we sing until dawn of our fears and our fates (Skins, Naomi/Katie) for aphrodite_mine
You're sitting alone drinking straight vodka in an old man's pub that smells vaguely of piss and stale beer. And you're wearing a wedding dress. Your hand shakes slightly as the enormity of your actions swims to the forefront of your mind and you push it back with another shot. You slam the glass back down onto the bar and hope to fuck that the barman is understanding because there are no pockets in your fucking wedding dress and all you’ve got is a tenner tucked into your bra for emergencies.
You jilted Freddie at the altar. You've always been a fan of dramatic flair, but even you didn't want this.
Your parents’ faces are as clear as day in your head. Your dad looked pretty happy as you sprinted past him. Probably thinks this’ll ensure you stay a virgin for a while longer. Poor, deluded twat. You’ve been living with Freddie for over a year. You reckon that in his head it’s some kind of seventies sitcom arrangement, all twin beds and liberty bodices.
Your mother’s face, on the other hand, had disappointment written all over it. You were supposed to get married to the good-looking boy and settle down. She wanted to show the world that she had raised at least one normal child. Emily's gay and James is perverted. You were her only hope.
That hope was dashed when you turned to Freddie at the altar and told him you couldn't go through with it. He didn’t even say anything, just looked at you with tears pooling in those puppy eyes. You thrust your bouquet at Emily and ran out of the church, yanking off your veil and pulling out a few of your extensions with it.
You’ve never really considered life without Freddie, it just seemed the logical thing to do. After the spectacular failure that was the end of the first year of college, he actually redeemed himself pretty well. And he was easy to be with. He was never demanding, never jealous, never...interesting.
But ‘interesting’ has never been high on your must have list for boyfriends. Fit, yes. Attentive, yes. Has enough money to buy presents, yes. But lately, it hasn’t seemed enough. Freddie would come in and yak on about stuff to do with the skateboard shop he’s the assistant manager of and you would pick at a salad and mutter agreements even though you couldn’t give a flying fuck about what size of wheel-nuts someone came in asking about.
You wonder why it only struck you that you were turning into your mother as Freddie turned to look at you walking down the aisle, your arm linked with your dad’s. Great fucking timing.
You swallow another shot and concentrate on the sting of alcohol rather than the sting of regret.
*
“Well, fancy meeting you here.”
You don’t have to turn around. You know it’s her. Naomi fucking Campbell. It shouldn’t surprise you that she would drink in a hovel like this. It’s probably the one place in Bristol where she doesn’t contravene the dress code. She sits down next to you at the bar without an invitation. Like being your sister’s ex-girlfriend gives her the right to invade your space and fucking talk to you while you are clearly in the middle of a crisis of one sort or another. Well, she always was an annoying cunt, no reason to expect her to be any different now.
You can't believe your fucking wimpy sister was the one to call it off. Not that Emily's a howler or anything (she's your fucking twin sister, she's hot by default). But, despite Naomi’s cuntish tendencies, Emily always seemed so fucking in love with her that you kind of thought they'd end up raising lots of multi-cultural babies on an organic farm or some shit.
But out of nowhere, at the end of their second year at uni and during your fourth (fifth?) boring-as-hell, minimum-wage job, Emily decided that she needed to ‘find herself’ and buggered off to the continent for two months with a bunch of her student pals. Naomi was devastated by all accounts. All accounts being mostly Pandora and Thomas via Effy. You imagine that Pandora embellished quite a bit because you can’t imagine Effy saying much more than ‘She’s a bit upset’ or something.
You look at her as she’s ordering a drink. She’s still far too blonde but she appears to have made a slight effort with her clothes for your wedding. She’s dressed in a tailored, pin-striped trouser suit (gay!). She’s let her hair grow out a bit. It’s falling in soft waves just above her shoulders and you have to admit, she looks good.
She turns to look at you, that irritating smirk of hers firmly in place.
“Didn’t know you drank here.”
“I don’t. I came here because I thought no-one with any taste would be caught dead in a shit-tip like this.” You can’t help it, it comes so naturally. “Turns out I was right.”
