Truth or Dare

I wasn't looking for a six-figure starting salary, glamour or perks. I just wanted to feel like I was contributing more than cranking the handle of a machine whose output drove only itself. That was why I balked at the graduate schemes, career fairs and mail-bombing of job applications that my course-mates had engaged in. All of them seemed to become employees because it was the next thing to do. They compared company profiles, remuneration packages and development opportunities but, ultimately, these were interchangeably attractive.

I slammed shut my laptop and retreated to the bed, laid back and closed my eyes. What I wanted was to create something. My sister had a PhD in material science. She designed new substances that, she claimed, would lead to foldable smartphones. Her husband worked in pharmaceuticals, project managing trials of cancer drugs which could add one, maybe two, months of palliative care to people's lives. There were more important problems to solve, but I had a sociology degree. It was a good one but it didn't prepare me to create something tangible.

Matt

It was mid-afternoon before I heard from Jess. She sent a brief message saying she had found her dream job and attached a photo showing a webpage advertising for someone to look after a tropical island. I asked her if the island manager had a support staff and she told me she'd look into whether they needed a live-in social theorist for evening lectures. I asked if there were other options on the table and received only a brief, "Not really" in response. I needed to go and change for tennis so I sent something neutral, gathered up my books and laptop and headed to the sports centre.

The match was brief and brutal. My opponent had suffered an injury-induced relegation from a higher division and, now he was fit again, he would be returning there in a few weeks. I would be staying where I was. The only positive was a message from Jess that I received between the first and second sets. It said that she did have one idea for a job but it might be stupid and she needed to think it through more. I offered to talk it over with her and served two double faults in the next game while speculating about it instead of concentrating.

I decided to run the two miles home to make up for the shortened tennis and I arrived sweating and out of breath from the steep hill that I lived half way up. I shouted to Jess that I was back but could hear that she had loud music on upstairs and, presumably, didn't notice as there was no response.

I took off my trainers and placed them on the shoe rack, downed a glass of orange juice and went upstairs. The spare bedroom door was shut and Jess's electro-pop pulsed through the walls. I left her to it and went into my own room, swinging the door behind me. One of my former housemates called after I had undressed for my shower and I tossed my sweat-soaked tennis gear in the washing basket while I talked to him. Then I put on my dressing gown and headed down through the house to the bathroom.

I found Jess at the bottom of the stairs. She looked a little flustered and, after saying hello, I commented on it. She explained that she had realised I was home and was rushing back from the bathroom to turn down her music before I went striding into her room, which was a mess. "Sorry about that," she apologised.

Shaking my head at the garbled half-explanation, I carried on to the bathroom, turning on the shower while I hung up my dressing gown.

Jessica

Matt came home while I was using the toilet. I heard the door shut and heard him shout but I stayed quiet. I wasn't ready to talk while peeing. I heard cupboard doors open and close in the kitchen and then his footsteps fade as he returned upstairs. A minute or so later, I pulled up my jeans, washed my hands and followed him.

Goldfrapp throbbed through the door of my room. It had blown shut apparently when Matt opened the front door. I was about to go in and turn down the music when I saw two things. First, that Matt had not closed his door fully. Second, that through the crack, I could see him undressing with his back to me. I froze.

We were teenagers and shy of our bodies when I stayed at Matt's after nights out. I had seen him briefly in darkness wearing just boxers and a t-shirt, but nothing more revelatory until our recent exchange of photos. Now he was wearing only boxer shorts. They were short, black and tight across his well-toned bum. His torso was slim, but the muscles looked taut across his upper back and shoulders. Again, I realised that while the shy teenage Matt with his sweet face was still present, he had developed into someone more intense and physical. I decided to resist temptation and retreat to my room. Before I could move, he hooked his thumbs inside his waistband and dragged down his underwear.

My music continued to throb in the background. I gasped sharply and bit my lip to silence myself. Matt stood naked with his back to me. His bum was firm and toned, standing out against his muscular hamstrings. I could see his profile in a wall-mounted mirror in front of him. The bedroom light was off and the curtains shut, but it was daylight outside. The resulting shadows accentuated the slight toning of his chest and the more pronounced ridges that ran down his stomach.

