviction that our combined ante produced add-ons. I joined Jenny's expressed sexuality. It became our combined face, and its vividness pushed our equipment to new heights.
Her head pressed on her chest. My expectations centred on meeting her eyes. Her amber pools instead gazed between her legs. Jenny, captured in her own body, greeted my body. I became two-faced. I tried to take in combined views.
Jenny absorbed in concentration on her sex and my gaze downwards. I sought us. However, my ego engulfed me. So intent and engrossed in our combined privates, neither of us emerged beyond ourselves. Our exposed organs positioned us in a way we don't want to see ourselves. Individuals who are greedy for sex in a straightforward, no-questions way. Whilst missing in the heat of a romp, self, as a giver first of pleasure.
Later, I thought, was this just sex? The edge of her bed built a conflated, cracker-jack, unswerving focus. Yet, in simple terms, Jenny faced me, and I faced Jenny.
'Just sex': I delved; what does that mean?
We threw ourselves on the bed committed, yet minus words. Forever a boy of few words, too often in life. I wondered whether we needed to say words to commit.
Still, on the edge of her bed, intense banging penetrated two minds.
After, I sought a consoling reference in art to understand our hotness. Only one image brings Jenny to mind on her bed. It is Bonnard's, a Woman slumbering on a bed. The canvas depicts a young woman, verdant and aroused. The painting is lush, yet our response remains natural and human.
My musings muddled.
Just sex-I couldn't decide. Minds complicate coupling.
The edge of the bed facilitated incredible making-out, leaving yesterday's gentle revelry in yesterday. We fused on her bed, disregarding tomorrow. We accepted each other through our merging bodies.
Now, her bed edge kindles the exceptional and unrepeatable as Jenny and I hurtled through our start together.
From here, we coupled regularly as us.
However, we remained neophytes regarding our understanding of the word relationship. Our bodies joined as words unspoken tarried. Communication tagged along inside us, tangible, yet inexact.
Neophyte, Ruby, I once thought, was never one.
I can't remember Ruby being a beginner at anything. As a teenager, more worldly than the rest of our troupe. The brunette in bygone days started as a novice, with the activities giving her life its assurance and relish. The minx wasn't born riding a horse or sailing her sabot.
The brunette's résumé ticked copious boxes at high school—a young girl fond of saucy jokes. Coral spilled the juicy gossip to me in junior high; the little minx and boys kissed, and Ruby admitted to the golden girl; diverse kissers filled her second hand.
The brunette pursued her desires with a full head of steam, perhaps because Ruby secured more freedom than most teenage girls. Her father, Gabriele, accommodated his daughter's requests. Her mother, Arianna, fretted. I occasionally saw her anxious concern, her hands in the air or her arms crossed, a product of her background as an Italian bride.
The Australia she raised her daughter in began embracing women's liberation. Arianna was a woman committed to family and faith. Gabriele's openness and concessions to his daughter may have resulted from growing up as a second-generation Italian-Australian. Perhaps having no son, he gave his 'princess' more leeway. He never pried into Ruby's adolescent life. Arianna brooded concerning her daughter's cloaked teenage interests. (Ruby and boys and Coral) She hinted cryptically to me between wines on salami days.
The brunette never gave us her background story. 'The how and why' of her evasion of a Catholic Girls College. A wholesome religious education would have been Arianna's choice. On a salami-making day, she confided in me the hope Ruby's Catholic childhood would suffice. She hoped her daughter would eventually 'give as much as she took from life.'
Arianna spoke puzzlingly, and Ruby, I found intimidating.
I ground meat instead of listening wholly to a mother's concerns as her daughter left her workstation beside me on a washroom break. Arianna liked me, even if I wasn't Catholic. I used my manners around adults and my background, a religious family life. I supposed Ruby's mum latched onto me as a potential steady influence on her self-indulgent daughter.
The brunette and steady, incongruous.
Hindsight informs me that we must all find our pathway through the hurdles and hazards of selfishness.