The last things we said to one another before the lingering kiss (I did not catch his cold; in his defense he tried to stop me from kissing him and I finally had to take him by surprise, since among his cheekbones, the beer, and him telling me he was a top he was not escaping unkissed) and the walking away with a chest full of hope and joy were:
CHARLES: So. . . what do we do now.
EMILY: We should, um, plan something. (Beat) I'll call you tomorrow.
CHARLES: You mean. . . really plan. . . something. . . (Not a question)
Emily nods, and kisses him (lingeringly), and walks away.
In the event, the planning had to wait six months, during which we were, I guess, technically dating. That was because I chickened out when I called him the next day, and merely told him how great a time I'd had. That set up a strange situation in which we were both like, I don't know, old-fashioned cartoon-pirate-bombs with long, slow-burning fuses. We knew we were going to go off (and, of course, get off) some time, but we were both 1) nervous and 2) fucking slammed with academic work.
I think from September through February we probably had dinner five times, each of them on a night when one of us had to be in bed early because of some academic responsibility the next morning. Intimacy achieved; the funny thing was that it didn't feel like an achievement, because it had already really happened so effortlessly that night in September, under the most adverse conditions. Neither of us mentioned what was on both our minds--the idea of planning. . . something. We kissed at the end of each date, but when I, on I think two occasions, boldly tried to put my hand between his legs, he seized my wrist firmly, and twisted it gently behind my back, saying "Wait. We're going to plan something, right?"
He could have had me, of course, right then, right there, when he did that, so badly did I crave submission. But instinctively (or so he claims, for he says that he categorically refused to let himself believe that it would actually happen, while nevertheless [he says, the darling] jerking off, every night, thinking about spanking me), both times he kissed me, getting me so aroused that I feared I might develop a wet spot on my jeans, then let my wrist go, and walked away. He was hoping, he says now, that I would start the planning on my own, since he was so nervous about getting it wrong.
Finally, the last Saturday in February, he said, at the end of a dinner, at the same sushi place where we'd had our first date, "Do you think. . . it's time to plan something?"
"Yes," I said, looking steadily into his eyes and thinking about the place between his legs that I had never yet been allowed to touch. (I kind of wish, from a fantasy standpoint, he had said "It's time to plan something," rather than asking, or even just said "Take off your panties"; but as I keep saying that stuff is good in one's head, and really generally not in real life.)
At the end of that date, standing in front of my apartment building, I said, "Alright, this is it. When I call you tomorrow, we're going to make the plan. We're going to take the train down to New York on Friday, and stay in a fancy hotel, and we're going to give this a shot."
"What?" he asked, coyly.
I felt my face flush, but I also felt brazen. "You topping me," I said, resolutely. I hesitated a moment, then leaned in to whisper up into his ear, "You giving me what I have coming, because I've been very, very naughty. I've been playing with myself, thinking about you. Thinking about your cock, in my ass."
He emitted a groan that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of his soul. I clung to his shoulders, and moved my hips to bring myself up against his upper thigh, desperately and wantonly, and whimpered. Then, frankly afraid of what might happen there, on the street, if that particular scene went any farther, I tilted my face up and kissed him as hard as I could from below, and turned and went into my building, without looking back.