#38 — In Black and White

Nothing is more true than waking up naked next to a stranger

I woke with a hangover. That’s nothing new these days. The truth is, there’s been a lot of drinking — and a lot of regretful mornings — since the break-up.

I’m fairly certain it’s Sunday. At least, I think yesterday was Saturday, because I remember nearly getting knocked back by the bouncers at Jester’s. They thought I was drunk, like anyone ever went to Jester’s sober. You only go to Jester’s after a solid night in the pub. You go for too-loud music, over-priced drinks, the dubious company of people as wasted as you, and the near guarantee of taking someone home for disappointing sex.

If I was in Jester’s last night, this is definitely Sunday morning. Or afternoon. Either way, Sunday is my day of rest. I have nothing to do on a Sunday except nurse my hangover and pray I can recover enough to make it into work on Monday. So I bundle myself up in my duvet, hoping to sleep through the headache and sweat out the residual booze before I have to get up and pee.

I hear a groan, and somehow convince myself it was me who groaned. I do groan a lot when I’m hungover, at least until I get coffee in me, then I start cursing. But what I don’t do, especially when I’m already cocooned in a quilt, is moan that, “I’m cold! Give me some duvet!”

I roll over, thankfully managing to suppress the urge to vomit, and find myself looking at a woman. A beautiful woman. A beautiful, naked woman. In my bed.

She can see the shock on my face, even through my grimace of pain. “Oh. It’s like that, is it? You’re sorry, you were drunk, you made a mistake, it’s nothing personal, you just don’t date black women. I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to frighten your neighbours when I leave.”

I’m so anxious not to offend her I almost shake my head, but stop myself before I can batter my swollen brain against my skull. “No! I’m not a racist. I’m not, honestly! It’s just… I don’t date women.”

“It didn’t seem that way last night.”

It’s the truth, though. But nothing is more true than waking up naked next to a stranger. There haven’t been quite as many strangers as hangovers these last few months, but there have been plenty, and none of them came back to my place for anything other than sex. So she came back for sex. With me.

“What happened last night? I mean, did we…?” My eyes dart to her crotch. “Oh god, did I…?”

“How much do you remember?”

“Nothing!”

“If you share the duvet with me, I’ll catch you up. I am freezing!”

I lift the edge of the duvet and offer it to her expecting her to pull. She doesn’t; she wriggles under it, snuggling up to me for… warmth, I think. I hope. Her breasts are pressed against mine, her mouth inches from mine, her right arm around me, her hand sliding down the small of my back to rest on the curve of my ass.

She smiles, like she has a better memory than I do. “You danced with me in the club. Well, the truth is you danced at me, then with me, then you found us a seat and you danced on me. You’ve got moves, girl.”

I do have moves. Everyone says I have moves. But all my moves are variations on a single theme: grinding against whatever bulge I want in my bed. She doesn’t have a bulge. I checked. I saw a low mound of neatly trimmed, dark curls, above what was undeniably a vulva. A vulva that’s now worryingly close to mine.

“Okay. But how did you end up in my bed?”

“You asked me back, remember? For ‘coffee’, which I started drinking in the taxi.”

“You kissed me?”

“I kissed you back. You don’t remember these lips?”

Those lips brush my cheek. I do not remember them. I wish I did, because they are so soft, so warm. But then her lips move towards my lips, and I pull my head back, my hand flying to my mouth. “No! I have morning breath.”

“I don’t mind morning breath. But you’re right, we shouldn’t. My mouth probably still tastes of the last thing I ate.”

I strain to remember stumbling out of Jester’s — I always stumble out — and if we got a takeaway from the Turkish place next to the taxi rank. “Kebab?”

She giggles. “Don’t call it that! Yours is beautiful. I mean, they’re all beautiful, but I love larger labia: there’s more to nibble.”

“Oh my god! Did you…?”

“Yeah. And you enjoyed it. Unless you can fake vaginal contractions, in which case you really do have moves. Who’s Carl?”

“Fuck! Did I say his name? Sorry.”

“Say it? You screamed it. God and Carl, but I guess only one of them heard you.”

“He’s my ex, since he cheated on me. Carl, I mean. Not God.”

“I see. So I was your way to even the score?”

“Honestly? I don’t know what you were.”

She gives me a wry smile. “I do. I was a drunken mistake, one you’re regretting now.”

“No! The truth is, I’ve never even kissed another woman. But last night I kissed you, apparently. And you kissed me. Down there.”

“I did more than kiss. You were very vocal about what you wanted: how much do you love having your clit sucked?”

It was a rhetorical question, but I honestly don’t know the answer. No one ever sucked my clit except her, last night, and I was too drunk to remember it. Or anything else. “Did I, um, return the favour?”

“No, you came so hard all you wanted to do afterwards was cuddle. You fell asleep in my arms.”

Thank goodness for that. I don’t want to think of me going down on a woman, actually kissing her there, touching her, licking her, tasting her honey dripping on my tongue, making her sigh, making her writhe and moan, maybe even giving her an orgasm so strong she’d scream my name.

She kisses my forehead. “So, I’m sorry I was such a shock to you this morning, but I enjoyed last night. Thank you. I’ll go now.”

She scoots out from under the duvet, her back to me. She has an ass I’d die — but not squat — for: high and round and taut.

“Wait! I mean, you could go… and shower? If you want to? The bathroom is on the left.”

She turns, and raises a questioning eyebrow. “And then?”

“The truth is, I’d like to even the score again.”

“With Carl?”

“No. With you, this time.”

Morgan continues to explore…