DISCLAIMER: Popular Characters are not mine. They belong to whomever.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is inspired by the scene in "Fire in the Hole," where Brooke gives Sam advice about George, and then they watch a pornographic movie together. That is about all you need to know. Oh, and in this story, Brooke is still dating Josh, which deviates from canon. Sorry about that.
THANKS: Thirty-seven thousand thanks to JuneBug, for her amazing Beta-ing skills.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Things Left Unsaid
By Green Quarter
It was a Friday afternoon, and Sam was doing the absolute last thing that she wanted to be doing now that she was free for the weekend, but she couldn't put it off any longer. She pulled the still-warm load of laundry out of the dryer, trying to get her arms around the gargantuan assortment of clothing, and walked into the living room. She dumped the mountain of laundry onto the middle cushion of the couch and sat down next to it, then looked around for the TV remote. After a quick perusal of the wasteland that was after school TV programming, she settled on Judge Judy, and began to fold.
"You dropped these," Brooke entered the living room, holding up a white crew sock in one hand and a slinky leopard print bra in the other. She threw the sock at Sam but held onto the bra.
Sam pulled the sock from her shoulder, the crackle of static cling audible as she tossed it onto the pile of unfolded laundry. "Gimme that," she demanded, holding out her hand for the lingerie.
Brooke gingerly held the bra by the strap between her thumb and forefinger and examined it. "Ooh, mama, hot stuff! I never knew you wore this kind of racy thing, Sam," Brooke teased, coming around the sofa and sitting down on the other end, Sam's laundry between them.
"Shut up, Brooke! It was a gag birthday gift from Lily and Carmen," Sam reached over and snatched it away from Brooke, the elastic snapping as it left Brooke's hand. "Get your mitts off my foundation garment," she huffed.
"Jeez. Touchy, much?" Brooke commented. "What the heck is a foundation garment, anyway? Sounds like a girdle or something that the Queen of England would wear. Maybe it's just me, but I can't see the old gal in something so sexay," she continued to needle.
Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I only wear it when my underwear drawer gets empty, okay? I'm a little behind with my laundry," she added, defensively.
"Whatever," Brooke replied, losing interest in Sam's underwear. She grabbed the remote and started to rapidly click through the stations, not noticing Sam's glare in her direction.
"I was watching that, you know," Sam said testily, as she tried to smooth out the wrinkles in a pair of jeans.
"Oh, come on, no one really watches Judge Judy," Brooke answered, unconcerned, still clicking away.
Silence descended on the room, except for the three-second sample of each TV show as Brooke tried to decide on something to watch.
"Hey, ADD-girl," Sam finally said, "will you just pick something, already? You're giving me a headache."
Brooke eventually settled on Oprah, but was actually disinterestedly watching Sam as she continued to haphazardly fold her laundry.
Sam could feel Brooke judging her. When doing laundry, Brooke used five different kinds of soap, and separated everything into whites, off-whites, beiges, earth tones, colors, bright colors, darks, medium darks, and dark-darks, and did a million tiny little loads of each. Sam threw all her clothes in together, no matter what color, spun the dial to cold, added detergent and got it over with as quickly as possible. The clothes came out clean, and that was all she cared about.
"What?" she asked preemptively, as Brooke gazed at the slowly dwindling pile of unfolded clothing.
"Nothing," Brooke replied, all innocence.
They turned their attention to the TV as Oprah gushed unconvincingly at some celebrities who were promoting a movie coming out this week.
"What are you doing tonight?" Brooke asked, not taking her eyes from the screen.
"Movies with George," was Sam's terse reply. "You?"
"Josh and I are going out to dinner."
Sam nodded. All she had left were a mound of socks, which she set to pairing up. When she was done, she piled them on top of the stacks of folded clothes on the coffee table, and leaned back, directing her attention back to Oprah.
The two of them sat on opposite ends of the couch, ostensibly ignoring each other as they quietly watched TV, but they were actually excruciatingly aware of the other's presence.
"So," Brooke said with extreme nonchalance, after Oprah ended and she had clicked off the TV, "you wanna make out?"
"Okay," Sam casually, but immediately, replied, moving over on the couch as Brooke did the same.
They met in the middle and Sam awkwardly placed one hand on Brooke's hip and the other along the back of the sofa. Brooke regarded her with an almost clinical detachment as she moved in and met Sam's lips with her own. Sam felt anything but detached. She felt her skin grow hot as as she concentrated on Brooke's lower lip, which felt like it permanently belonged pressed up against where her own lips met. She felt Brooke exhale into her mouth, her hands moving down from Sam's shoulders, caressing her through the thinness of her cotton t-shirt, pausing at the middle of her back for a moment.
Brooke drew away from Sam and raised an eyebrow at her, realizing something. Then she dropped her hands even lower and plunged them beneath the waistband of Sam's satiny tracksuit bottoms. Sam flushed a deep shade of red, both from embarrassment and from the feel of Brooke's hands on her bare ass.
"It is laundry day," Sam said, explaining her foundation garment-less status.
"It is a modern convenience that can be used more than once a month." Brooke retorted, smirking.
"I'll bear that in mind," Sam closed the distance between them and drew their lips together once again. Brooke's hands felt like they were branding her. Brooke touching her there was something new for them, but then every day for the past two weeks had brought something new to their interactions. Sam tried to put her hands on the same place on Brooke's body, but she couldn't get past the tight leather belt that cinched the pants Brooke was wearing. Instead she loosely wrapped her arms around Brooke's waist.
Brooke began doing something with her tongue, and her fingers became splayed as she clutched Sam's bottom, pulling her closer. Sam felt like a flare had gone off inside her and she couldn't help but part her lips to allow Brooke access to her mouth. Tightening her hold on Brooke, she arched her back and pressed her breasts against Brooke's, like she was trying to become a part of her. Sam felt Brooke shudder as her fingers unwittingly tickled the skin over her ribs through the silky fabric of the blouse that she wore. And as Brooke's tongue retreated, she let her own tongue peek out, making a leisurely exploration of Brooke's lips, reveling in their softness, before pushing into her mouth.
