loud mouth

Friday nights had always been our thing since university. What started as group drinks; our two neighbouring flats pouring into one small kitchen before nights out, eventually dwindling down to just the two of us regularly coming together, even if it was just to cook cheesy pasta together and put off assignments. It had been years since we graduated, moved further away from one another, fell into new routines, but Fridays were still ours. Less consistent but still cherished.

"Want my crusts?" I mumble as I chew, tossing my leftovers back into the cardboard. It's a rhetorical question really, and I'm already handing him the box when he nods his head.

"How was Wednesday night by the way? Never told me how it went." George says around mouthfuls of bread.

A groan slips out of my mouth before I can stop it as the memory washes through my mind.

Lewis had seemed lovely on Hinge. Funny. Kind. So good looking it was almost painful. Just my type with his mullet and moustache and tattoos. We'd arranged to meet on Wednesday night, a casual drink after work which snowballed into dinner. He'd seemed lovely on Hinge. And he was amazing in person. Still lovely. Still funny. Still kind. He'd even walked me home. 

"Sounds like you like him, so why do you look like you're about to be sick?" George asks wryly as he chucks the, now empty, pizza box on the coffee table.

"Because now I want to sleep with him." I sigh, seizing the opportunity of George's empty lap to stretch my legs out. He doesn't question it and settles in around me, hands landing on my shins.

"Again... that's a bad thing?" He's nearly laughing now and heat prickles on the back of my neck as it always does when this topic comes up.

"Well... kind of. Not, like, bad especially-- Ok so you know how I've only-- I mean, my past experiences, not that there is much to go off, but they weren't great, they were really crap actually-- I feel like everyone knows something I don't-- Like, obviously they do because I've barely done anything and what I have done was so rubbish. Fucks sake, why can't I get this out? I just mean sex is kind of complicated for me, like I want it, believe me, but when the opportunity arises, I get so in my head and don't know what I'm doing and it's so embarrassing--"

"Take a breath." George says softly, thumb grazing a singular arc across my flesh. The touch pulls me back to Earth. I shut my mouth and inhale, hold it, exhale.

"I just feel like I'm missing something or there's something wrong with me." I confess, unable to meet his eye so instead busying myself with adjusting the drawstrings of my hoodie. I hate how small I feel under his gaze. Instead, I focus on his hands, firm against my leg. Warm.

"There's nothing wrong with you." He says in a tone that's a lot more gentle than his usual boisterous self. I'm reminded he's one of my best friends for a reason. He comes across as confident and self-assured but behind that is someone who cares deeply about the people around him. "You've just had shit experiences. Maybe new guy will rewrite that a bit?"

I almost scoff. "If I can even take my clothes off in front of him. It's such an annoying cycle. My brain just shuts down with someone new so I can't do anything, then it's awkward, then I have to try and find someone new."

"That's part of a relationship though, you build that trust together." He offers helpfully.

"I just wish I could skip that bit though. It's mortifying having the 'I've had sex twice and it's been years and it was terrible and, oh yeah, by the way, I have no clue what I'm doing' conversation. Massive turn off." I whinge as I pick up my beer. I take a long slug before joking, "Honestly just wish I could practice on someone I already trust."

"Not a bad idea." George chuckles.

"You offering?" I tease, desperately trying to deflect. George just looses a breathy laugh, shaking his head before taking a pull of his own drink.

My gaze lingers on him for a second, as if my brain is waiting for my eyes to catch up. 

George. 

My friend. Who I trust.

He catches me still looking at him and a grin breaks out across his face.

"Oh my God, you're actually considering it, aren't you?" He laughs, eyebrows jumping to his hairline. 

I can't help but laugh too. It's a ridiculous thought.

I soon forget about the conversation as the weekend disappears in the rear view mirror and work starts to consume my life again.

It's Tuesday before I hear from George - except for the slew of TikToks sent in the small hours of the night when he should be sleeping - a six-minute voice note sitting snugly in my messages. It's just him catching me up on his day, his food shop, a shoot he's doing tomorrow, some proposed plans for Friday night, "That reminds me actually, I was thinking about the conversation we had when you propositioned me and told me you wanted to sleep with me." 

I can hear the teasing grin in his voice and just know how proud he is of himself, clearly aware that I'll bite and become argumentative. His favourite pass-time: pushing my buttons.

