Chapter 6: Rome

Thankfully, I ran regularly in winter. I waved at the flight attendants as I sprinted through the lobby, ignoring their confused looks. A lone car honked as I ran across the normally busy street and into the train station.

My breath burned in my lungs as I nearly leapt onto the train as the warning chimes rang, the doors closing mere seconds after I boarded. I suspect that a compassionate conductor held the doors open for me as I ran down the platform. Panting, I collapsed into the nearest seat, hands on my knees, underwear scattered in my lap.

The train began to move. After my lungs slowly recovered, I moved to the second floor.

The upper deck was as deserted as the lower deck. I passed only one woman sitting alone near one end of the train car, her eyes closed, perhaps asleep. I moved towards the other end of the car, sitting facing west in a window seat. The train gathered momentum. I couldn’t see much outside: streetlights, moon and stars.

I settled back in my seat, body aching from the sprint, from the arousal, from the cold.

Some of my friends told me that one of the riskier places to masturbate was on a deserted train. I swore I’d never be one of those women; however, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever been this aroused without satisfaction. I closed my eyes, unbuttoned my jeans and pushed my fingers into the warmth between my legs, no panties between my molten fingertips and my silky skin. My other hand reached for my nipples through my shirt. I moaned quietly as my thoughts wandered helplessly.

While I’m not particularly proud of touching myself on a moving train, I really only succeeded in increasing my already overwhelming arousal. At some point, I may even have drifted into a dreamlike state, the train’s motion lulling me, my fingers driving pangs of slow pleasure into my estrogen fogged mind.

When my stop was called, I awoke with a start, pulling my hand from my jeans and crying out softly. There was nobody on this early train to hear me regardless, the only other occupant having departed at a previous stop. I ran down the steps carrying my clothing in one hand, and trying to button and zip my jeans with the other. I arrived at the lower floor as the doors slid open with their distinctive chime. Calmer, I stepped out into the freezing night. My breath plumed from my mouth and nose as I watched the train pull away, racing towards a sun yet to appear.

I pulled my overcoat about me, my teeth already beginning to chatter. Thankfully, my home wasn’t a lengthy walk.

I hoped that Charlotte was safe, satisfied, warm and happy. If she was lucky, she was glowing and asleep in her husband’s arms in a fancy hotel room. In the very least, she wasn’t standing alone in the dark, desperately aroused on a deserted train platform.

At least I wasn’t barefoot and naked, I consoled myself.

It seemed a wholly inadequate consolation.

I began to walk.

My fingers, toes, ankles, cheeks, chin and ears held no sensation. The bungalow before me was not mine. I hadn’t visited this house in a handful of years, but I recognized it, even predawn with all of its cozy windows shrouded in early morning darkness. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to walk here, instead of my home, and such a decision would have been exceedingly unwise. Yet, here I was.

I debated with myself to move on, walk the extra ten minutes to my home where my bathtub and warm comfortable sheets awaited. Instead, I stood at the foot of the driveway, shivering and arguing with myself.

The first tendrils of orange lit the sky to the east. I turned to watch the dawn, shivering; a new beginning.

My brain wasn’t functioning as it should, bringing me here. My body ached, either the commencement of hypothermia or an advanced case of sex fog. I guessed the latter, since I was still shivering uncontrollably and hypothermia victims, ironically, stop shivering.

“Fuck it,” I whispered into the uncaring dawn.

I toed off my sneakers, and tore my socks from my feet. The ground felt paradoxically warm under my bare soles, every pebble and tuft of ice connecting me to the terrain over which I stumbled. My feet burned with the cold as I strode up the driveway, my shoes now in my arms. Despite wearing a shirt and jeans and a loose coat, I felt utterly naked, and it felt right.

I hesitated at the door, standing on her covered porch, my index finger trembling uncontrollably.

I rang the bell. Musical chimes tinkled softly somewhere inside.

I nearly rang it again, but I sensed movement inside, a subtle trembling suffusing through my naked soles.

The porch light illuminated above me at the same time as the foyer lamp, but I was barely aware of it.