She grins wider.
“Yeah, well. I come here because there’s no danger of anyone trying to talk to me, or get off with me.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Because if you went to a normal bar, you’d be fighting them off with a stick, would you?”
She shrugs and smiles around the neck of the beer bottle (gay!) she’s drinking from in a way that makes you uncomfortably hot. You pull at the bodice of your dress, feeling constricted all of a sudden. Her eyes are drawn to your outfit and she clears her throat.
“It was the most entertaining wedding I’ve ever been to, if that’s any consolation.”
You laugh in spite of yourself.
“Yeah, that makes it all worthwhile, Campbell.”
She fiddles with the label on her bottle and doesn’t look at you when she speaks.
“I was surprised to be invited, I must say.”
You know what she wants. She wants to know that Emily wanted her there.
“Yeah, well, I mostly invited you to piss off my mother.”
She smiles so sadly that you almost feel bad for bringing up one of the contributing factors in the downfall of her relationship. You roll your eyes and concede.
“And, you know, Ems forced me to invite you.”
She looks over at you with those big, irritatingly blue eyes of hers. She couldn’t just have blue eyes, they had to be fucking blue. If you were a crappy romance novelist, you might say that they ‘sparkled’ at the mention of your sister’s name. But you’re not and they’re just annoyingly watery all of a sudden.
“Yeah?”
It's all very amicable and lovely, their break-up. Naomi leaves funny comments on Emily's Facebook entries and Emily responds with smiley faces and kisses and fucking hearts for Christ's sake. They meet up for coffee whenever they’re both back in Bristol. You were positive that ‘coffee’ was code for ‘a quick shag’ but Emily assured you that nothing like that was going on. They were just friends. You don't understand lesbians. Why the fuck can't they be like normal people and just fucking detest their exes? It seems like so much less effort.
Sitting here now, it's clear that she's living in hope that Emily will decide to come back to her. You shake your head because you almost finished that thought with 'Emily will come to her senses'. And, surprisingly, you might actually believe that.
“Yeah, she always was a soppy cunt.”
*
You're not gay. You've never even thought about being gay. Well, except for that month (or two) during the preparation for your finals when you couldn't get yourself off for love nor money, except when you pictured Effy fucking Stonem hovering over you looking all sweaty and shit. You try not to think about that too often. Because that's pretty gay.
And you’ve definitely never considered being gay with Naomi fucking Campbell. Like, even a little bit. Because she annoys the shit out of you and she’s your sister’s ex and...well, you just haven’t.
However, this is not much comfort as you find yourself focussing increasingly on her lips. You don’t know what she’s talking about, you tuned that shit out ages ago. But her lips are, like, all full and she’s constantly biting at them and pursing them and...it’s fucking like she’s trying to get you to look at them. It’s not your fault.
And you’re definitely not gay.
But you need a distraction from the shitpile your life is about to become and she wants Emily back so much it's almost painful to look at her. So when you get fed up of her beer-fuelled babbling, you grab her head and crush your lips to hers.
She’s a little surprised at first, but then she grabs your hips and practically lifts you off the barstool and pulls you against her body. You kind of gasp into her mouth because you didn’t really expect her to be that strong, with her being a girl and stuff. She kisses you hard and somewhere in the back of your mind you know it’s only because you look like Emily. Not that you give a fuck. You’re only snogging her because she’s the nearest available body under sixty and you don’t want to think anymore tonight. Her hand grabs your arse and then slides up your back before cradling the back of your head.
Your body feels shaky, like it’s vibrating with fucking need or want or something in between. You haven’t felt this turned on in ages and you tell yourself that it’s not her, it’s just the prospect of doing something new and different. Something that isn’t Freddie grinding into you until you either come or get bored and fake it so that he’ll finish and go to sleep.
You pull away from the kiss and incline your head towards the loos and she shakes her head and says ‘my place’. Like she’s too good to fuck in a pub toilet. Yeah right, you’ve seen her trotting along behind Emily looking shagged out a million times in any number of inappropriate places.