In the near silence that now permeated the living room, any noise would have been magnified, and so it was when both girls clearly heard the kitchen door open, and the familiar staccato sound of Sam's mother's heels making their way over the slate floor. Sam and Brooke instantly disentangled themselves, each avoiding the other's eyes. Sam scooped up her piles of laundry and unhurriedly made her escape to her room, not looking back when she heard the TV go on, and the rapid parade of channels sounding off once again.
Okay. I've decided to write some things down so I can try to make sense of what's been happening lately. This document will be saved several directories deep in a folder called Zapruder, which George will most likely ignore if he borrows my laptop. Not that he ever has, but you never know. I should also encrypt it, just in case.
So anyway What the fuck? I have no idea what is going on right now. Everyday I wake up feeling off-kilter and strange. Since this thing started between Brooke and me, I have been unable to get a handle on it. Wait. Maybe if I start from the beginning I can understand what the hell is going on, and then I can figure out what I'm supposed to do about it.
It all started when I asked Brooke for some relationship advice about George. She and I had been getting along really well for once, and since she had experience where I had none, she was an obvious choice. The gist of the thing is that I wanted to take my relationship with George to the next level, and after making sure I knew what I was getting into Brooke agreed to help me. She even engineered a night out at the movies with my mom and Mike, and made it look like it had all been my mom's idea, so I could have the place to myself. That plan backfired in the most spectacular of ways, because George, unlike any other male teen of the species who would be willing to hump a wildebeest if it were cute enough (not that I'm comparing myself to a wildebeest, or maybe I am, I don't know, whatever), wanted to wait until the time was right. I returned to Brooke for advice again, hoping she would have some answers for me.
Brooke was kind of confused that he didn't jump at the chance too, but I'm sure no guy has ever said no to her, so it might have just been outside her sphere of experience. Then she ended up taking George's side, rationally explaining that he probably just wanted to wait and have it be special. But I didn't want to wait! This is so not a badge of honor anymore. I was sick of being the prim one; I wanted to get this over with, already. Brooke couldn't understand that, but then, she'd already done it. I guess she sort of regrets it now. I was going on and on about why weren't there classes to teach people how to have sex when Brooke produced a porno that belonged to Mike from somewhere. Let me just say that I will never think of Mike the same way again.
The video was called Rumpelstiltskin XXX, and it was ridiculous. And I know I'm a big loser because I'd never seen porn before, but even I could see that this movie was absurd. Brooke and I sat on the coffee table, really close to the TV, and watched it for a while before we were giggling too hard to look at it. Well, giggling and utterly appalled at what the miller's daughter began to do to that midget. Brooke seemed really at ease and I envied how she could take something like that in her stride, because although I found it funny and a bit shocking, I felt oddly titillated as well.
So the combination of being all horned up yet still uptight about my lack of experience forced me to absolute honesty and I made a confession to Brooke. I told her that I thought George didn't want to do it with me because I'm terrible at it, well the stuff we'd already done, anyway.
Brooke tried to be nice about it. She insisted that it was all probably my imagination and that I didn't have anything to worry about.
Then, even though I was sober as a judge and psychotropic substance-free, I asked Brooke if I could kiss her, so she could give me an honest evaluation of my kissing ability. Yeah. I know. I'm an idiot. I don't know where I ever got the sack to ask her that. I felt like the biggest moron right after the words came out of my mouth. She would think I'm a lesbian or something.
Sometimes she can be so nice, almost like a sister. Instead of laughing in my face, she took me seriously and gently told me that she didn't think it would be a good idea. And she was right. But I was dying to know what she thought of the way I kissed and I practically begged her to let me. I just had to debase myself in the most embarrassing way possible, I guess. How else was I going to find out if I was lousy kisser or not? George wasn't telling; she was my only hope.
I suppose I wore her down with my pleading, because she eventually reluctantly agreed, but I could tell she was ambivalent. If I were a more intelligent person, or a saner one, I would have put a stop to it right then but something was driving me and I had to know. Before she had a chance to change her mind I put my hands on her shoulders and
After knocking for what seemed like ten minutes, Brooke poked her head around Sam's door and called loudly, trying to be heard over Sam's fingers steadily drumming on the keyboard, plus the music coming from her headphones, clearly audible to Brooke across the room. She saw Sam freeze at her desk, her back tense as she slammed her laptop closed. Only after this was accomplished did she remove her headphones and turn around to face Brooke.
"Yes?" Sam asked, her calm reply belied by her flushed cheeks.
Brooke came into the room and sat down on Sam's bed. She hoped that Sam would come sit next to her and they could continue what they had been doing in the living room, but Sam looked quite comfortable where she was. Brooke had been the one to initiate it earlier, so she would not let herself ask again. She cast about for a reason to be in Sam's company.
"What are you doing?" she asked, rather lamely.
"Homework," Sam replied, too quickly.
"Really? On a Friday night?"
"I just wanted to get a jump on things," Sam gestured vaguely with her hand.
"Oh." Brooke sat there, at a loss. After a few moments she asked, "What movie are you seeing?"
"I don't know, it's George's turn to pick."
"You guys take turns?"
"Yeah, don't you and Josh?"
Brooke shrugged. "There's usually something specific that Josh wants to see when we go to the movies."
"Oh." Sam frowned a little at that. There was a pause. "Where are you going tonight?" she then asked politely.
God. Is this not the lamest conversation in the universe, Brooke asked herself. But she gamely continued the stilted dialogue. "That new sushi place on Montana. Apparently they serve Fugu. Josh is dying to try it."