The door opened and she appeared, wearing nothing but a satin babydoll, her legs bare, her brunette locks tousled, her hazel eyes groggy with sleep. Her lingerie barely covered her nipples and only descended to the very tops of her thighs. Blearily, I wondered if she always answered the door like that. Pizza deliveries must have been popular. Then I realized she had a door cam buried in the doorbell I’d only recently pressed, and that she undoubtedly knew it was me.

“Do you know what time...” she began, then her eyes fell to my bare toes and then up to my face. Suddenly her eyes lost a great deal of the grogginess and concern filled her. “Crimson, are you all right?”

That was the question of the hour, and I wished I had an answer. I suspect that the answer was negative, given that I stood shivering and barefoot in the middle of winter as the sun rose on her front doorstep. Gently, she grasped my free hand and urged me inside, closing the door behind me to banish the cold. “God, you’re frozen.” She began to rub my hand. I could barely feel her fingers. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I nodded. I allowed the items of clothing to fall from my grip, fluttering and falling at my numb feet. Cameron stared at the underwear. Mine. Charlotte’s. I could see her mind churning.

“Did everything work out with Charlotte?” she asked, finally.

I licked my lips, which felt cold against my tongue.

I nodded slowly. “I don’t kiss and tell,” I murmured.

Cameron sighed, and guided me into her living room. I didn’t have the strength to resist; I followed complacently, my feet burning. Her living room was clean, but cluttered. Beneath my soles, tiles morphed to hardwood. The faint scent of potpourri reached me: strawberries and lime. She stopped me in the middle of the room and faced me, her eyes dissecting me, hunting for the answers and understanding that I was unable to provide in that moment.

“You helped her?” Cameron asked.

I nodded slowly. Maybe.

“I see,” Cameron replied, her eyes still scanning my face. It felt like she could see my naked soul. Being here was such a terrible idea. Her teeth touched her lower lip as she considered whatever she absorbed from my grainy eyes. I simply stood gently swaying as if I were at sea.

Cameron sighed; a melancholy and an element of concern tinged her voice.

“Why are you here, Crimson?” she asked gently.

I wished I knew and could tell her.

“I want...” I began haltingly. The words refused to roll off my tongue and my voice trailed into oblivion. There were so many ways to finish that statement: I wanted Charlotte’s tongue, I wanted to return to the Royal York, I wanted to touch myself, I wanted to caress and taste Charlotte’s naked skin, I wanted to kiss soft lips, I wanted to sleep forever, I wanted to strip away my clothes, I wanted to clear my mind, I wanted hot breath between my legs, I wanted passionate, primal sex.

I. Wanted. Cameron.

The floodgates opened with no warning and I stood silently weeping in front of her, tears rolling down my cheeks in rivers, my entire body shaking from my shoulders to my bare toes. My entire body ached. The image of Cameron in her purple lingerie blurred out of existence, like looking through a rain-drenched window. I didn’t attempt to stem the tears; there was little point; it felt like I’d continue to cry until I collapsed. I felt naked, exposed and spent, standing barefoot in her living room sobbing like a little girl into my hands. No, I didn’t understand this, but I suspect Cameron somehow did.

After patiently letting me cry for a long, long time, and as the sobs finally subsided, Cameron gently moved my hands from my face and kissed my wet cheeks tenderly. She grasped my fingers, our hands joined and gently swaying. Through my tears, I could see her face, somehow aware of me, concerned, no longer afraid for me, somehow enlightened.

“Let’s fix you,” she whispered softly in my ear; her breath, warm against my ear, drove insistent tendrils of unexpected desire through my body. I doubted if even Cameron could fix me. “You’re so sex drunk,” she laughed lightly and kindly. Her relieved laughter brought a tentative smile to my lips, and it felt good. My body felt drained and empty.

“Sex fogged,” I corrected in a whisper.

She kissed me again and her lips felt like a dream, so like Charlotte, and yet somehow softer and more passionate.

“I like that term: sex fogged,” she said, laughing again softly.

I could see in her eyes that she knew this was more than being sex drunk. Perhaps her clearer mind understood me, three steps ahead of me.

Baby steps.

