The Toast With My Best Friend Ended Up in My Bedroom

I’ll start by saying I’ve had my head somewhere else for days and I needed to write it down, because if I don’t tell someone I’m going to explode. I’m nineteen, and until a week ago it had never even crossed my mind to be with a woman.

Camila and I have known each other since high school, but we only became close again last year, when we both broke up with our boyfriends around the same time. The guys were best friends with each other, so breaking up also left us free to hang out without the awkwardness of having to see them in a group. We started going out for drinks, then sleeping over at each other’s places, and from there we never stopped.

I don’t know exactly when things changed. It was like an electric current that showed up without warning and stayed. One afternoon, she changed clothes in my room and stayed in her bra longer than necessary. Another day, I got into the pool in panties and a wet T-shirt, and I caught her staring at me when she was supposedly on her phone. That kind of thing. Little details that kept piling up.

Then there was the other thing, the one I couldn’t bring myself to admit to myself. I started touching myself thinking about her. And that really was strange, because I had never fantasized about a friend, not even about a woman in general. But there I was, at night, with my hand under the sheets and the image of her mouth wrapped around the bottle’s neck.

New Year’s Eve came. We each toasted with our families, and at 1:30 in the morning she came over because my parents had gone to the countryside with my little brother. The house was empty, with one bottle of sparkling wine still unopened and a box of chocolates no one had touched.

“You’re acting weird,” she said as soon as she closed the door.

“Me? You’ve been the weird one since Christmas,” I shot back.

She laughed, nudged me with her shoulder, and headed straight for the kitchen. She came back with two little glasses and the bottle of tequila my dad kept in the sideboard. She didn’t ask. She poured. We toasted to something stupid, to us, to the new year, to leaving our exes’ asshole behavior behind. We drank one, two, three shots, and by the fourth I wasn’t counting anymore.

We put music on in the living room. We danced barefoot on the rug and bumped into each other on purpose. At one point, she took off her jacket and was left wearing a thin white tank top, no bra, and I couldn’t stop looking at her chest. Camila noticed. She held my gaze a second too long, then laughed and turned her head away.

“Come on, let’s go to my room,” I told her, because the living room was starting to feel too small.

We went upstairs. As soon as we walked in, I flopped onto the bed on my back and she threw herself down beside me, laughing. I slapped her thigh as a joke, and she slapped my ass back. We started wrestling like that, laughing like little girls, until at one point she ended up on top of me, pinning my wrists to the mattress.

Everything went quiet.

We were both breathing hard and the room smelled like tequila and something else, that thing that had always been there but neither of us had named yet.

“Cami,” I said softly.

“What.”

And I kissed her. It wasn’t one of our usual pecks, those quick kisses on the lips when we said hello. It was a real kiss, mouth open, with tongue. I waited for her to pull away, to laugh and say, “Damn, we’re so drunk.” She didn’t. She kissed me back with an intensity that left me breathless.

“Are we really drunk or is this okay?” I murmured against her mouth.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this for months.”

That sentence lit something inside me on fire. I propped myself up a little to pull off her tank top, and the first time I saw her tits up close, no filter, no bra peeking out as an excuse, I almost lost my breath. They were bigger than they looked, with little nipples, hard as stones. I ran my tongue over one before working up the nerve to suck it all the way into my mouth, and she arched her back and grabbed my head with both hands.

“Harder,” she whispered.

I did as she asked. I did everything I could think of, everything I had imagined a thousand times while lying alone in that same bed. I bit her nipples gently, then not so gently. I ran my tongue between her breasts, kissed her neck, tugged her earlobe with my teeth. Camila trembled beneath me and I could feel heat pouring off her body like she had a fever.

I slid my hand down her stomach. She was still wearing jeans. I pressed my palm over them, over the fabric, and pressed down. Camila lifted her hips to meet me.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked again, because I needed to hear it one more time.

She grabbed my wrist, shoved it under her pants, and made me rub through her panties.

“Safer than this, impossible,” she said.

I felt the dampness soaking through the fabric. With my other hand I unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down as best I could, the two of us still laughing at the mess of it, with our socks still on. When she was down to her panties, I got off the bed for a second to turn off the lamp. The light coming in through the hallway window was enough to see her, but not enough to make me feel embarrassed about what I was about to do.

I went back to the bed and pulled her panties off. I stared at her for a moment. Only then did I really become aware of what was happening: my best friend, naked in my bed, waiting for me to touch her. I thought I’d hesitate. I didn’t.

I spread her legs, kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, and when I lowered my mouth between her legs I heard a whimper slip out of her so sharp she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. I pulled her hand away without stopping sucking her.

“I want to hear you,” I told her.

After that, she didn’t stay quiet anymore. I ran my tongue over her everywhere, slowly at first, then with a rhythm that came and went. I slid two fingers inside her and curved them, searching for that spot that works for me when I’m alone, and from the way she clenched around me I knew I’d found it. She grabbed the headboard, bit her lip, said my name twice, once in a low voice and once almost shouting.

When she came, she stayed trembling with her eyes closed. I climbed up, lay down beside her, and kissed her temple for a long time. I tasted her in my mouth and I didn’t care at all.

“Your turn,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

And she took care of me. But first she took off my dress and panties slowly, as if she wanted a good look. I felt exposed in a way I had never felt with a guy, and I don’t really know why. Maybe because she knew exactly what to look for, where to look, which parts of my body made me feel most embarrassed and most turned on at the same time.

She climbed on top of me and started grinding against me. Hip to hip, both of us wet, direct friction. I had no idea something like that could feel so good without anything in between. Every time she moved, she tore a new moan out of me. I grabbed her ass with both hands to set the rhythm, and she let me.

“Harder,” I asked now.

Camila leaned over me without stopping, and put one hand around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, but the gesture alone made me close my eyes. With her other hand she grabbed one of my breasts and squeezed it. I couldn’t speak. I was right there.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

I looked at her. And at the exact moment I came, she was holding my gaze and biting her lip, and I think that image is going to stay with me for a very long time.

We didn’t stop there. We rested for a bit, I poured her some water, she made me laugh telling me some stupid thing about the dancing, and twenty minutes later we were tangled up again. That night she made me come three more times. Once with her fingers, once with her mouth, once riding my thigh while kissing me as if she wanted to swallow me whole.

When the light started coming in through the window, we were both spent, with the sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed and our bodies marked with kisses. Camila settled against me, slipped an arm around my waist, and kissed my shoulder.

“And now?” I asked.

“Now we sleep,” she answered. “We’ll see later.”

We slept. After noon I woke up with her hair spread across my pillow and realized I didn’t regret a single thing. Quite the opposite: I wanted to start all over again.

That was a week ago. Today she’s still my best friend. And she’s also something else, still unnamed, that we take to my room every time we have the house to ourselves.