"Blowfish," Brooke explained.
"Living life on the edge, aren't you?" Sam smiled.
"I guess," Brooke said without much enthusiasm. This is pointless, she thought. "Well, have a good time tonight," she got up to go.
"You too," Sam watched her leave. "Come find me when you get home and tell me about it, that is, if you live to tell the tale," she said ominously.
Brooke perked up at that. "I will," she said, grinning, happier now than when she had come in.
She went back to her room, and opened her closet, trying to decide what to wear. Through the wall she heard Sam go back to her typing. Brooke winced when she ran her mind over the conversation they had just had. This new component they had added to their relationship had definitely changed things. They had been getting along: bickering, arguing, laughing, and having fun with each other until that day a couple of weeks ago. She and Sam had reached a stage where Brooke could glimpse the tantalizing level of closeness that sisters shared, and she had been pleased about it. Now Brooke could never tell what was going to happen. Sam could be cranky one minute, like she had been about the bra thing earlier, and distant the next, like just now in her room.
It was all Sam's fault for pestering her about that kiss. But then maybe it was her own fault for digging up that porno from the garage and starting the whole ball rolling. She couldn't help wanting to be helpful. Sam had come to her for advice like Brooke was her big sister or something. It made her feel all warm and mushy inside; she had always wanted to be a big sister. Was it only two weeks ago that she had been aiding and abetting Sam in her quest to lose her virginity with George? Because she thought that was what sisters did. They were there for each other. But now whenever she was around Sam, her feelings were something less than sisterly. A whole lot less.
She laid her clothes out on the bed and thought back to that moment when things began to change. The two of them had been sitting side by side on the coffee table with their hormones all in a tizzy from that crazy movie of her father's. And Sam had started blathering on about George and how much she liked him and how upset she was that he didn't want to mess around with her. Then she had the cockamamie idea that Brooke could judge whether she was a good kisser or not, which Brooke so did not want to do. With good reason, it now turned out.
"C'mon, please, Brooke," Sam had wheedled. "You're the only one who can help me."
This was not true. Brooke was just the only one handy at that moment. Lily would have been the best choice, and probably the most receptive. No, Harrison would have been the perfect choice, because he was a guy, and would have totally been into it.
But Brooke had been convenient, and she was not as immune to the effects of Rumpelstiltskin as she pretended. All the while Sam had been pleading her case, Brooke had been unable to remove her gaze from Sam's full red lips, and as Sam continued talking, Brooke realized that there was nothing she would like better than to feel her own lips against them. She had let Sam natter on for a few more minutes before acquiescing; it wouldn't do to seem too eager.
And they had kissed. It was nice. It was more than nice. It had been a revelation. Sam had a lot less saliva going on than Josh had, and her lips were fuller, just like Brooke knew they would be, and more lush. But more than that, Sam's kiss seemed to be of the moment, for the moment. For once, Brooke didn't feel like the kiss was a necessary first step to having her breasts manhandled, or that five minutes later she would be expected to unzip Sam's pants and give her a handjob. Comparing Sam to Josh was not fair, she knew that, but she couldn't help it.
A kiss with Sam was an event. It was the goal, the object; it was something complete in and of itself. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end; it was like the greatest of literature. It contained the romance of Wuthering Heights, the adventure of On the Road, the heartbreak of Anna Karenina, and it was epic, like Doctor Zhivago. And she sometimes wished it would go on for as long as War and Peace, she thought wryly, noting that her newfound metaphoric excess had begun around the same time they had shared their first kiss. And she should really lay off the Russian novelists for a while.
She flopped down on her bed, careful not to wrinkle the outfit she had chosen for her date. The typing had stopped in the next room, and Brooke heard the weird Microsoft shutdown melody, and subsequently Sam's door closing behind her. The doorbell hadn't rung yet, but she knew that George's inevitable appearance was next in the sequence of actions that comprised Sam's evening.
Brooke sighed. She and Sam had found a way to snatch these brief interludes with each other every day since that first kiss, and she would forever be grateful to her father and his bizarre taste in movies, sick as it sounded, because she was not sorry that this had happened. She was glad.
Fifteen days. Brooke glanced at her calendar. She had instigated their hook-ups nine times to Sam's six, she recalled, adding a mark to her side of her mental scoreboard for today's session in front of the TV. For a few minutes, or a few hours in one memorable case, every day for the past fifteen days, she and Sam had sought each other out and had let their lips and their hands and their tongues communicate for them, because they certainly had not been using words. Brooke had no idea what Sam thought of all of this, because they had never spoken of it.
For all she knew, Sam was still using her as a practice dummy, trying out new techniques on her to see what would appeal for George. Sam knew that Brooke had passed her with flying colors after that first kiss. She had to know. The evidence was plain enough. Brooke became a steaming, shuddering puddle of raw nerve endings, barely retaining the power of speech, during and after their make-out sessions.
Brooke got up from the bed and took a seat at her vanity. Josh would be coming soon to pick her up, so she began to fix her face, all the while avoiding her cowardly reflection. Sam held all the cards. Brooke would do nothing to upset the status quo, because she couldn't bear it if Sam put a stop to their liaisons. If Sam didn't want to talk about what was happening between them, then they wouldn't. If she was ashamed of it, or freaked out, or just using Brooke for a fashionable lesbian experience, Brooke would never know. Because she wasn't going to ask.
So I don't know what I was saying before. Brooke just left. Oh yeah, I was talking about when I debased myself and begged her to let me kiss her. Debasement isn't so bad. It was worth it. It is worth it. Like I said, I'm an idiot.
I don't get it. Why does she do that? Come into my room, I mean, right before we're both leaving for the night. She must be bored or something. Maybe she enjoys seeing the effect she has on me. Like I'm not ready to leap on her the moment she walks through the door. It was about all I could do to just sit in my chair and have a conversation, mundane and meaningless as it was.
