Freeze Frame

As I was falling asleep last night, I was remembering one of my happiest memories of adulthood. It was like a moment frozen in time, and if I were a better artist, I would be compelled to draw it.

We were in a small dorm room, with the compulsory cinderblock walls and linoleum tile floor. There was little decoration in the room, a mattress on the floor; and a student’s desk and chair. The effect is institutional, as I suppose is the intent. I was sitting in the desk chair, long blonde hair down and a little messy, with my legs stretched out in front of me, crossed at the ankle and resting on the mattress. I was wearing sheer black panties and a black button-up blouse, only buttoned once over my breasts, for false modesty’s sake. I felt positively feline as I smoked a cigarette, my attention focused on the people at my feet.

They sat on the bed, fuzzy from lack of sleep, a night of hard drinking, and really great sex. But in that moment, as sleepy as they were, their attention was entirely focused on me. She watched me with her big brown eyes with a mixture of lust and admiration. She looked coquettish in these kinds of moments; she emanated a teasing, playful kind of heat. She said I was incredibly sexy. She directed this statement to her bedmate, who grinned in response. He has always looked at me in that way; a look that seems to suggest that I’m amusing him at the same time that I’m arousing him. I liked that look. He was relaxed, and he seemed surrounded by sensual energy.

I sat there smoking, inviting the looks, inviting their desire, enjoying being loved by both of them. All these years later, I find myself wondering—why didn’t I climb back into bed?