Page 84 of Tricky Girls

‘I’m waiting.’

‘For what?’ Despite hearing the rustle of clothing, I keep my eyes covered.

‘For whatever the fuck it is you want.’

‘Nothing much. Some idle conversation. Since you’re so good at it and all.’

There’s more rustling, then the sound of muffled footsteps, and then a warm, heavy sensation as she pushes into me.

‘Tilda, fuck off,’ she whispers into my ear, filling my nose with the spicy scent of her shower gel.

I take my hands from my eyes, blinking away the blurriness. She looks different with wet hair, slicked back from her face like someGreaseextra. Such a curious mix of masculine and feminine. Sometimes I look at her and see only a guy and then at other times, like when she’s wearing that long peacoat of hers or one of her black turtlenecks, there’s an air of femininity about her. I know she goes by female pronouns, but she’s got that whole genderfluid thing down to a T.

She’s dressed in a white thermal top today, nipples peeking starkly from the textured material. Wool trousers hang from her hips. She usually wears them for uni. I wonder if she’s in at the same time as me, if she’d want to walk over together.

I snort internally. Not likely.

Crossing to the door, she holds it open, waiting for me to exit so she can finish getting dressed. When I fail to move, feeling aperverse satisfaction at how being in her space so clearly nettles her, she nods to the doorway. ‘Quick before I throw you.’

I don’t push it any longer. I have to go get ready too. Refusing to acknowledge how my pyjama bottoms have crawled back up my ass, I leave her room. She reaches out just as I pass, grabbing my arm so she can aid me on my way.

I stumble as the door slams shut, catching myself on the bathroom doorframe, and—fuck—I didn’t even ask what I went in there for.

Oh well.

Taking hold of the banister, my legs oddly shaky, I retreat downstairs to safety.

I can press her more about Elly and Haz’s bet later.

Nic

Air still ringing with the slamming door, I sink onto the bed, eyes never leaving the plane of wood.

She didn’t see it, the miniature African mask tacked there, the same one forever inked on my thigh. She didn’t see that either, not even when I dropped my towel and dared her to.

Even if she had, she probably wouldn’t recognise it. She looks into her past every time she looks at me and still doesn’t see. Despite all the hours we sat on the conservatory floor praying to that mask, dedicating spells and incantations, our childish imaginations running rampant.

Fuck knows what happened to the original. Never saw it again after we left.

When I saw an exact replica in a shop on a girl’s holiday, I snatched it up, the only souvenir I returned home with.

It’s like having the devil pinned on the wall. Maybe it was that bastard thing that called her back to me.

I stretch back over the bed, the pull of my groin reminding me of what I started in the shower.

Right before being interrupted by the sound of someone breaching my domain.

With a sigh, I slip my hand inside my boxers, reacquainting myself with my wetness. It’s not the first time I’ve wanked to that mask. Better it than Tilda’s face. More and more it’s coming to me when I least want it.

Sometimes I do—in those moods where I need something to hurt. That feeling, crawly and thorny and unbearable, marks my first foray into the sexual world. It’s familiar in some fucked up way, my body thoroughly, irrevocably conditioned. Wanking to Tilda gives me that feeling. The lesser of two evils when compared to the first person to bestow it. There’s nothing but a black hole when I think of them.

This mask, everything it represents, is a better alternative.

It’s not long until my thighs are quaking. Eyes at half slit, the mask’s pattern blurring like a kaleidoscope, I gasp out my orgasm.

I lie there for a while afterwards, long enough to be late for uni.

Unfortunately not long enough for Tilda to have left the lodge.

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