I know, I know. I have to go in a few minutes. But if I don't get this off my chest now, I'll be thinking about it all night.
Is it really debasement? It's not like Brooke forced me to ask her for a kiss. It's not her fault at all. And I love it when it's actually happening. I want it never to end. I guess the humiliating part comes when I find that I am absolutely powerless against it, and I don't think I'll ever be able to say no to her.
Where did that nice, sisterly girl go? The one I asked for help? She's the one with the experience. I asked her because she'd done it before. But I'm not talking about George anymore. And this is different. I don't know if she's done what she's doing with me with any other girl, I hope to god that she hasn't. Wait. Why? Does it even matter? I'm so confused.
Usually the stuff we do is quick and furtive, and so far we haven't progressed beyond heated heavy petting, but man is it hot. Then there was that one time a few days ago when I went to her room with some flimsy excuse of a question about a homework assignment and I ended up staying for hours. One minute I was asking about the reading in Western Civ. and the next we were on her bed, all over each other.
I was lost. I couldn't get enough of her. It was like I was drawing sustenance from her, she was some kind of new power source that would keep me running forever. The time passed like it had only been a few minutes, and if it hadn't been for me not remembering to close her door, and us hearing her father come up the stairs, I would be there still.
She knows she can do this to me. She knows that one glance, one word, is enough. I'm sucked in, instantly. She could come and grab me from a Zapruder meeting, a pop quiz, the shower, anything. She wouldn't have to explain or say anything (and actually she never does say anything, she never says a thing); I would follow her without question or pause.
But somehow I was able to withstand her gravitational pull tonight. Maybe that means that I don't need her anymore. Please. Who am I trying to fool?
I said to come find me when she got home. Oh, brother. We both know what that really means. I'm so freaking transparent. Even now I'm practically salivating in anticipation of coming home again. I'm pissed that I'll have to sit through some asstarded gross-out comedy, waste hours of my life when I could be here.
But she's not going to be here. She'll be out with Josh. And I'll be out with George. The way things are meant to be. The way I wanted them to be two short weeks ago. And now? Christ, I don't know.
So. It's not debasement. It's not. It's not humiliating if I'm a willing, no, an enthusiastic participant. And she is just as keen, I can tell, even though she never says anything. Once we get going, talking is superfluous, unnecessary. We already know exactly what to do. We both know the words to the song, the steps to the dance. But this particular song has never been played before; at least, I've never heard anything like it. And it is heading straight to the top of the charts. With a bullet.
Then why do I feel humiliated?
Because she is silent. Because I'm a secret. We are a secret. And it hurts.
The basement was the one place Brooke could go and expect to remain reasonably undisturbed. Even in her bedroom, there were distractions like the phone and the Internet that could keep her from whatever task she had before her, and here there were none, plus she had all the space she could need down here. That this was the place where every Glamazon routine was born, this dank and dusty basement, was something that not many people needed to know.
She had cleared a space away from the boiler and the circuit breaker, and had moved to the side her father's old recliner that he couldn't bear to throw away, even though he hadn't sat in it since he had liberated it from the common room of his fraternity in college. Boxes of Christmas decorations and books and all the other cartons of junk that weren't needed on a daily basis were also pushed to a gloomy corner. Propping a mirror from a disused dresser against the wall hadn't made the basement look any more like a dance studio, but it achieved the same effect.
It was a disappointment to Brooke that after all the dance classes she had taken as a child into adolescence, the only outlet she had for creative expression through movement was the choreography of the halftime number for a football team that was mediocre at best. She had once seriously considered ballet; at thirteen she could envision no other life for herself. But then she had gotten too tall and her instructors, while not overtly discouraging her, made it clear that she could never make it her profession.
So she eventually ended all her lessons and poured her energy into other things: grades, boys, fashion, makeup, and then, when she got to Kennedy, cheerleading. Silly as she knew it to be, it was something she had learned to enjoy, and she threw all her efforts into making the squad as good as it could be.
Sometimes she felt an utter fool when she imagined what she must look like, cheering by herself in front of a mirror in the basement, but after a while she was able to forget about it and lose herself in the attempt of creating something new and good. Like today, she had recently watched the movie Chicago, which had led her to Sweet Charity and All That Jazz. Now she was trying to incorporate some of the precise movements that Bob Fosse was known for into a new routine for the last game of the season. It was probable that no one would notice her influences in the final product, but at least she would know they were there.
She had just worked out a great combination and was repeating it over and over to some cheerleader-ready, generic, high energy pop. As she worked up a sweat, repeating her movements in time to the music, she tried to evaluate how the less experienced dancers on the squad would take to it.
For some reason, Brooke had the sudden suspicion that she was being watched, and quickly turned to see if anyone was there.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw Sam sitting halfway up the steps that led to the kitchen, her chin resting on her palm, quietly watching. Brooke put her hand over her heart and exclaimed, "God, Sam, you scared me! How long have you been there?" She nudged the CD player with her foot, aiming to turn off the music, but only succeeded in switching the radio on. The soft strains of a muzak station replaced the driving bass of "Pump Up the Jam."
Sam left her perch on the steps and came closer. "Long enough to witness creative genius in action," she said, grinning.
She captivated Brooke. Sam still wore the faded jeans she had worn to school that day, but they looked different. They were resting lower on her hips or something, and they had somehow become too long, Sam's bare feet only half visible, and her heels treading on the hems. She had taken off her sweater and now only wore a thin white v-neck t-shirt. Only Sam could manage to make her simple clothes look so sexy, Brooke thought, comparing her own sweaty workout gear to Sam's unaffected casual elegance.