I jumped at the sharp vibration of his phone against a wooden chest of drawers. He glanced at the screen and then picked it up, speaking quickly to someone called Ian. He seemed conscious that he was undressed and wanted to end the call quickly. I drew back from the door as Matt turned around and bent over to pick up his clothes.

My eyes widened at the brief glimpse of his naked front. Within my chest, my heart pounded. I knew I should move, make a noise to alert him, or just go downstairs. Instead, I remained transfixed by the tall, lean body and the curls of light brown pubic hair surrounding Matt's manhood and balls. Even in their softened state, they drew me in and my own body responded. I wanted to reach out and touch them, run my hands slowly over his cock and feel it rise and harden in response. I would cup his balls and stroke them softly, blowing cool air onto his growing erection as I waited for it to reach my moistened lips.

The music in my room had moved on to Black Cherry. I always found that song deeply sexy. A hallucinogenic air settled on me as the breathy lyrics, "Excite me, ignite me," drifted out to the landing. Still on the phone, Matt lifted the lid of his laundry basket, showing the full length of his profile. I breathed out slowly, trying to remain silent. The air passed through my mouth in a trembling flow. Finally, he said goodbye to Ian and tossed his phone on the bed. I quickly ran downstairs and into the lounge, hoping the loud music would cover my footsteps.

When I came around the corner into the hallway again, I almost bumped into Matt as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a dressing gown and seemed surprised to see me. I felt the blood rush to my face and tried to offer an explanation but I'm not sure he bought it. I let him pass and quickly ran up the stairs to my room, mortified at causing suspicion.

Matt

After my shower, I dressed and knocked on Jess's door to see if she wanted some dinner. She opened it and I could see that she had spent the last half an hour tidying her room. She had pushed her suitcase under the desk, folded her pyjamas on the bed and whatever other possessions she had with her, with the exception of her laptop, washbag and book, were out of sight. She told me that she wasn't hungry yet but asked if I minded talking over her idea for a job substitute with her.

I sat on the bed and she took the desk chair and started setting out plans for a new organisation. The aim would be to get vulnerable populations, such as recovering drug addicts, people who had suffered abuse and prisoners, involved in research. She explained that her favourite module during her degree had looked at using participants to collect research data from each other, rather than the researcher doing it themselves. The idea was to produce better data because the 'participant researcher' had real experience of the topic and could develop a better rapport with other participants. It also benefited the vulnerable populations because it provided new skills and an opportunity to contribute to finding solutions to the problems they faced. It sounded ambitious but exciting and I told her so. I added that I didn't know how the mechanics would work, where money would come from or whether she had the skills without more on-the-ground experience. Jess looked thrilled at my initial enthusiasm but then confessed that she didn't know the answers to those questions either and slumped back, suddenly on the brink of tears. I tried to reassure her that the idea was great and that not everything could come at once. She rallied a little but the fight seemed to have gone out of her and my attempts to suggest solutions met with monosyllabic responses and nervous fidgeting. She looked so defeated that I wanted to go over and hug her but could only manage a warm smile. My uncertainty at how she would respond to anything more heartfelt still froze me to the spot. Izzy also passed through my mind, with her sharper fluctuations that seemed more harsh and less deserving of sympathy. I was about to move over to Jess when a police siren blared down my street, breaking the bond of intensity between us.

Jessica

Matt seemed unmoved by my performance at the bottom of the stairs. I was so relieved that I spilled out my half-baked plans for a new social enterprise. He listened attentively and then pointed out every flaw. Despite his attempts to backtrack, it felt hopeless. I didn't know how to run a charity. Inspiration from textbook accounts of participatory research did not count as practical experience. I wanted to bury my face in Matt's chest and cry.

He held my gaze for what seemed like an age, offering reassurance but seemingly fighting some inner battle. He flinched as a police car siren floated across the valley. Then he looked down at his feet and out of the window. The moment passed. I stood up and suggested we get some food. Matt looked both relieved and frustrated but asked me if I wanted to help him make it. I agreed and we headed down to the kitchen.

Two hours later, we sat at the small kitchen dining table. The food had relaxed me, as had the small bottle of wine I had to myself. Matt had apparently quit drinking while at university. The dinner conversation ranged from Matt's plans for a PhD after his Masters, my idea for a solo holiday to Italy and the films we had watched over the past year or so. We both went to the cinema two or three times a month to see a mixture of big-budget Hollywood fare and more art-house material. Admittedly, we enjoyed the latter for its feel as much as its meaning, which neither of us claimed to grasp. Matt suggested we investigate Netflix to see if we could find something we both had missed. So we cleared the plates and moved into the lounge.