"I think it's a conversation we should actually have, so come round on Friday and we can talk before we go to the pub. I was thinking that we go to The Blind Monkey, you know, the place we got burgers that time? Apparently they've got a band on--"

He carries on like he only stopped to mention the weather, talking about a group of his friends who are in town over the weekend and will be out on Friday night.

All week, I try not to overthink the voice note. I fail miserably. I think about it constantly. What he meant. Whether he was joking. Whether he was mocking me. Whether he actually meant it. If he did, what would that mean? Even by Friday night, I'm still hung up on those few words, a repetitive refrain in my mind that soundtracks my journey to his flat.  

I think about it on the tube-ride to his flat. And in the lift. And as I'm knocking on the front door.

"Just finishing getting ready." George says by way of greeting, pulling me into a quick hug.

I'm silent as I follow him into his bedroom. I perch on the edge of his bed, posture stiff despite having done this a million times with him; killing time while he puts on aftershave and messes with his hair.

When he's content with his appearance, he turns to me, clearly noticing that I still haven't said a word. There's a soft smile on his face when he sits beside me. The weight of his body on the mattress causes a dip which my own body falls into, effortlessly angling me towards him. He's infinitely more relaxed than I am, still sat with my back straight, hands laying on the tops of my thighs, fingers fidgeting with one another.

"Shall we talk about it then?" he asks casually, hands placed slightly behind him as he leans back comfortably.

"What?" I ask, attempting and failing to play dumb as I look down at my hands, twisting one of my rings around and around.

"The stock market crash, what do you think?" George retorts, unimpressed.

"Terrible time." I mumble. I hear him exhale a laugh before his hand comes into my field of vision, resting on top of my tangled fingers.

"I'm not trying to make you feel uncomfortable, so if you want to pretend it never came up, we absolutely can." His tone is gentle, encouraging enough to make me meet his gaze. "But if it's something you'd consider, then I think we should talk about it."

He's right and he knows it. He probably also knows that I've been thinking of very little else since he mentioned it. My mind has played through this conversation and its consequences at least ten times a day since I heard his voice note. I had considered it.

"What have you been thinking?" I ask quietly.

"I think it's a good idea, being with someone you feel safe with."

His words instantly put me at ease. Safe. That's exactly what I want, and it affirms the voice in the back of my head that I've been trying to ignore all week; that it should be George. He's always made me feel safe. Never once judged me or laughed at me. We've always been able to confide in each other. Even the time he told me he'd had a dream about me as a sexy alien. We'd been able to laugh about it together. We've always looked out for one another and, fundamentally, I just trust him.

"That's what I want." I confirm, voice still sounding small.

He nods, lips pressed tightly together before he adds, "I think it should be me. I know it was just a joke the other day but for some reason it kept popping into my head and the more I thought about it, the more I think it makes sense. We've been friends for ages, I genuinely don't think this would fuck that up, we could do however much or little you wanted to, all at your pace. Think it'd just be helpful. Like a bit of training to build your confidence."

I can't help the smirk that tugs on the corners of my lips. He makes it sound incredibly normal, almost mundane, like I'm agreeing to one of his workouts, but it spreads warmth throughout my chest and I feel thoroughly grateful for him.

"Are you sure?" I ask, brows knitting together, "I know basically nothing and I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable if I needed you to show me everything, which I would, I need teaching." 

I can feel myself starting to ramble so I'm grateful when he cuts me off, "Not uncomfortable at all. I told you, I've been thinking about this and I think me showing you how it's meant to be is a good thing. I want you to know what it's like when someone is looking out for you so you don't expect anything less than that." 

I nod, heart secretly feeling like it could burst.

A quiet beat passes.

Reality starts to creep in and my mind begins to race, jumping to extremes, and every anxiety around sex and vulnerability seems to wake up inside me and make noise.

"See, this is why it needs to be me, I know you're freaking out." George says, reassuringly squeezing my hand to bring me back to him.

His eyes are fixed on me, and, god, they're so kind. There's a warmth behind them that's so earnestly genuine that it pulls me out of tornado of my mind. He reminds me without even speaking that there is nothing to freak out over. It's George. This is why it's got to be George.

I nod yet again and it seems to soothe him because he continues, "Ok. Kiss me."

My brain must bang loudly against my skull as I do a double-take but George just smirks.

"No time like the present and I want you to get used to me."

He isn't moving, still leaning casually, propped up by one hand behind him on the mattress. He's waiting for me. Guiding, but not pushing.