“Fine. But you’ll have to pay the drinks and the taxi.”
She quirks an eyebrow at you.
“See, I knew you were more of a ‘Pretty Woman’ girl than a ‘Runaway Bride’ girl.”
You flip her off as she gets out her credit card and hands it to the barman.
*
The taxi journey is awkwardly silent. You’re kind of regretting not insisting on the quick shag option because now you’ve got time to think about this and it’s becoming less and less attractive. It might be slightly better if you were still kissing. But she didn’t make a move to do anything once you got inside the cab, and you’re not making the first move again.
You don’t want her to think you fucking like her or something.
*
You get out at her house and walk up the path with your arms folded over your chest, suddenly feeling quite ridiculous in your big white dress. She unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in. You enter cautiously, throwing a questioning glance over your shoulder at her on the way.
“My mum’s at a spiritual retreat in Dorset.”
Of course she fucking is.
You wonder whether you should make it clear from the outset that, firstly, this means exactly nothing to you and, secondly, neither of you is ever going to tell Emily about it. You decide not to because you think she probably knows both of those things and might laugh at you. And then you’d have to punch her and you probably wouldn’t end up having an orgasm. So you keep quiet.
She looks at you expectantly, like she’s waiting for you to, like, take charge or something. After the fucking day you’ve had, you’re not going to top it off by getting Naomi Campbell off.
“You’re the lesbian here, I’m not fucking doing all the work!”
A look that's something like disappointment crosses her face. You don’t have time to think about it before she’s on you, pressing you against the front door so hard that the handle digs into your back painfully. She kisses you, her lips covering yours over and over again until you’re almost fucking mental with arousal. You wriggle around, trying to manoeuvre her leg in between yours but the big fucking wedding dress is in the way and you groan the word ‘fuck’ in pure frustration. It comes out all raspy and that seems to spur her on.
She reverses your positions so that she’s against the door, peering over your shoulder, her hands fumbling at your back for some way to release you from the dress.
“Where’s the...how the fuck does this come off?”
You’re a bit relieved to hear your own frustration echoing back at you in her voice. At least you’re not the one who wants it the most. You let go of her waist and try to reach behind your own back without much success.
“It’s...there’s like, about a million little hooky fuckers...you have to...”
“Fuck it.”
She abandons the complicated fastenings and gets on her knees, hands on your shoulders, dragging you with her until you’re lying on the floor with her on top of you. How this is more classy than a pub toilet you’re not sure.
She makes a strange noise in her throat when she slides her hand up to palm your tit. Yet another reminder that you're not her perfect little Emily. Your mum always did say that you got the boobs and Emily got the brains. Until quite recently, you chose to take that as a compliment.
She kisses you once more before shuffling down your body and lifting your skirt. You almost come right there and then at the sight of blonde hair disappearing under white silk. Your stomach clenches in anticipation when she starts to kiss a slow journey up the inside of your thighs. You’ve been on the receiving end of oral sex before but it’s always been like a trailer for a really good film - a tantalising glimpse of what it could be like, without ever seeing the big climax. Danny thought a couple of half-hearted licks earned him blow-jobs for a month. And Freddie was always too tentative to be of any real use. You suppose that getting eaten out regularly is one bonus of being a lesbian. Fingering’s all very well and good, but it’s got to get boring fast. The best lesbians must be the ones who are really good at the oral stuff. And from first impressions, it appears that Naomi is a fucking top class lesbian.
A hot tongue swipes firmly up the length of your slit, your hips lift right off the ground and you hiss at the unexpected touch. Your hands flail for something to hold on to but there’s nothing and you make do with reaching behind your head and pressing your palms flat against the door. She’s lifted you up a bit, her hands under your hips to help with the angle but you need more and you strain upwards against her mouth as she flattens her tongue against your clit before sucking on it lightly and you think you might just fucking die.