Thrown off-balance by Sam's sudden appearance, Brooke was at a loss as to how to respond. She couldn't tell if Sam's comment was supposed to be sarcastic or genuine. So she fell back on the mutual derision that defined the verbal engagements of their previous relationship, not knowing what would be appropriate for their current one. "Well someone has to put these routines together, and it really is genius, not that you would know anything about cheering, or even dancing for that matter," Brooke said haughtily.
"What makes you think I know nothing about dancing?" Sam retorted. "Just because I choose not to cavort around the football field in a skimpy uniform doesn't mean I'm entirely graceless."
"Really? Well why are you just standing there?" Brooke challenged. "Show me what you got."
It looked like Sam hadn't thought that her words would have consequences, but then Brooke saw a determined glint in her eyes. Sam looked down at the radio, where a muzak version of Elvis' "Can't Help Fallin' In Love With You" was emanating from the speakers, and nodded. She stepped up to Brooke and placed Brooke's left hand on her own right shoulder and put her hand on Brooke's hip. She held Brooke's other hand away from their bodies in a loose, chaste embrace. Sam began to lead Brooke around the basement, her steps sure and graceful. She never once looked down, and Brooke found it uncommonly easy to follow her lead, which hadn't been the case with Josh at the homecoming dance.
"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Brooke said, looking down through the foot or so of space between their bodies at their feet. "Not that I was expecting Janet Jackson's routine from the Rhythm Nation tour but "
"I know," Sam acknowledged, not looking at her or their feet. "But I know how to do this, so that's what we're doing."
"What is this? A cha-cha?"
"Oh." Brooke looked at their feet again. "I'm afraid I'm going to step on your bare feet, Sam."
"You won't. If there were any foot crushing going on, I would be doing it, since I'm leading. But I know what I'm doing, don't worry," she looked into Brooke's eyes and smiled.
Brooke couldn't help but smile back when Sam looked at her like that, and thought she had probably turned a nice shade of tomato as well. Honestly, the girl didn't have to do much to turn her to mush. "Which begs the question," she continued, recovering, "how did you become so proficient in something that only happens at weddings and the odd bar mitzvah anymore?"
"You are probably not aware of this, but I was a bit of a wild kid," Sam said, looking away with a slightly embarrassed grin. She twisted her hand in Brooke's to get a better hold on her, and her smile turned fond, as she remembered her recent past. "I ran around with Harrison and a bunch of other boys, playing sports and riding bikes, and generally being an all-around tomboy. The summer I was thirteen I begged my parents to let me go to soccer camp, but they thought that would only make me wilder and more tomboyish. They came up with the brilliant idea to even up my sports activities with something ladylike, and gave me the option of taking either ballroom dancing lessons or a needlepoint class. Needlepoint sounded like torture so I chose ballroom dancing," Sam concluded.
"I guess they taught you too well, since I don't think girls are supposed to lead."
"The problem with ballroom dancing is that there are always too many girls. The prissier girls always fought over the few boys, and those who ended up without a Y chromosome endowed partner were forced to dance with another girl," Sam explained, then shrugged. "It didn't matter to me, moving forward always seemed more natural than going backward. I didn't care as long as I got to go to soccer camp. In fact, I kind of like it, now," she added softly.
"I never took you for a sports nut," Brooke said, ignoring the last part of what Sam had said. She wasn't ready to go there.
"I guess I grew out of it. But I don't think dance lessons or soccer camp made me any more or less a lady, whatever that might be. The only problem is that now any guy will find it impossible to dance this way with me, because I can't not lead," she grinned. "Can you believe that was only four years ago?" Sam said wonderingly.
The song ended and a new one began. A saxophone started tootling out the melody to "The Way You Look Tonight" and the tempo slowed down. As they had been dancing, the space between them had been imperceptibly decreasing, and now they were only about an inch apart. Sam slowed their steps and began moving them in a lazy circle, tentatively sliding her hand toward the middle of Brooke's back, eyeing her partner hesitantly.
Brooke had no compunction towards hesitation and wrapped her arm around Sam's neck, kissing her passionately as all pretense of dancing and polite chatter stopped, and they stood there drinking each other in, pressed against each other, barely swaying to the music. Since first laying eyes on Sam sitting there on the stairs, Brooke knew that the inevitable conclusion was this. She couldn't control her desire for Sam anymore than she could control the sun rising in the morning, but she felt the heat of it every time, just like the sun hitting her face.
Sam's touches became feverish, as if Brooke's kiss had unleashed something within her. She was simultaneously pulling Brooke closer as she worked the zipper on Brooke's hooded sweatshirt, all the while remaining attached to Brooke's lips. She tore her mouth away to glance around the room, then continued the kiss as she began to push her backwards, having found a destination to get to. Sam stumbled and stepped on Brooke repeatedly on her way to the ratty old reclining chair. She roughly pushed Brooke down onto it before climbing on top of her, straddling her lap so that her knees and calves lay alongside Brooke's thighs, all of their lower limbs pressed tightly together in a chair meant for one person.
Brooke sighed with contentment as Sam settled her full weight on her lap, her only option being to enjoy being pinned by the girl on top of her. She grasped Sam by the waist and leaned towards her, intent on reclaiming Sam's lips, but the rearrangement of their weight caused the chair to pitch violently forward, nearly throwing them both to the floor. Sam grabbed the top of the chair with both hands and righted them, and they started to giggle at the picture they must have made.
Seeing Sam looming over her like that caused Brooke to suddenly stop laughing and catch her breath. Sam was beautiful. It was something she had noticed before with some detachment, but right now it hit her with the force of that first downward plummet of a roller coaster, and she felt her stomach lurch with the realization. Careful to keep their weight distributed properly, Brooke pulled Sam to her and kissed her, winding her fingers into her thick hair and keeping her close.