I let my lungs fill and empty slowly before I shuffle a little bit towards him. Following my lead, he sits up straighter, patient as I get closer to him.

My brain starts to fill with thoughts of how crazy this is, half expecting him to suddenly jump back and tell me this is all some sick joke. He doesn't. Obviously. I drift even closer to him, near enough that I can sense his chest rising and falling slowly. Eyes flutter shut. Noses touch. Lips meet.

It's strange. It's not a bad feeling at all but it's definitely odd kissing George. I do it again. And again. His lips are softer than I expect. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it isn't how gentle he is. I suppose because I first met him as a hockey boy, gym bro, lads' lad, I must have presumed he'd be rough. But he really isn't. His hand is still on mine, thumb tracing tenderly back and forth even when he pulls back.

"Still feeling ok?" he checks. I nod.

"You?" I ask. He nods.

"You're a good kisser," He says, a hint of surprise in his voice which I gear up to bite at. The thought vanishes from my head, however, when he adds, "I want you to touch me this time."

I short-circuit for a moment. Nerves begin to tingle through my body, growing the sensation in my stomach as I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. I manage to keep a clear mind long enough to regain the feeling in my limbs. My hands shift and rest just above his knees.

"Good." he whispers with a smile as our lips meet again.

Our lips move slowly, unhurriedly, against each other. It's nice.

My body finds itself leaning deeper into him, relaxing into the kiss as our lips part and reconnect. He's a good kisser, which isn't a shock but is definitely a new sensation. The kiss develops, tongues meeting and teeth tugging at bottom lips. Breathing becomes more laboured and my palms press a little bit firmer against his thighs. Seemingly encouraged by my eagerness, his hands move to my hips. His touch is nice. Strong hands contrast with the tenderness of his lips and I can feel myself falling deeper into the kiss. Soft moans threaten to escape from my lips as fingertips cast over the slip of exposed skin at my waist.

It's embarrassing how turned on just kissing makes me, but it's been so long since I've been touched, and even then, it definitely didn't feel like this. My previous experiences were naive and rushed; a quick rut so we could both lose our virginities, and a drunken encounter I had hoped would spark an ease around sex but was just off-putting as we rubbed up uncoordinatedly against each other.

This is different though. There's no rush to reach a conclusion, no pressure to perform. Instead, there is a feeling in my belly I can only describe as greed. I don't want to stop kissing him. I don't want him to stop touching me, his thumbs now tracing up and down my sides. I don't want to stop touching him. If anything, I want to touch more of him. I want to drag my fingers through his hair and pull him closer to me. I want to feel the muscles of his arms and chest. I want to caress my fingertips up his thighs and over his lap.

I'm worried I've accidentally thought out loud as George pulls back for a second, slightly breathless, and asks "Want more?".

His eyes are darker now. That previous warmth has been replaced with a heat that sends my mind reeling. I nod eagerly, my nose brushing against his.

"Sit in my lap for a bit, ok?" He instructs softly. He waits for me to nod again before his hands slips to the back of my thighs and pull me on top of him.

I kneel above his lap slightly, insecurity starting to prickle up the back of my neck, but I don't have too much time to dwell on the feeling when his hands slip up my back, bringing my body even closer to him until my weight is on him. He feels good underneath me, his jeans thick and rough against the thin linen of my own trousers.

"Just follow what you want," he starts, tone deeper as he looks down at the place our bodies meet. A gruff exhale leaves him before his eyes flit back up to meet mine and soften, "You're safe."

He kisses me, consciously soft as I settle into his lap. The sensation is too much and I can't help but shift my hips against him, searching for reprieve. It doesn't help. Every movement is overwhelming as I try to find a new position which doesn't make my head go dizzy. The ridge of his jeans where his zipper is feels so firm, catching smoothly against me. Soon, I can't stop myself, greedily wanting to feel the sensation over and over again. My hips begin to rock against his, grazing softly as pathetic little whines spill from my lips into the kiss. I'm mortifyingly turned on, grinding desperately in my friend's lap, fingers tangled in his hair. 

If he minds, though, he doesn't show it. His hands slip down my back and spread across my bum, fingertips digging in as he pulls and pushes, guiding my hips. For a moment, worry floods my mind that I'm not doing it right and that he needs to correct my movements, but when I pull back to look at him, his jaw tightens.