From nowhere, you wonder whether shared genetics means that you taste the same as Emily and if that’s what’s making her lap at you like an overenthusiastic puppy. A bellyful of vodka and the thought of what your sister's fanny might taste like do not mix well and you only just manage not to wretch. But then her tongue's doing something...just right fucking there and you couldn't give a toss how you compare to Emily because you’re coming and clawing at the carpet and fucking writhing like a porn-star.
When you finally feel like you can function again you open your eyes to find her lying beside you, looking at you. It all feels a bit seedy now, your dress is crumpled and your thighs are still sticky. The heat is gone and she looks so sad that you almost roll your eyes at how pathetic the whole situation is. Instead you fall back to comfortable ground.
“That was quite good.”
She lets out a bark of surprised laughter and the tension is broken.
“Fuck off. Bloody brilliant is what it was.”
She elbows you in the side and you squirm away to a safe, less intimate, distance.
“Well, it was definitely better than anything else you do with your mouth.”
You look over in time to see her smile. It occurs to you that she might expect something in return.
“D’you want me to...” You make a wiggling motion with two of your fingers.
She laughs gently and shakes her head.
“Nah, I’m good. But thanks for the offer.”
You nod and wonder why you feel a bit put-out that she didn’t take you up on it. You should be fucking cock-a-hoop. You got a mind-blowing orgasm and didn’t have to do anything properly gay back. So this hollow feeling in your chest is not appropriate at all.
She sits up and hugs her knees and you notice that she’s still fully dressed, her jacket is still buttoned for Christ’s sake.
“Listen...you can sleep in my mum’s bed if you like. Or you can take mine and I’ll sleep in hers or...”
You push yourself up onto your elbows.
“Just point me to the couch, that’ll do me fine.”
She nods towards what you assume is the living room. Then she stands and holds out a hand to help you up. You struggle to your feet with her help and look down at yourself.
“What’s the odds on me getting a refund on the dress?”
She looks at it doubtfully.
“I reckon Oxfam’s your best bet. They might give you a tenner for it.”
The fucking thing had cost over a grand. Just one of the things your mother will cast up for the rest of your natural life. Naomi turns to head up the stairs and you surprise yourself by catching her wrist and tugging her back around to face you.
“Look, you should just, like, call her or whatever.”
“Who?”
You’re not even going to grace that with an answer so you aim your best withering look at her instead. She at least looks embarrassed as she continues.
“I don’t…I’m not…I’m ov-”
“Don’t fucking start with the ‘I’m over it’ shit. Tonight you got monumentally bladdered and shagged someone who looks exactly like your ex-girlfriend. Sorry babes, but that’s not ‘over it’ by a long fucking shot.”
She pulls her wrist out of your grip and crosses her arms.
“Yeah, well…today you left someone at the altar then had lesbian sex with your twin sister’s ex-girlfriend.”
You don’t follow her line of reasoning at all and you’ve got a feeling it’s nothing to do with the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.
“Eh? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
She shrugs uncomfortably.
“I dunno. Just pointing out that you’re not a shining example of what should be considered a well-adjusted human being.”
You’re tired and you can feel the start of a hangover setting in. And you don’t particularly want to be the bigger person right now anyway.
“What-the-fuck-ever, Naomi. I don’t have my mobile because I’m wearing a wedding dress, so in the morning you can phone Emily and let her know that I haven’t jumped off the Bristol Bridge or something. Then you can tell her to come and pick me up. And bring me clothes. And then, if you want to keep on playing the cunting martyr, you can leave it at that. If not...that’s up to you. I’m going to go to sleep now before this vodka wears off much more and I start thinking about tomorrow too much.”
You turn to head into the living room but this time she stops you with a hand on your bicep. You turn with a sigh.
“What?”
She shakes her head, one side of her mouth turning up into a reluctant smile.
“You know what, Katie? You’re no-“
“Naomi, if you tell me I’m not all bad, I’m gonna have to smack you across the face.”
She laughs at that.
“Fair enough. I’ll settle for this.”
And she leans in and kisses your cheek. She pulls away and winks at you.
“G’night, Katie.”
