Should I just do it already? I can't spend one night alone without wanting to. I can't be this much of a burden can I? Can I really expect people to care if I need them this much? I'm just so tired.
The sounds of your and Baranās collective giggling fill the otherwise quiet roof as smoke wisps between you. When you invited Baran up here after work to smoke with you, you were most definitely expecting a quick ānoā and a lecture on why smoking pot was bad for you. Then she agreed. And now, youāre both high in some cheap folding chairs, giggling over some patient from today.
āAndā and Doctor Garcia was so angry!ā
Baran laughs softly as you roll your head back with uncontrollable laughter. The situation wasnāt all that funny. But now, feeling just slightly hazy, uncontrollably giggly and strangely happy around Baran, itās the funniest thing in the world. While youāre busy laughing, Baran is justā¦ staring. She watches with a slight smile, her head tilted to the side, examining you as if she could actually see right through you. She speaks up more softly than she intends.
āYouāre so beautiful when you laugh.ā
It goes quiet almost immediately. The sounds of the city and your slowly dying laughter are all thatās left. Baran straightens up quickly. She didnāt mean to say that. Most definitely not. Not that it wasnāt the truth. Just that she didnāt particularly want you to hear that thought. She doesnāt say anything to defend herself though. Whatās the point? Sheās aware enough for it to be clear any excuse she makes will sound like a lie.Ā
Neither of you say anything for a long moment. Baran sits there, turned to face you, waiting for you to say something to tell her if sheāll have to ignore you at work tomorrow orā¦ well, some other outcome. Any other outcome. After a moment, you turn to face her, examining her expression with confused, reddish eyes, as if youāll be able to sense that sheās lying. All you see is those big brown doe eyes, beautiful and glossy, even in the low lighting. Something about her unwavering gaze, the way everything just shifted with her words makes you have to press your thighs together to believe some of the sudden need. Maybe itās just thanks to the pot.
āCome here.ā
Baran speaks up after a moment, her voice barely a murmurāmore of a whispered command. Her eyes never leave yours. She doesnāt know exactly what she wants you close forāsheās too high for any planning like that. She just knows that she needs you closer than the foot of distance between you two.
Her eyes stay fixed on you as you slowly stand and, with only slightly wobbly steps, come to stand in front of her. Baran sits with a straight back, neck craned to look up at youāexamining your irises like they are precious and impossibly intricate pieces of art.Ā
Her hands rise, landing on your hips in a gentle but firm hold. The almost finished joint dangled from her fingers.
āI need to try something.ā
She mumbles. It seems all of the doubt Baran had has disappeared. Whether itās the high or just your reaction to her calling you beautiful is unclear. Sheās justā¦ a little more confident.
Before you know whatās happening, her hands are tugging you closer, closer until sheās using her grip to guide you into her lap, straddling her thighs.
āJust like that. So good.ā
Baranās hand rubs over your hip as you settle there, eyes wide and a little confused. When her praise settles with you, she notices your cheeks flush. God, you canāt hide anything from her while high. Maybe she needs to do this more often. Her big brown eyes flicker away from yours for just a moment, going half-lidded as they fix on your lips. She stares at them with unabashed desire.
āYou listen so well when you're high.ā
Sheās not wrong. The way youāre just quietly listening to everything she tells you to do isā¦ well, to call it a turn on for her would be an understatement. And sheās sure thatās not just the weed talking.Ā
Her hand comes up to gently grab your jaw, guiding your face closer to hers. Her fingers are steady and firm against your skinānot rough, but nearly reverent.
āI want to try something. I need you to hold still.ā
Sheās already bringing the joint back to her lips as she instructs you to stay there for her. You listen, of course, unable to form the words to either ask what is going on or if she would please just kiss you already. Before she takes a puff of the joint, she leans in and whispers to you:
āOpen your mouth.ā
When you do, a small grin spreads on her lipsāa little more unguarded than her usual, practiced smile.Ā
āGood girl.ā
She mutters, leaving that ache between your thighs even worse. Youāre not sure if sheās just simply unaware of how that low, slightly rough tone of her voice while she praises you is affecting you, or if sheās just feeling bold enough to tease. Before you can try to come up with an answer, sheās taking a hit of the joint and guiding your face in closer, her lips brushing yours. She slowly exhales smoke into your mouth, just barely not connecting your lips.
She doesnāt let you go as you inhale the smoke. She holds you there, watching your every minute expression. She wants to kiss you until you canāt breathe. But she doesnāt. Not yet. Not until she knows youāre sure.
You stare back at her, breathing picking up into something heavier, lips twitching like you canāt physically hold back. Itās silent for a long moment, your breath mingling with hers, the smell of the weed wafting around you. You think that Baran will moveāsheās usually so quick to take control of a case, why wouldnāt it be the same here? But she doesnāt. She just stares at you and your glossy eyes, waiting. Waiting until you finally lean in, slowly at first, your already parted lips pressing against hers. Then you feel her grin against you, her hands sliding in a slow, lazy movement around your waist, resting just on the curve of your ass. Then you really canāt hold back. You properly lean in. Your armsāfeeling as heavy as the rest of your limbsāwrap around her neck as you tug her in, lips moving against hers hungrily. She returns the gesture, kissing you with a messy sort of need.
