Page 46 of Text Appeal

Golden sunlight fills the room when I wake. My sleep was deep and full of strange dreams. Sex dreams mostly. But restful just the same. General feelings of contentment and wellbeing fill me. My body is warm, and my muscles relaxed. It takes me a minute to figure out the where and when and why of my situation. Where is Port Stewart. When is Saturday. And why is…I am not actually sure.

I am lying on my back while my platonic friend is wrapped around me. He’s using my left breast as a pillow with his arm slung around my middle and one of his legs thrown over both of mine. There’s a bulge pressing into my hip. But let’s ignore that. Though I doubt I can ignore anything about this. It feels too good. Like scarily right. The line of his spine rises and falls with each deep, even breath. How to get out from underneath him is the trick, however. Because I really need to go to the bathroom.

I play with his hair while I think it over. Twining a lockaround my finger. It is, as expected, a tactile delight. Thick and luscious and lovely. Damn him for having such great hair. Mine is no doubt flat as fuck.

Without moving, he asks in a voice rough with sleep, “The storm’s gone. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“I need more than Pop-Tarts and cereal. Let’s head over to the coffee house.” He lifts his head. “Hey.”

“Good morning.”

He slowly sits up and cracks his neck. The awkwardness of the situation dawns on him ever so slowly. Which is hilarious. First comes a vague frown. Followed by many furrows on his forehead. Like he can’t quite remember how the situation arose. Then his gaze shifts from my breast to my face and back again. The breast that he was just using as a pillow for no doubt important reasons. One I am unaware of at present.

“You didn’t tell me you were a cuddler,” I say. “Seems like the sort of thing you should warn someone about.”

“No. I am not. It must have been you.” He reaches out his hand as if he’s about to shape or plump something. “Did I flatten it a little?”

“Now that would be crossing a line. Let’s leave the boob fondling for now.”

His hand stops in midair. “Right. Sorry.”

“It was definitely you.”

“No,” he says again. And he sounds so convinced.

“Dude, you were sprawled out on top of me. How much proof do you need?” I climb off the other side of the bed and make for the bathroom. “Besides which, I require space to sleep. Touching while unconscious isn’t really my thing.”

“But you were asleep, and we were touching.”

“Hmm.” I close the bathroom door, see to the necessities, and wash my hands. Then I brush my teeth because morning breath. He’s stretching his back, standing beside the bed, when I reappear with a new toothbrush in hand. “For you.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have a history of cuddling? Is this something you tend to do?”

“It’s really not,” he says again with an even heavier frown this time.

“How about with she who shall not be named?”

He shakes his head.

“Sex friends?”

“I don’t spend the night.”

“You only sleep over when you’re in a relationship, fake or otherwise?”

“Yeah. Are you going to get dressed?” He looks me over and says almost to himself, “Even your toenails are blue.”

“It’s called Malibu. Isn’t it great?”

“It’s very blue,” he says, like that isn’t exactly what’s brilliant about it. “That another place you’re interested in? Malibu?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. Probably not quite the vibe I am after.”

No comment from him. “How long does it usually take you to get ready?”

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