You mumble something unintelligible in response because you’re busy trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach as she turns and heads up the stairs. You trudge into the living room and collapse on the couch.
Your last conscious thought as you drift into a restless sleep is that Emily’s a stupid bitch. But a lucky one.
And that you’re still definitely not gay.
You jilted Freddie at the altar. You've always been a fan of dramatic flair, but even you didn't want this.
Your parents’ faces are as clear as day in your head. Your dad looked pretty happy as you sprinted past him. Probably thinks this’ll ensure you stay a virgin for a while longer. Poor, deluded twat. You’ve been living with Freddie for over a year. You reckon that in his head it’s some kind of seventies sitcom arrangement, all twin beds and liberty bodices.
Your mother’s face, on the other hand, had disappointment written all over it. You were supposed to get married to the good-looking boy and settle down. She wanted to show the world that she had raised at least one normal child. Emily's gay and James is perverted. You were her only hope.
That hope was dashed when you turned to Freddie at the altar and told him you couldn't go through with it. He didn’t even say anything, just looked at you with tears pooling in those puppy eyes. You thrust your bouquet at Emily and ran out of the church, yanking off your veil and pulling out a few of your extensions with it.
You’ve never really considered life without Freddie, it just seemed the logical thing to do. After the spectacular failure that was the end of the first year of college, he actually redeemed himself pretty well. And he was easy to be with. He was never demanding, never jealous, never...interesting.
But ‘interesting’ has never been high on your must have list for boyfriends. Fit, yes. Attentive, yes. Has enough money to buy presents, yes. But lately, it hasn’t seemed enough. Freddie would come in and yak on about stuff to do with the skateboard shop he’s the assistant manager of and you would pick at a salad and mutter agreements even though you couldn’t give a flying fuck about what size of wheel-nuts someone came in asking about.
You wonder why it only struck you that you were turning into your mother as Freddie turned to look at you walking down the aisle, your arm linked with your dad’s. Great fucking timing.
You swallow another shot and concentrate on the sting of alcohol rather than the sting of regret.
*
“Well, fancy meeting you here.”
You don’t have to turn around. You know it’s her. Naomi fucking Campbell. It shouldn’t surprise you that she would drink in a hovel like this. It’s probably the one place in Bristol where she doesn’t contravene the dress code. She sits down next to you at the bar without an invitation. Like being your sister’s ex-girlfriend gives her the right to invade your space and fucking talk to you while you are clearly in the middle of a crisis of one sort or another. Well, she always was an annoying cunt, no reason to expect her to be any different now.
You can't believe your fucking wimpy sister was the one to call it off. Not that Emily's a howler or anything (she's your fucking twin sister, she's hot by default). But, despite Naomi’s cuntish tendencies, Emily always seemed so fucking in love with her that you kind of thought they'd end up raising lots of multi-cultural babies on an organic farm or some shit.
But out of nowhere, at the end of their second year at uni and during your fourth (fifth?) boring-as-hell, minimum-wage job, Emily decided that she needed to ‘find herself’ and buggered off to the continent for two months with a bunch of her student pals. Naomi was devastated by all accounts. All accounts being mostly Pandora and Thomas via Effy. You imagine that Pandora embellished quite a bit because you can’t imagine Effy saying much more than ‘She’s a bit upset’ or something.
You look at her as she’s ordering a drink. She’s still far too blonde but she appears to have made a slight effort with her clothes for your wedding. She’s dressed in a tailored, pin-striped trouser suit (gay!). She’s let her hair grow out a bit. It’s falling in soft waves just above her shoulders and you have to admit, she looks good.
She turns to look at you, that irritating smirk of hers firmly in place.
“Didn’t know you drank here.”
“I don’t. I came here because I thought no-one with any taste would be caught dead in a shit-tip like this.” You can’t help it, it comes so naturally. “Turns out I was right.”
She grins wider.
“Yeah, well. I come here because there’s no danger of anyone trying to talk to me, or get off with me.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Because if you went to a normal bar, you’d be fighting them off with a stick, would you?”
