NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | ✓

56: pre-nut infodumping

            Desmond and Caleb's words go round and round in my head, merging into a whirlpool that makes me dizzy to look at, but I'm too high to direct my attention anywhere else. They're both right, I guess: she has the right to know. But the right to know what? That I'm– That I have non-casual-friendship-coworker feelings for her? Or that those feelings are bound to wither soon enough? That I'll drown them in incessant rain? Or that my parents aren't in Colombia "right now" and actually I've not heard owt from them in a decade? Should I tell her all of it and then–?

'Did you still want to have sex or should we talk?'

I look down. Joe has wedged herself up onto her elbows. I'm straddling her lap, holding her cock in both hands though I think I've been staring at the wall for anywhere up from two minutes without moving.

'Maybe we can talk. Or should I leave?'

'Don't be silly.' Joe hands me a wet wipe to clean the lube off my hands. 'We're friends.'

I climb off her and pins and needles erupt through my claves. Writhing on the bed, I try to massage them away as Joe wipes the dildo, turns off the bullet vibe, and wriggles out of the harness. She pulls her Frank Ocean t-shirt back on over her binder and tugs on her boxers before she rolls onto her side to watch me. I stop kicking my legs around and flop onto the bed like it's my coffin: pin-straight and palms laid on my abdomen.

'So what d'you wanna chat about?' I ask the ceiling. A grimace strains my voice; blood still buzzes in my legs.

'We don't have to do that today. We can just hang out, no benefits.'

No benefits... Error: If I can't give her sex, I have nothing to offer. And now she don't even wanna practice therapy. Result: I should leave.

Sure, we've hung out a few times now without sex or the "practice talking about yourself" questions but today we specifically agreed to meet for the benefits. And she wouldn't want to hang out with me "as a friend" if she knew I had... non-friendship thoughts about her. I'm a liar. I'm disrespecting her boundaries.

Result: I should leave.

(Result: She has the right to know.)

My phone pings with Cece's notification sound and Joe, on the side of the bed where our clothes were shed, fishes it out of my jogger pocket to hand it to me. It's a picture of a butterfly downloaded from the internet as indicated by the watermark. The butterfly has one black and white wing and another that's bright green.

Cece🖤🦋: it's an intersex butterfly!

Cece🖤🦋: it's called bilateral gynandromorphism

Cece🖤🦋: one male half and one female half

Cece🖤🦋: i'm gonna draw so many of these

Cece🖤🦋: i'll never shut up about it

Cece🖤🦋: !!!!!!!!

I relax into a smile. I re-read the messages several times, allowing the orchids in my chest to bloom. Their scent washes away the tension from my body and, combined with Joe's indica, I mellow. I show her the picture before I slot my phone between the bong and a glass of water on her nightstand. The string of hearts on her dresser is growing strong.

'He likes insects,' Joe remarks.

'Yeah.'

I'm still naked. The only cover my body has are the few locs that drape my shoulders rather than being flattened under my back. But Joe watches me gently, her gaze twining with mine with no desire to look elsewhere. She wants to see, not look.