Her tongue slides against yours after just a few seconds. Her movements are sloppy, almost lazy, like sheās savoring this kiss for as long as she can, lost in the feel of you on her already hazy mind. As her tongue tangles with yours, her hands drift lower, fingers gripping the curve of your ass, pulling you against her. The movement is almost instinctiveālike the weed has her on horny autopilot. Itās not any different to you. The second your hips press against hers, you grind down against her slowly, a soft, whiny moan slipping from your lips.
Baran just barely pulls away when she hears that noise, leaving you chasing her lips. She stares at you with wide, reddish eyes, breathing already getting heavier. She needs to hear that noise again. This time, she leans in to kiss you harder, somehow more messily than before. Now, her hands, still gripping your ass, begin guiding your hips. She tugs you down until your pussyāstill covered by your scrubsāgrinds against her thigh. Another shaky moan escapes your lips. One comes from Baranās mouth tooāneedy and soft, unexpectedly whiny for the usually ever-so-steady attending.Ā
She guides your hips in a slow rhythm at first. Then, when she pulls you just right so that your already throbbing clit grinds against her, a full-fledged moan slips out. Even here, on a public roof, you canāt bring yourself to try and stay quiet. Not when youāre sitting in Baranās lap, making out with her, cunt soaking just from humping her thigh. That moan just spurs Baran on. With a groan against your lips, her hips start desperately bucking up against yours. The high has you both feeling hazy and, somehow, better than either of you have in ages, just from dry humping each other.Ā
Baran feels her clit bumping against your hip as she bucks up into you. Sheās desperate and needy and already so goddamn close. She never cums this fast. Thereās just something about your desperate moans, the still lingering scent of the weed around you, the way your hips stutter as you chase after your release from grinding against her thigh. So, sheās feeling close already.
āFuck, youāre so fucking perfect.ā
Baran murmurs against your lips, guiding your hips in rougher movements. Feeling you against her has her feeling more high than the weed.Ā
āTo baraye man khili ali npasti, esh. Khili ali.ā
She switches to Farsi on instinct. Her mind is so clouded with how good it feels to grind against you, her tongue against yours, hands on your ass, her words come out strained and rough, different from how youāve ever heard it before.
Baran hears your moans change into unintelligible whimpers as you get close to the edge. She keeps grinding you against her, hands hiding each desperate buck of your hips while you search for the pressure you need. She mumbles how perfect you are against your lips, as if sheās unable to disconnect herself.
You cum with a loud, needy cry that the night-shift could probably hear the reverberations from inside. Your hips stutter, the pressure of each grind against your clit all of a sudden causing your thighs to twitch and shake. Baran watches you ride it out with a look of reverenceāthe effects of the weed making it damn near impossible for her to conceal her amazement. Her own orgasm hits without her even realizing it, just from watching you cum in your pants from riding her thigh.Ā
She keeps guiding you as she rides out her pleasure, causing that feeling of heat in your stomach from the overstimulationāthighs tensing, moans turning to whimpers and your back arching uncontrollably. Baran watches all of it like itās the most beautiful thing sheās ever seen.
Itās a long moment before both of your moans die down into heavy, ragged breathing, your lipās finally disconnecting. Baran breathes heavily against you, her face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You lean your head against hers. If the weed made you feel all hazy, the fucking made you feel absolutely gone.Ā
āYouā¦ā
Baran starts, her words cut off by a heavy puff of air and the dryness of her throat. Her voice comes out a little rough.
āYouāre perfect, azizam. So good for me.ā
Your limbs are heavy as one of her hands drifts to rub lazy circles against your back, like she canāt possibly separate from you. You feel like you could either fall asleep right here on Baran or keep fucking her in every position possible until the sunrise.
You really donāt remember much of what happened between that moment and the sun rising. All that you know is, somehow, you ended up in Baranās bed, tangled up with her in her quiet homeāher son off at her ex-husband's house. Based on the very faint memory of the events and the dark hickeys you spot immediately littering Baranās neck, you can make a guess.
When Baran stirs and slowly blinks her eyes open, you just watch her. As a small grin appears on her face, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to her jaw. Maybe you really do need to smoke with her more often.
I can feel my heart slowly rotting away inside me like a stuck feeling in between my lungs. It makes it hard to breathe. It makes it even harder to feel the free love that burns your chest and expands who you are. I don't think my heart is able to love like that but, hey, it's a nice thought.
The pull on my temples from my too-tight pigtails. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume mingled in the air. The crisp midnight air wafting through the window, dancing against my cheeks. The blaring music from the TV. The knocking of glass bottles piled on the floor. The quiet click of a closed door. My teeth against the skin of my fingers. The crinkle of a paper bag of jam doughnuts in my fist, thrust into my grip with a silent promise from stormy eyes. The silence in the car and the damp pillow I slept on that night.