She shrugs and smiles around the neck of the beer bottle (gay!) she’s drinking from in a way that makes you uncomfortably hot. You pull at the bodice of your dress, feeling constricted all of a sudden. Her eyes are drawn to your outfit and she clears her throat.
“It was the most entertaining wedding I’ve ever been to, if that’s any consolation.”
You laugh in spite of yourself.
“Yeah, that makes it all worthwhile, Campbell.”
She fiddles with the label on her bottle and doesn’t look at you when she speaks.
“I was surprised to be invited, I must say.”
You know what she wants. She wants to know that Emily wanted her there.
“Yeah, well, I mostly invited you to piss off my mother.”
She smiles so sadly that you almost feel bad for bringing up one of the contributing factors in the downfall of her relationship. You roll your eyes and concede.
“And, you know, Ems forced me to invite you.”
She looks over at you with those big, irritatingly blue eyes of hers. She couldn’t just have blue eyes, they had to be fucking blue. If you were a crappy romance novelist, you might say that they ‘sparkled’ at the mention of your sister’s name. But you’re not and they’re just annoyingly watery all of a sudden.
“Yeah?”
It's all very amicable and lovely, their break-up. Naomi leaves funny comments on Emily's Facebook entries and Emily responds with smiley faces and kisses and fucking hearts for Christ's sake. They meet up for coffee whenever they’re both back in Bristol. You were positive that ‘coffee’ was code for ‘a quick shag’ but Emily assured you that nothing like that was going on. They were just friends. You don't understand lesbians. Why the fuck can't they be like normal people and just fucking detest their exes? It seems like so much less effort.
Sitting here now, it's clear that she's living in hope that Emily will decide to come back to her. You shake your head because you almost finished that thought with 'Emily will come to her senses'. And, surprisingly, you might actually believe that.
“Yeah, she always was a soppy cunt.”
*
You're not gay. You've never even thought about being gay. Well, except for that month (or two) during the preparation for your finals when you couldn't get yourself off for love nor money, except when you pictured Effy fucking Stonem hovering over you looking all sweaty and shit. You try not to think about that too often. Because that's pretty gay.
And you’ve definitely never considered being gay with Naomi fucking Campbell. Like, even a little bit. Because she annoys the shit out of you and she’s your sister’s ex and...well, you just haven’t.
However, this is not much comfort as you find yourself focussing increasingly on her lips. You don’t know what she’s talking about, you tuned that shit out ages ago. But her lips are, like, all full and she’s constantly biting at them and pursing them and...it’s fucking like she’s trying to get you to look at them. It’s not your fault.
And you’re definitely not gay.
But you need a distraction from the shitpile your life is about to become and she wants Emily back so much it's almost painful to look at her. So when you get fed up of her beer-fuelled babbling, you grab her head and crush your lips to hers.
She’s a little surprised at first, but then she grabs your hips and practically lifts you off the barstool and pulls you against her body. You kind of gasp into her mouth because you didn’t really expect her to be that strong, with her being a girl and stuff. She kisses you hard and somewhere in the back of your mind you know it’s only because you look like Emily. Not that you give a fuck. You’re only snogging her because she’s the nearest available body under sixty and you don’t want to think anymore tonight. Her hand grabs your arse and then slides up your back before cradling the back of your head.
Your body feels shaky, like it’s vibrating with fucking need or want or something in between. You haven’t felt this turned on in ages and you tell yourself that it’s not her, it’s just the prospect of doing something new and different. Something that isn’t Freddie grinding into you until you either come or get bored and fake it so that he’ll finish and go to sleep.
You pull away from the kiss and incline your head towards the loos and she shakes her head and says ‘my place’. Like she’s too good to fuck in a pub toilet. Yeah right, you’ve seen her trotting along behind Emily looking shagged out a million times in any number of inappropriate places.
“Fine. But you’ll have to pay the drinks and the taxi.”
She quirks an eyebrow at you.
“See, I knew you were more of a ‘Pretty Woman’ girl than a ‘Runaway Bride’ girl.”