She slept alone in an enormous king bed, the sheets tousled in disarray. Comfortable multicolour pillows piled high against the simple wooden headboard; one still carried the indent of her head. In a single motion of her arm, Cameron swept the tangled covers to the floor, leaving only a clean linen top sheet. The wan light of dawn peeked through the uncovered window, not quite reaching the bed.

In another quick motion, her lingerie joined the covers as I stood mute, watching. The sight of her stole my breath; it had been years since I’d been with her. The last time I’d seen her naked had been in Rome. I pushed Rome from my mind as she advanced to me, and without a word, lifted my shirt from skin, carelessly tossing April Wine to fall crumpled under the window. I gasped as the cooler air caressed my breasts and nipples. Cameron unsnapped my jeans and pushed them to my ankles. Barely aware that I was moving, I stepped from the denim and kicked the last item of modesty away from me.

I reached for her; she allowed me to stroke her breasts and nipples, her breathing becoming erratic. My nerves jangled, insistent and demanding. I trailed my fingers from her breasts, over her tummy, finding her sex. With a sigh, she pushed her legs apart, granting me access. Not unusually, between her legs was as naked of pubic hair as mine now was, nothing between my fingers and her. I slipped my index finger inside of her and she gasped, biting at her lip, rocking her hips towards my hand. While my finger remained inside her, she grasped my jaw and kissed me fiercely. As the heel of my hand pressed against her, she released my jaw and gently extracted my finger from her; it felt like a rejection. I didn’t understand. Tears again formed in my eyes, but didn’t spill. I was shocked that I had any moisture left in my body.

She raised my hand, smiled, and licked my finger, her tongue tickling, then turned my hand and pressed my finger to my lips. My lips parted and my tongue traced my own finger, infusing her scent and taste. Rome flooded into my mind with the force of a hurricane. I swayed physically and mentally before somehow pushing Rome again out of my consciousness. The taste of her had strongly triggered memories, but I didn’t want to think about Rome.

Cameron kissed me again and gently pushed my shoulders. I collapsed onto her bed, somehow summoning the strength to clamber into the centre. I rested my head wearily on her pillow; her bedsheets smelled like her soap and shampoo, like Rome in summer. I felt small and vulnerable lying naked there.

“I could sleep forever,” I whispered.

She kissed me. “You woke me up at the crack of stupid,” she laughed. “You don’t get to fall asleep.”

And suddenly her fingers were upon my breasts, touching them as I remembered, kissing the skin and the nipples. I arched my chest to the caress. Some women can orgasm with simple nipple kisses; I cannot, but I tried, Lord, I tried. And then, as suddenly as her fingers were there upon my chest, they were gone. I opened my eyes and watched as she climbed towards the foot of the bed and kissed my bare toes. I shivered as her tongue explored my toes, crying out as the sensations hurtled up my legs, settling deep into my body. She’d never done that before, not even in Rome.

She urged my legs apart, and I complied, too exhausted and sex fogged to resist. Her tongue travelled from my ankle to my thigh, leaving a moist trace. Her hair tickled my thighs as her breath warmed my sex.

“Please,” I begged.

She laughed lightly again, a beautiful sound. She lay between my legs, her bare feet kicking lazily in the dawn light. Her fingers, barely touching me, traced my vulva. I cried out, pushing helplessly towards her fingers, wanting so much more of her. One of her hands cupped my bum, the other penetrated my vagina in a smooth motion; there was zero resistance. My right hand squeezed my left breast, fingers finding my nipple and pressing to the point of pain. My left hand gripped a pillow above me somewhere, fingernails like daggers into the foam. Many women can orgasm simply from penetration, and if there was any time for that to happen to me, as Cameron’s fingers slid into me, I should have exploded. I did not.

It wasn’t until her warm tongue entered the arena that my body allowed me release. Cameron knew me, perhaps even better than I knew myself. She knew my rhythms. She knew how much pressure against my clitoris, how much swirl to give me with her lips and her tongue and her teeth, the easy cadence of thrust with her buried fingers. And she did that, ravishing me against the fog, her hair caressing my thighs, her fingers slowly pumping me, her teeth nipping playfully, her tongue, oh her tongue, finally pressing against me in a gush of primal ecstasy.