I donāt think I want to be a girl anymore. Iāve always been confused about my gender. Scrolling through Tumblr where everyone discusses the validity of each identity as a young girl, I decided to be accepting. I never wanted someone to feel like a freak for their struggles with it. I always felt like a freak. I went to a creche where I hung out with boys when I was young but as we grew older they became meaner. They commented on my face, hair, laugh and body, secretly ranking me as the fattest girl behind my back as I washed the dishes after our dinner. These memories made me think. I was 11. Why was I washing the dishes along with the eight-year-old girl while they snickered behind me? Why was I saddled holding the smallest baby who was fussy while they got to play on an iPad? I developed a thick skin, never wanting to show the cracks I was taunted for supposedly having, assumed to have because I was a girl. I deliberately never wore skirts, or pink and certainly tried my hardest to never cry. I became the freak girl for being anti-girl. I hated getting my period. I hated having to hide something that was shameful that I couldnāt control. I disliked not having control. I became snappy and mean, hating the other girls for staving theirs off or seemingly liking the experience of growing into womanhood. My mother said āWelcome to womanhoodā with a knowing smile. I told her to fuck off. She took it in her stride understanding but not quite so. In my early teens, I spent my days watching makeup videos, trying look after look, and watching endless tutorials on intricate braids. I didnāt want to be the freak girl anymore. It was getting too hard. I became obsessed with boybands, always picking the funny one of the group, liking their joy. I was tired of not laughing. I got my first boyfriend at school and everyone changed. No one asked how I was or what I did last night just about the details of our relationship. Had we kissed yet? Was there tongue? Has he felt your bra? I broke up with him and never dated anyone in school again. I could control my relationships outside of school. Maybe it was a control issue. Maybe it was too pressuring, or maybe, I wanted to be just me again.Ā
Maybe Iām trans? I disliked being a girl and disliked girly things so maybe I was meant to be a boy. I thought about it. I thought about being one of the boys in the locker room, spraying an ungodly amount of deodorant and pulling borderline cruel pranks. I could live with that, I thought. I never did anything with these thoughts. I locked it away in a journal I used sporadically to be found years later. As I grew older, these thoughts settled in my bones like an ache and over time I got used to the feeling. I donāt remember who I was before the ache. At 17 I started to take photographs of myself. The kind where Iād lock myself in the bathroom in the middle of the night and pose in clothes I had secretly bought. I wanted to feel happy as a girl and I did. I liked my makeup, it wasnāt pretty but dark and flashy. I liked my clothes, revealing but not too much. I liked the posters on my wall and the bottles of perfume on my dresser. I liked being a girl when I was surrounded by other girls who were so different but yet all the same. I loved getting ready for a party with all my friends, sharing products and giving clothes advice. I liked coming home after, stripping off the makeup and talking about the night with greasy food in our hands. I liked being one of the girls.Ā
I like women. I love their energy. I love the depth of their hobbies, their subtle preferences, and their laughs and I love their hearts. I feel like the world doesnāt appreciate women. On a base level, Iāve always known this. I love walking into a teenage girl's room and seeing makeup and clothes strewn around the room, posters on walls and gross little details like an overflowing bin, a concerning can collection or wet towels draped across chairs. I love the sparkle in women's eyes when they mention their favourite anything, food, band or even colour. I love listening to my younger girl cousin tell me about the drama in her school, showing me her new dress and asking my advice on boys. I love looking back and remembering when I thought like that. Iām glad she talks to me and Iām glad I get it all still.Ā
Okay, maybe I have mixed feelings about being a girl. When I think of girlhood, I donāt necessarily think of actually being a girl. I think about stealing my nanaās makeup off her dressing table. I think of playing with my dolls. I think of making magic potions with various soaps in my bathroom. I think of never wearing my coat and always losing my scarf. I think of the school shoes I wore with ripped tips from dragging them on the ground when my swing got too high. None of these things have anything to do with being a girl yet everything to do with it. But I can think of other things. The things I did that always got me called a tomboy. I think of chasing people with boogers. I think of ripping the knees of my pants. I think of making mudpies. I think about playing with dinosaur toys. I think of my obsession with fighting despite being tiny. These things donāt make me a boy.Ā
As I get older, I donāt think Iām either. I think Iām just angry. Men have the luxury of being seen as humans first and men second. But women are always women before humans. Maybe I donāt want to be a girl because of this. Iām exhausted of existing as a woman. I am tired of double-checking that my pad is on correctly. I am tired of sharing petitions for the newest crime against a woman. I am tired of arguing about my pain. I am tired of hearing stories of friends being scared. I am tired of the violence that men create. And I suppose Iāve always known this. From the little girl who refused to wear pink to the woman who purposely defeminizes herself for fear that I will be seen as a woman in a world that treats them as less than a quick fuck.
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