You flip her off as she gets out her credit card and hands it to the barman.
*
The taxi journey is awkwardly silent. You’re kind of regretting not insisting on the quick shag option because now you’ve got time to think about this and it’s becoming less and less attractive. It might be slightly better if you were still kissing. But she didn’t make a move to do anything once you got inside the cab, and you’re not making the first move again.
You don’t want her to think you fucking like her or something.
*
You get out at her house and walk up the path with your arms folded over your chest, suddenly feeling quite ridiculous in your big white dress. She unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in. You enter cautiously, throwing a questioning glance over your shoulder at her on the way.
“My mum’s at a spiritual retreat in Dorset.”
Of course she fucking is.
You wonder whether you should make it clear from the outset that, firstly, this means exactly nothing to you and, secondly, neither of you is ever going to tell Emily about it. You decide not to because you think she probably knows both of those things and might laugh at you. And then you’d have to punch her and you probably wouldn’t end up having an orgasm. So you keep quiet.
She looks at you expectantly, like she’s waiting for you to, like, take charge or something. After the fucking day you’ve had, you’re not going to top it off by getting Naomi Campbell off.
“You’re the lesbian here, I’m not fucking doing all the work!”
A look that's something like disappointment crosses her face. You don’t have time to think about it before she’s on you, pressing you against the front door so hard that the handle digs into your back painfully. She kisses you, her lips covering yours over and over again until you’re almost fucking mental with arousal. You wriggle around, trying to manoeuvre her leg in between yours but the big fucking wedding dress is in the way and you groan the word ‘fuck’ in pure frustration. It comes out all raspy and that seems to spur her on.
She reverses your positions so that she’s against the door, peering over your shoulder, her hands fumbling at your back for some way to release you from the dress.
“Where’s the...how the fuck does this come off?”
You’re a bit relieved to hear your own frustration echoing back at you in her voice. At least you’re not the one who wants it the most. You let go of her waist and try to reach behind your own back without much success.
“It’s...there’s like, about a million little hooky fuckers...you have to...”
“Fuck it.”
She abandons the complicated fastenings and gets on her knees, hands on your shoulders, dragging you with her until you’re lying on the floor with her on top of you. How this is more classy than a pub toilet you’re not sure.
She makes a strange noise in her throat when she slides her hand up to palm your tit. Yet another reminder that you're not her perfect little Emily. Your mum always did say that you got the boobs and Emily got the brains. Until quite recently, you chose to take that as a compliment.
She kisses you once more before shuffling down your body and lifting your skirt. You almost come right there and then at the sight of blonde hair disappearing under white silk. Your stomach clenches in anticipation when she starts to kiss a slow journey up the inside of your thighs. You’ve been on the receiving end of oral sex before but it’s always been like a trailer for a really good film - a tantalising glimpse of what it could be like, without ever seeing the big climax. Danny thought a couple of half-hearted licks earned him blow-jobs for a month. And Freddie was always too tentative to be of any real use. You suppose that getting eaten out regularly is one bonus of being a lesbian. Fingering’s all very well and good, but it’s got to get boring fast. The best lesbians must be the ones who are really good at the oral stuff. And from first impressions, it appears that Naomi is a fucking top class lesbian.
A hot tongue swipes firmly up the length of your slit, your hips lift right off the ground and you hiss at the unexpected touch. Your hands flail for something to hold on to but there’s nothing and you make do with reaching behind your head and pressing your palms flat against the door. She’s lifted you up a bit, her hands under your hips to help with the angle but you need more and you strain upwards against her mouth as she flattens her tongue against your clit before sucking on it lightly and you think you might just fucking die.
From nowhere, you wonder whether shared genetics means that you taste the same as Emily and if that’s what’s making her lap at you like an overenthusiastic puppy. A bellyful of vodka and the thought of what your sister's fanny might taste like do not mix well and you only just manage not to wretch. But then her tongue's doing something...just right fucking there and you couldn't give a toss how you compare to Emily because you’re coming and clawing at the carpet and fucking writhing like a porn-star.