"Really good," He gets out through gritted teeth and I realise it's not the ridge of his jeans that feels so good. "Let's take a breather, ok?"

My heart drops to my stomach and it must be clear in my eyes because George smiles gently, moving my hips up and down him one more time.

"Feel that?"

I nod, cheeks feeling hot.

"That's how little you need to worry about not knowing what you're doing. Just feel what you've done to me."

meeting chris on a night out and sleeping together whoops. he’s hot, you’re hot. shit happens. he assumes he’s a little older but when he finds out about the age gap he has a quick wobble about it. worries he’s too old for you, panics that he’s somehow taken advantage even though you’re both grown adults. gets over it quickly though when make him laugh so hard the next morning. you keep talking afterwards and he’s smitten instantly. you have your shit together and you’re so driven and he finds it incredibly attractive.

he’s getting torn to shreds by his mates about the difference in your ages. move aside single jokes, a new sherrif’s in town. you don’t help and constantly make jokes about his age. his friends like you straight away when you casually ask where he was sitting when England won the world cup.

he occasionally has to remind himself that you have less life experience than him. fully uses this as an excuse to fund your life, treat you, show you what to expect from a partner. spoil you rotten.

always paying for dinner. if you see something you like while you’re out, he’ll just be like ‘well we’ll get it then’ and walk into the shop first. carries your bags. non-negotiable.

he recognises there is a power imbalance so becomes the king of communication. becomes the most patient and considerate version of himself. being with you forces him not to be selfish and he’s obsessed with it. gets to think about you all the time.

wants you to succeed so will always back you and support you however he can. utilises any resources he has that could help you.

the most organised man in the world. you’re just laying in bed one night talking about places you want to visit and he picks up his phone and starts arranging a trip to Paris.

living with will is a dream. he’s a grown up so you don’t have to worry about dirty dishes and the bins not being taken out. he’s on it already. even if he does call himself cinderella when you ask him to dust where you can’t reach. his fault for putting up shelves before you moved in.

he quickly becomes you’re best friend and you’re surprised by how natural it feels to be around him. initially, moving in with him had been a financial decision, but soon after you knew there was no way you wanted to live without him.

he makes you laugh. he’s passionate and driven. and he’s so kind. like, almost unbelievably kind. you see it in the way he treats his friends, the way he speaks to his family, the way he always holds doors open for strangers. it makes your heart glow a little bit each time you see that soft smile he gives people. a little ray of sunlight in the grey of the city.

you’re so used to his light that it starts to feel wrong when he’s away. the place is too quiet. your home feels like a flat again. he’s away filming when you text him ‘i really miss you man! how weird is that!’. you’re completely unaware that he reads and rereads the message for days after, just to make sure he didn’t imagine it.

when he comes home, you hug him so tight. he’s warm like he’s brought the sun back with him and you can’t help but melt into him. it’s a long hug. too long to be platonic. and realisation hits you like an anvil that you’re overwhelmingly into him.

you try to pull back from him. throw yourself into work. fill your social calendar. but he’s still there in the back of your mind and on your sofa.

you don’t clock that he never goes on dates. he’s a busy man, never mentions a relationship, clearly doesn’t want one. so you squash your crush down.

until he asks you to be his plus one for a friend’s wedding. and it’s as though all of your work to put distance between you was for nothing when you’re taking a photo together and his hand sits gently on the centre of your back. you’re ruined. you don’t leave each other’s side all night. even when you get home, a little tipsy from the open bar, and instead of going to bed, sit up all night talking until you eventually fall asleep together on the sofa.

will’s restraint is wearing thin. he can just see his life with you. it’s so easy. you want the same things as him. you make him laugh so hard. you’re so driven whilst also being so gentle and caring. you’re everything he could ever want.

he loves when you get your nails done. not because he cares about them being done but because you come home and make a point of sticking your hands out for him to see. and he gets to take your hands in his. and for a second he gets to imagine lifting them to his lips and placing a soft kiss on the back of each one.

he even loves when you’re being a nightmare and you come home drunk after drinks with your friends and you’re knocking things over by accident. you get so giggly when you drink and he can’t get enough, especially when you start talking about the guy at the bar who you thought was him, mumbling ‘you’re better looking though’ while you struggle to take your shoes off. he helps you take them off and pulls your feet into his lap, rubbing them softly until your head rolls back and you’re saying ‘god you’re perfect’

you’re mortified the next morning and can barely meet his eye.