Didn’t know what to do so just left it, acting like I hadn’t noticed as I heard the toilet flush upstairs.

I’d jokingly proposed watching porn with ex bae before.

But she’d never been down, always jokingly declining.

Honestly assumed no women watched it, besides curiously once or twice.

Tried not to, but saw side bae differently now.

“Oh whoops,” she said, noticing the screen.

X-ed it out and sat.

Also acted like I hadn’t seen.

After an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (2017), with her feet up on my lap—digging the contact but also feeling slightly and literally held down—we went upstairs.

She started undoing her clothes.

Lay back on her bed and gave me a look like Come get this.

Wasn’t feeling it though.

Wanted to be.

But wasn’t.

Unable to get myself to.

I cuddled up next to her.

“Gonna be the accommodating one this time,” I thought, and conveyed with my actions.

Sat next to her and held her hand, touching myself noncommittally as she lay on her back, eyes closed touching herself.

With quick circular movements just around the clit, without going inside, in a way I’d never realized was a way to do it.

Thought you always had to go inside.

After she came she seemed tired, but nestled up to me, on her knees, on the mattress, and sorta cupped my balls.

Unsure whether she felt obligated to bring me to completion since she had herself, or if she genuinely wanted to; either way, I sensed it wasn’t gonna happen.

Was at maybe a quarter mast and dropping.

Had I been hard and into it, I probably woulda let her do whatever she wanted.

But I told myself that even had I been, I woulda done what I did.

Which was nudge things away from the direction they were headed.

Tucked myself back into my boxers—I was protruding out of my right leg hole, unable to commit to full nudity—and lay on my side, by her side, playfully.

Like we were girlfriends telling each other secrets during a sleepover.

Before, playing off of a convo I had with my lil sis the other day about pressure points, improvising and flipping over.

Sixty-nining, but without the oral sex.

Grabbed her still-ankle-socked foot and pressed.

“Ahh,” she said, first relaxing but then, as I pressed elsewhere, flinching.

“Ooh, ow,” she said.

“The parts that hurt are the parts we gotta press, I’m pretty sure,” I said.

I was feeling so woke.

I’d passed up on oral sex to provide medical insight/practice.

This was wrong; I knew that seeing her bring herself to completion so outside of me, with me as a mere accessory to the event, unhinged some default ability to objectify I relied on to get off with women.

But ignored this—blocked it out—and focused on my wokeness.

Felt intoxicated by it.