Images flooded my mind: Charlotte kissing me, standing with her hands interlaced behind her head, wearing my jeans and my shirt, me wearing a black dress, dancing across a marble floor without shoes, me caressing her bare breasts, her tied to the bed, straddling her, slapping her, reddening her silky skin, her snow walking barefoot and naked, her driving, bare feet upon the pedals, her tongue inside of me, her smile, stewardesses dragging carry-ons, champagne brimming her navel, handcuffs, strawberries, my own fingers hidden in the darkness of a train, Cameron slipping out of her lingerie, stripping me and pushing me back onto her bed, lying naked between my legs, her hair so soft upon my thighs.

As if from very far away, I could hear my own voice screaming primally, my throat on fire. Dimly, I hoped that the neighbours didn’t call the police to report a woman being murdered. My body convulsed, every muscle fighting against bone. I couldn’t breathe, and yet I screamed. I gripped the pillow so hard I thought it would tear. I managed to save my left nipple as the pain there convinced me to release it from my grasping right fingers before I helplessly tore it from my breast. I felt like a storm had shattered against my nervous system, a gargantuan hurricane sweeping away a stubborn bank of fog. I heard myself screaming until the darkness descended and enveloped me in a welcoming warm embrace.

And then I screamed no more.

I awoke to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. Dimly I heard plates clattering, glasses clinking, and incongruously, the low tones of a very old song: Sign of the Gypsy Queen. I rolled over, sensing that I was alone in the enormous bed, yet I reached out my left arm tentatively only to find a slightly warmer patch of empty bed beside me. Blearily, I pushed the heavy comforter from my head and immediately I pulled it back as sunlight flooded into my eyes, blinding me. I lay motionless under the cover for perhaps five minutes catching my breath and forcing my eyes back open. My entire body ached as if I’d been hit by an eighteen wheeler. I groaned, pushing the cover from my head again, slowly opening my eyes.

The sun had risen past its zenith, the bed now bathed in bright sunlight. Outside the window, a crystal clear blue sky greeted me. Chickadees chirped on the outside sill, oblivious to my presence behind the glass. I raised my left arm. My watch was completely dead and no amount of probing at the buttons or face would revive it. I pushed the comforter from my skin and let the sun warm me. I felt rested for the first time in a week, perhaps in years. My clothes were scattered about the room where we’d left them. Cameron’s babydoll lay in a crumbled ball alone beside the bed.

April Wine had morphed into the cover of You Could Have Been a Lady somewhere beyond the mostly closed bedroom door. At last, I pushed myself up to my elbows with a soft sigh.

She’d left a white terrycloth robe lying neatly on the end of the bed near my feet. I felt its softness with my fingers, but opted to simply slip off the bed and pad naked to the door. I opened it. The volume of the music amplified from down the deserted hallway.

I walked towards the kitchen, following the muted notes.

She wore a fluffy pink terrycloth robe, the sister of the lonesome one lying neatly at the foot of the bed, presumably for me. Familiar music played from a white HomePod resting on the counter near her. She was singing softly, wonderfully off key, Tonight is a Wonderful Night to Fall in Love with her back to me, her bare toes tapping the hardwood, her brunette hair messy and falling below her shoulders. The music transported me to a more carefree time, spinning her parents’ vinyl in her cluttered basement, singing like nobody was listening. The music was ancient, even then, but it was happy music. We were so very young. I found myself smiling as I listened to her soft voice.

I leaned my bare shoulder against the archway silently, crossing my ankles and folding my arms across my chest.

It surprised me a little that she was cooking. In the distant past, she would burn water if given the chance. I used to cook, back when we were together, and with good reason.

The table was neatly set: two chairs, a plate of crisp bacon, a full glass of orange juice, a bottle of Heinz ketchup, and a steaming cup of coffee. Everyone knew I didn’t drink coffee. I prayed the orange juice was for me.

Perhaps sensing my presence, she turned and her face lit up. A spatula was gripped in her right hand.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she chirped, then reconsidered. “Good afternoon.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “Two thirty,” she said seriously.