It didn't appear that Sam wanted to go anywhere, and they stayed in their precarious position, exploring each other, inexorably ratcheting up the tension until Sam pulled away from Brooke and stared at her, an almost angry expression on her face. It seemed that Sam was at a loss, bumping up against the edge of her inexperience once again. They had arrived at this place a few times before, where both of them wanted to go further but equally afraid of what it might mean. In each case it had meant the end of their little session, with one or both of them escaping, neither willing to be the one to advance their physical relationship. Brooke waited to see what Sam would do.
Sam came to a decision quickly. She grasped the hem of her t-shirt and drew it over her head, then quickly removed her bra, before she could lose her nerve. She sat on Brooke and looked into her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. But Brooke was distracted by the view before her and did not meet Sam's gaze.
She reached out tentatively and touched Sam's right nipple, feeling it crinkle and pucker beneath her finger. It was an amazing thing, this instantaneous reaction, she thought, and her other hand reached for Sam's left nipple. Now she covered them with her palms, feeling the tips nudging her skin, and relishing their weight in her hands. She felt a moment of sympathy and kinship with Josh, because it was all she could do not to start kneading roughly, fingers grasping and pulling at Sam's tantalizing flesh.
Brooke knew that Sam put great store by her supposed sexual experience. But as she gazed at Sam's naked torso, the expanse of smooth pale skin broken only by the peaks of her breasts, three or four shades a darker, rosier color, she knew that she was a novice to the geography of another girl's body, to Sam's body. In the similarities between them there was a world of difference.
If anything, Sam was the one who took the lead, just like her dancing. She had a natural instinct for knowing just what to do, repeatedly making Brooke shiver when she put a hand exactly where Brooke wanted it, or did that thing with her tongue just at the moment Brooke was thinking of it, like her thoughts were written across her body for Sam to read. To Brooke's mind, Sam's intuition meant more than any experience gained by her fumblings with Josh.
It was plain to see that Sam was enjoying herself on Brooke's lap, and she wiggled closer, pushing herself more firmly into Brooke's hands. When Brooke raised her eyes to Sam's face, Sam was staring at her, lips parted, her breathing shallow.
Brooke let her own instincts take over when she brought her mouth to Sam's breast and kissed it, right on the tip. Sam gripped her shoulders hard, but the pain barely registered. Brooke made her hot tongue flat, and wide, and licked upward as she would an ice cream cone, and then made it pointed and sharp and circled the tip with it, over and over. Her tongue loved the contrasting sensation of Sam's warm skin; it was supple and pliable but firm and rigid at the same time. Now that they had crossed over into this new territory, Brooke wondered why she had waited so long to have Sam's breast in her mouth.
Sam was nearly gasping now, and she reached for Brooke's hand and pressed it to the breast that did not have Brooke's attention. She began to rock her pelvis on Brooke's lap, the chair tilting back and forth perilously. Brooke paused to look at her, seeing that Sam's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were half open, as if her eyelids were burdened by the weight of a thousand silky lashes. Her lips formed a perfect O, and then she looked down and their eyes locked.
"Brooke I need " Sam began, placing her hands on the top of the chair again, bracing herself. She moved her legs, or tried to, and Brooke realized what she was doing. She coordinated their movements so that Sam's left leg now rested between her own. Sam's knee was now intimately pressed against her crotch, and Brooke lifted her own knee a little higher to give Sam the pressure she needed. "Yes, thank you," Sam gasped, smashing Brooke's face against her chest, pulling Brooke in with both arms wrapped around her head as she continued to rock against her. Brooke could barely hear her when she whimpered, "Oh, Brooke, help," and shuddered, finally coming to rest.
They stayed like that for a little while, Brooke sandwiched between the chair and Sam, who was slumped against her like she had just completed a triathlon. Crushed as she still was against Sam's chest, she could hear the wild pounding of Sam's heart slowly recover to a normal rate. Brooke kept her arms wrapped around Sam, feeling protective of the girl who felt so small and fragile now in her embrace. Not wanting the silence to become uncomfortable, she felt she had to say something.
"Did you " Brooke asked tentatively, then could have kicked herself, the answer was obvious.
"Yeah," Sam shifted so that she could look Brooke in the face. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. It was beautiful."
"Yes." Brooke ran her fingers lightly up and down Sam's bare back, feeling her shiver again.
"That was the first time I had an orgasm with someone else in the room," Sam blurted, then her face, neck, and chest all flushed pink, as she realized what she had just admitted. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that. I am a dork," she said, shaking her head.
"You're not. You're adorkable." Brooke grinned, her heart suddenly feeling as if it would burst.
Sam smiled bashfully. "I guess I can live with that." She gazed at Brooke for a moment. "There is something wrong with this picture. How come I'm half naked and you are still fully clothed?"
"I don't know. Things happened awfully fast, maybe we should go to the videotape," Brooke kidded.
"God forbid! Seriously, can we make things a bit more equitable?" Sam started pulling at Brooke's sweatshirt.
"I'm all sweaty, I was dancing for an hour," Brooke protested. "I must stink."
"I know, I was watching. You only stink a little. And I like you all sweaty," Sam joked, pulling away from Brooke and shimmying down the chair so that she was kneeling on the floor in front of Brooke. Brooke felt the loss of Sam's proximity keenly, but Sam made up for it when she grabbed Brooke around the ass and pulled her to the edge of the chair so Sam was positioned between her legs. "Come on," she coaxed, "you didn't mind being sweaty before."
Brooke wanted more than anything to have Sam do to her what she had just done to Sam. She stripped off her sweatshirt and pulled her sports bra over her head, trying to ignore the clammy coolness of the fetid basement air hitting her sweat dampened skin. Sam immediately covered her breasts with her hands, and Brooke swayed into Sam as she felt her nipples harden into stiff points against her smooth palms.
"Brooke, are you down there?" Jane's disembodied voice called down from the kitchen.
Sam froze and her eyes bulged. "Don't tell her I'm here," she whispered.