When you finally feel like you can function again you open your eyes to find her lying beside you, looking at you. It all feels a bit seedy now, your dress is crumpled and your thighs are still sticky. The heat is gone and she looks so sad that you almost roll your eyes at how pathetic the whole situation is. Instead you fall back to comfortable ground.
“That was quite good.”
She lets out a bark of surprised laughter and the tension is broken.
“Fuck off. Bloody brilliant is what it was.”
She elbows you in the side and you squirm away to a safe, less intimate, distance.
“Well, it was definitely better than anything else you do with your mouth.”
You look over in time to see her smile. It occurs to you that she might expect something in return.
“D’you want me to...” You make a wiggling motion with two of your fingers.
She laughs gently and shakes her head.
“Nah, I’m good. But thanks for the offer.”
You nod and wonder why you feel a bit put-out that she didn’t take you up on it. You should be fucking cock-a-hoop. You got a mind-blowing orgasm and didn’t have to do anything properly gay back. So this hollow feeling in your chest is not appropriate at all.
She sits up and hugs her knees and you notice that she’s still fully dressed, her jacket is still buttoned for Christ’s sake.
“Listen...you can sleep in my mum’s bed if you like. Or you can take mine and I’ll sleep in hers or...”
You push yourself up onto your elbows.
“Just point me to the couch, that’ll do me fine.”
She nods towards what you assume is the living room. Then she stands and holds out a hand to help you up. You struggle to your feet with her help and look down at yourself.
“What’s the odds on me getting a refund on the dress?”
She looks at it doubtfully.
“I reckon Oxfam’s your best bet. They might give you a tenner for it.”
The fucking thing had cost over a grand. Just one of the things your mother will cast up for the rest of your natural life. Naomi turns to head up the stairs and you surprise yourself by catching her wrist and tugging her back around to face you.
“Look, you should just, like, call her or whatever.”
“Who?”
You’re not even going to grace that with an answer so you aim your best withering look at her instead. She at least looks embarrassed as she continues.
“I don’t…I’m not…I’m ov-”
“Don’t fucking start with the ‘I’m over it’ shit. Tonight you got monumentally bladdered and shagged someone who looks exactly like your ex-girlfriend. Sorry babes, but that’s not ‘over it’ by a long fucking shot.”
She pulls her wrist out of your grip and crosses her arms.
“Yeah, well…today you left someone at the altar then had lesbian sex with your twin sister’s ex-girlfriend.”
You don’t follow her line of reasoning at all and you’ve got a feeling it’s nothing to do with the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.
“Eh? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
She shrugs uncomfortably.
“I dunno. Just pointing out that you’re not a shining example of what should be considered a well-adjusted human being.”
You’re tired and you can feel the start of a hangover setting in. And you don’t particularly want to be the bigger person right now anyway.
“What-the-fuck-ever, Naomi. I don’t have my mobile because I’m wearing a wedding dress, so in the morning you can phone Emily and let her know that I haven’t jumped off the Bristol Bridge or something. Then you can tell her to come and pick me up. And bring me clothes. And then, if you want to keep on playing the cunting martyr, you can leave it at that. If not...that’s up to you. I’m going to go to sleep now before this vodka wears off much more and I start thinking about tomorrow too much.”
You turn to head into the living room but this time she stops you with a hand on your bicep. You turn with a sigh.
“What?”
She shakes her head, one side of her mouth turning up into a reluctant smile.
“You know what, Katie? You’re no-“
“Naomi, if you tell me I’m not all bad, I’m gonna have to smack you across the face.”
She laughs at that.
“Fair enough. I’ll settle for this.”
And she leans in and kisses your cheek. She pulls away and winks at you.
“G’night, Katie.”
You mumble something unintelligible in response because you’re busy trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach as she turns and heads up the stairs. You trudge into the living room and collapse on the couch.
Your last conscious thought as you drift into a restless sleep is that Emily’s a stupid bitch. But a lucky one.
And that you’re still definitely not gay.