The last time I slept beyond noon was in Rome.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

Her eyes looked me up and down, but she didn’t ogle me or seem surprised by my casual nudity.

“Two thirty-five, now.”

“Why did you let me sleep that long?!”

“You seemed to need it.” It wasn’t a lie; I probably did need it. I didn’t remember anything after I passed out. My body ached with the memory of what had caused me to pass out. “Do you feel better?”

“Less foggy,” I replied. “And a lot calmer.” I could certainly be aroused if presented the opportunity, but at the moment, my body agreed to let me simmer, the last of the fog dissipated.

She laughed. “Sex fog gone?”

“Sex fog evaporated,” I agreed. “Thank you.” At the mention of sex, a realization dawned on me. “Oh my god,” I sputtered. “You?”

Cameron simply smiled. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, silly.”

It wasn’t like me at all to receive and not return. I prided myself on satisfying my lovers. But then, passing out from a climax wasn’t exactly my style either. It had never happened before. I blushed, which was extremely difficult to hide given my lack of clothing.

Cameron continued, waving the spatula about dangerously. “And while I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I haven’t. Yet. You scared the hell out of me screaming and passing out like that. I damn near called an ambulance. I thought I’d killed you. Given you a heart attack or something.” She paused. “I held you for a long time. It took a long time for you to stop shaking, but you did. It was actually kind of cute after I calmed down and realized you were still breathing. You kept thanking me in your sleep. Did you know you talk in your sleep?” I shook my head. As far as I knew, I hadn’t previously. Or at least none of my lovers had ever mentioned it.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing I could make any sense of.” She pinched her face in concentration. “You called Charlotte’s name a few times. Called mine more,” she smiled at that. “Something about stars and waves. I think you said hit me once, but it was pretty jumbled. It might have been kiss me. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I just lay with you for a long time. I read for a while. I watched you sleep. I lay with you some more and then decided I needed to make some breakfast, not that we should call it breakfast at two thirty in the afternoon. And then you magically appeared, an angel in my kitchen.” She stopped her narrative, turning back to the stove. “I hope scrambled eggs are okay.” Scrambled eggs sounded divine.

I padded into the kitchen and settled into the chair with the empty plate and orange juice. The seat felt strange against my bare skin.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I said. Cameron simply waved a hand in dismissal over her shoulder. “Should I go back for the robe?”

“Not unless you’re cold,” she replied. “I’m only wearing one because, well, bacon.”

My mind wandered back to a more tumultuous time when we regularly didn’t bother dressing for breakfast, and spent the afternoons in bed, too. I sipped at the orange juice; my hand shook as I picked up the glass. My stomach growled insistently. My lips were dry. I hadn’t realized how hungry and dehydrated I was.

Cameron turned from the stove holding a steaming pan full of fluffy eggs. She pushed most of them onto my plate, reserving a few for herself, told Siri to hold the music, and settled into the chair across from me. Her robe fell open as she sat down, her nipples peeking out. She didn’t bother to close it, didn’t seem aware of it at all.

I poured some ketchup onto my plate and attacked the eggs. I drained the orange juice as Cameron sipped slowly at her coffee and picked at her eggs. Both of her hands wrapped around the cup, exactly as I remembered her. She nipped daintily at a slice of bacon. She watched me eat with complete attentiveness. The eggs and bacon were both delicious.

I settled back in my chair. The back of the chair chilled my bare back and shoulder blades. I stretched out my legs under the table, flexing my toes. My stomach pleasantly full, I returned my attention to Cameron.

“Crimson?” she started as she noted I’d cleaned my plate.

“Mhmmm?”

“We need to take this slow,” she said, her lips set in total seriousness.

I nearly laughed incredulously. Less than eight hours ago, her tongue had caused me to pass out. Slow?

“I know,” she said, seeing my amused smile. “Sounds stupid after this morning.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling. Her throat looked vulnerable and soft. She looked at the ceiling whenever she had to say something that she didn’t want to, or made her uncomfortable. Not many topics made Cameron uncomfortable. “Do you remember Rome?” she asked quietly. The innocent, muted question slammed into me enough to make me shiver in the chair.