"Why not?" Brooke whispered in return, puzzled, but figured she had to answer Jane either way. "Yeah," she called out.
"Sam, is that you? Are you down there too?"
"Yes," Sam answered reluctantly, reaching for her shirt. Brooke watched wistfully as she covered herself, and thrust her bra into her back pocket.
"Can one of you please bring up two steaks from the freezer? I need to defrost them for tomorrow," Jane waited for a reply.
"Yeah, I'll bring them up," Brooke said after a minute, still trying to figure out why Sam would act so weird when her mother obviously couldn't see what they were up to.
"Thanks," Jane said, then, "What are you two doing down there?"
"Brooke's just showing me something," Sam called, looking lasciviously at Brooke's chest. "Her cheerleading routine."
"Oh. Okay," Jane finally closed the door, leaving them alone again.
"Now where were we?" Brooke asked, pulling Sam towards her by the shoulders, grasping at the material of the shirt Sam had so recently put on.
"Brooke! I can't do this now when my mom is right upstairs." Sam protested.
"Sam!" Brooke parroted Sam's outraged tone. "She was right upstairs the whole time."
"Yeah, but," Sam stopped, perplexed. Then she hit on a reason. "But now she's going to have half her mind on us down here, wondering what we're doing. Next time she'll come down here. And she won't knock. I know her."
"Okay, I get it," Brooke thought Sam was being slightly paranoid. "This is so not fair," she grumbled, donning her damp sports bra.
Sam grinned. "Don't worry, I'll make it up to you."
"Come find me after dinner. I'll show you," Sam smirked, getting up from her spot between Brooke's legs. "Don't forget the steaks."
"I'll remember," Brooke said to Sam's retreating form, "and right after that I'm going to take a long, hot, naked shower." Turnabout was fair play, after all.
"Low blow, Brooke," Sam winced, sorry she couldn't finish what she started.
"Don't worry," Brooke repeated Sam's earlier words, "I'll make it up to you." She grinned at Sam. Score one for me, she thought.
So here we are, a week later. I think things are changing for the better. I just spent some "quality time" with Brooke down in the basement, and it was so great! Except for the part when I couldn't control myself and had the most embarrassing orgasm known to man while I was sitting on her lap. What an idiot!
But she was so sweet. She was really cool about it; she even pretty much facilitated it, for chrissakes. She called me adorable! Well, really she said adorkable, but it's almost the same thing, only without the d. D for duh, Sam. Oops, I mean K. Whatever, I don't care! God, I wish she was here right now. I would jump on top of her, and she would welcome it! I just cannot get enough of that girl.
I guess you could say that I've become more confident about my abilities in the bedroom, or the basement, or the living room, or wherever else I happen to find myself with Brooke, and I have her to thank for it. Not that George is seeing the benefit of our "practice" sessions. I don't want to do this with anyone but her.
I am so happy! She really is the most beautiful, most kind and wonderful person I've ever met. Man, I have it sooo bad for her. It's embarrassing. But I can't help it. I love her. Whoa. Look what I just typed. I love her. I haven't even said that to George. He said it to me, and to tell the truth, things are not going well there. I would drop him like a hot potato if I could, but I get the feeling that Brooke wouldn't like it. It's been really hard, though. I like him a lot, but he's not Brooke.
Brooke. She looked so good in those sweat shorts that say UPenn on them, which she must have appropriated from Josh or somebody. And I stared at her doing her cheering stuff for, like, a half hour, and she was so focused and concentratey that she didn't even notice. That was so cute!
AND! I got to touch Brooke's boobs! Her bare boobs! Not like through the fabric of her shirt or anything. We were making out and I just couldn't stand it anymore, I had to go further, do something more, even if it meant Brooke would put the brakes on, or even, god forbid, end it. I had to try. And I'm so glad I did! She made me feel things I never dreamed of. It was so intense. Then she took off her bra and I saw them, they were perfect. I only got to touch them for, like, a minute and a half because my stupid mother decided it was high time she interrupted us.
That freaked me the hell out. What would my mother say if she knew what was going on? I do not want to even go there. Not thinking about it. La la la. You can't make me.
You know what? I don't think it matters too much that Brooke and I don't talk about this. Maybe we just don't need to. It's been going on for, like, a month now, and she must like me, or why else would we keep doing it? And god knows I like her, that's an understatement. I don't feel humiliated by not talking about it anymore; I've just accepted that it is not to be discussed. I think she's just a really private person. I can live with that. I don't want to think about what the alternative would be.
Anyway, she's still with Josh, and I'm with George, even though my feelings have totally changed about him. What in blazes am I going to do about that?
I wonder what it is that she likes about Josh? Yeah he's attractive and the star football player and all, and I admit to once crushing on him myself, but he's dumb as a box of hair and I bet he can't make her laugh like I can. But when do I ever do that anymore? We used to laugh a lot, before this started. Now there's not much talking or laughing going on.
I know there is this unspoken non-compete agreement, but maybe I should do something. Make some kind of bid for Brooke's legitimate affections, something like that. Just let her know that I think we could be something more if she wanted us to be. Much as I love the time I spend with her, it could be so much better. Maybe I should talk to her about it. Maybe not. That's a bit scary to think about.
Oh, there's Mom, she's calling us for dinner. Yay. That means it won't be long until dinner is over and Brooke will come in here and we can pick up where we left off this afternoon. I think she just got out of the shower. Eeep! Trying not to picture it. Mind is going to dirty naked Brooke places. Okay. Enough. Dinnertime.
Brooke sat in the cafeteria, listlessly turning the pages of her Chemistry text, trying to catch up on her reading. It felt like weeks since she had been able to concentrate properly on schoolwork, and she was falling behind in practically all of her classes. None of her usual tablemates had shown up yet, they were either on line to get food, or in the Novak, or wherever. She didn't care much one way or the other, nor could she bring herself to scrounge up something to eat. It all just seemed like a bit too much effort right now.
Her heart started thumping when she heard the voice behind her, and she turned to see Sam walking towards her, balancing a tray of food and a few of her books for her next class. Before Sam reached her, someone called out to her and Sam paused on her way to Brooke.
"I'll be there in a minute, Lily," Sam called back, finally arriving at the table. "Hi," she said, gazing down at Brooke, "Got a second?"
"Hey," Brooke replied, as carelessly as she could manage. "Sure. What's up?"
Sam set her stuff down and knelt in the chair facing Brooke. Annoyance flared through Brooke at the way Sam was sitting. Couldn't she just sit like a normal person? Sam was practically towering over her now. For a moment Brooke flashed back to yesterday in the basement, when Sam had been towering over her in a more intimate way, but then she forced the searing image from her mind. She gazed inquiringly up at Sam.
"Well, I wanted to ask you," Sam began, then noticed Brooke's lunch-less state. "Aren't you eating?" she asked.
"I don't know," Brooke replied vaguely. "The line is so long now, I was just going to skip it." She looked to where Vera Krups was ladling out sloppy joes to the teeming masses.
Without a word Sam set a napkin in front of Brooke and laid half of her turkey sandwich on it. She picked up an apple in one hand and an orange in the other and held them out. "Here. Pick one. I couldn't decide before."
Brooke chose the orange, and wasn't prepared for the crackle of electricity as her fingers touched Sam's. She looked into Sam's face, and saw from her perplexed stare at their fingers, still wrapped around the piece of fruit, that she was distracted by it as well. "Thanks," she said, "Is that what you wanted to ask? Am I eating?"
By this time Sam had let go of the orange and was regarding her seriously. "No, but I don't have to tell you that it's important for you to eat. It doesn't have to be a sloppy joe but,"
"Thanks, Sam, I get it." Brooke cut her off before she could get the full lecture, then felt badly when Sam looked injured by her short reply. "I mean it. Thanks. You didn't have to do this," she added softly, before continuing in a business-like tone. "So what was it you wanted to ask me?" Brooke took a big bite of the sandwich, hoping to appease Sam.
"Oh yeah," Sam slid her legs around so that she was sitting normally. She opened up her notebook and pulled out a page from the newspaper, the entertainment section, it looked like. "You know that movie theater near the Promenade that plays all the indie films and all those restored old movies?" She watched Brooke nod, then pointed to an ad in the paper. "They're showing a restored print of Doctor Zhivago this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday only. Presented in 'glorious 70 Millimeter Cinemascope,'" she read aloud, "whatever that means."
Sam shifted her gaze from the newspaper to Brooke. "I know you just read the book, and I thought maybe you and I could go see it," she said shyly, "tonight if you want."
Brooke paused mid-chew and studied Sam, a slight smile on her face. Friday night was date night, there was no doubt about it. Was Sam asking her on a date? Her smile got a little bigger when she saw Sam develop an intense interest in her apple, turning it over in her hands, gazing at it like Brooke's answer was written on it, like a granny smith Magic Eightball. Brooke began to vigorously chew again, wanting to give Sam her affirmative response. She suddenly couldn't swallow fast enough. She took the page from the table where Sam had laid it and made a pretense of looking at the ad, holding it in front of her face so Sam wouldn't see her wide grin. How cool was it that Sam had found a movie that she knew Brooke would have an interest in seeing?
"Hey, babe. Whatcha got there?"
Josh suddenly appeared with George, each of them carrying trays loaded with loose meat on spongy white bread. Brooke eyed the meal with distaste, to her it looked like fresh roadkill. Josh sat down next to Brooke and gave her a smooch on the cheek before tucking into his lunch. George sat next to Sam and put his arm around her. Josh grabbed the paper out of Brooke's hands and gave it a quick perusal, turning it over to where the movie timetable was printed.
"Awesome! You remembered that the new Adam Sandler opens today! I thought for sure you were going to conveniently 'forget.'" Josh used air quotes and rolled his eyes at George. Then he turned back to Brooke and said, "That was two weeks ago when I told you about that. You have a memory like an elephant. So which show are we going to go to?"
Brooke looked blankly at Josh, then turned and gazed sadly at Sam, who was staring with studied disinterest at the floor. She had completely forgotten about this tentative date she had made with Josh, and didn't think Josh would have remembered if not for the newspaper listings in front of him. She should just say that she made plans with Sam.
"I totally want to see that movie too," George put in, "we should all go together." He looked at Sam for confirmation. She regarded him coolly.
"That's a great idea. A double date," Josh said excitedly to George and Sam.
"What do you think, Sam?" George asked.
Brooke could feel Sam's eyes on her, waiting for her to say something, but for some reason the words didn't come. She wished for that mouthful of food again. Who was she to come between George and Sam, even if Sam had approached her about the movie? But going to one movie with her didn't equal the end of Sam's relationship with George, did it? She was so confused. Why was Sam choosing to change things now? It was like she was trying to force her into something. She didn't even know if she wanted to go on a date with Sam. Wouldn't that mean that she and Sam were lesbo together? Hypocrite, she thought. What do you think you were doing with her in her bedroom last night until 1AM? She was just not ready to jump into anything public with Sam, and she needed time to think about the ramifications of her proposal. She cleared her throat.
"Yeah, Sam. It'll be fun," she said, hoping Sam would understand. Brooke saw a flash of something in Sam's eyes for moment, maybe it was anger, or hurt. She couldn't tell what it was; it flared so briefly.
Sam gave her a long appraising look before replying, "Fine. Whatever. A double date. Whoopee." She gathered up her books and her tray, pausing to give George an obnoxiously long kiss on the lips. She didn't look Brooke's way as she left the table, saying, "Lily needs me for something. Later."
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