The two sofas were perpendicular to each other with the door to the kitchen in between. Both could be used to watch the TV in the opposite corner of the room. However, as with the night before, I sat on the same sofa as Matt. It wasn't that I anticipated physical contact. It was more that I enjoyed the creeping intimacy of closeness in a darkened room. It only heightened the shared emotion created by the best films.

Matt scrolled through his Netflix list. The problem with regular cinema-going was we had already seen most of the films worth watching. As a result, the list was a mixture of BBC comedies, documentaries about eccentrics and dramas that looked interesting. I had tried most of the latter and abandoned many of them after two or three mediocre episodes. There were only a few viable options for films. One was Blue is the Warmest Colour. I remembered reading a positive review when it came out, but recalled nothing else. Matt seemed surprised and uncomfortable at my suggestion. I asked him why and he replied, "It's, erm, supposed to be good, but it's also supposed to be pretty explicit."

"Explicit how? What's it about?" I replied.

"I'm not sure exactly. I just know that the reviews talked about really graphic, erm, sex, lesbian sex."

Matt's embarrassment was cute. He is one of the smartest people I know and holds liberal views on almost everything. Yet, he can't talk about lesbian sex, or any kind of sex really, without prevaricating and stumbling over his words.

"It's also really long," I said, noticing the three-hour run-time. "But, I guess it's only eight o'clock."

"You want to watch it then?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "We can take turns with cold showers if it gets too steamy."

Matt smiled but still seemed nervous. He switched off the ceiling lights, turned on the corner lamp and drew the curtains. As he sat down again, I pressed play.

Matt

Any relaxation from time spent with Jess had evaporated. I watched Blues is the Warmest Colour a few months ago when my housemates were out for the night. The reviews had been positive, and they were right, but they all mentioned the long and graphic sex scenes. I sat with Jess, in a darkened room, uncertain of my ground, expecting her to cuddle up to me again and knowing things were going to get very uncomfortable very quickly.

The director wasted little time. After fifteen minutes, the main character was masturbating in her sleep, lost in an intense dream about the girl who would later become her love interest. Both Jess and I, who were sat up right for now, shuffled a little in our seats. I could feel myself hardening inside my jeans and I tried to adjust them to hide the slight bulge. For her part, Jess seemed focused on the screen; although I thought I saw her bite the corner of her bottom lip and glance briefly across at me.

The film continued and, a few minutes later, the main character had sex with a male student from her school. The scene left little to the imagination and every body part of both actors was on show. Moreover, their make-up looked minimal and their bodies were more similar to you and me than those of typical Hollywood stars. The breathy moans on the soundtrack, the lack of soft-focus romanticism and the awkward camera angles all added realism to the student sex.

The temperature of my lounge seemed rapidly to rise. My jeans felt uncomfortably tight but any movement of my body felt open to judgement and loaded with meaning, so I sat as still as I could. I became acutely aware of my breathing and tried to keep it level and low. My hands felt like any position was unnatural and I couldn't remember where I normally put them to relax. I turned my head slightly to look at Jess. She was staring in rapt attention at the screen and I could see patches of red flush on her throat and chest where her V-neck top left her cleavage exposed. Further down, her nipples had hardened and were showing through her bra and top.

Back on the screen, the actors laid naked together in the aftermath. I tried not to imagine myself and Jess lying similarly on our sides, my hand across her breast, my chest warm against her back, her bum nestled into my crotch.

Jessica

Matt had not exaggerated when he said the film was quite sexy. It was beautifully made and I was falling in love with the main character, but it was also one step, perhaps a half-step, above porn in places. I actually like porn but this wasn't over-the-top or amateurish. It was natural looking, shot through with warmth and a gentle intensity. Well, at least until we reached 'the scene'. But I'll come on to that.

The first two sex scenes transported me to recent fantasies. Touching myself discreetly on a train. Orgasming under Matt's instruction. Watching his lithe body through a cracked doorway. My fierce masturbation the night before. My body was reacting and frustration mounted as I could do nothing about it.

I glanced discreetly at Matt to see his response. He was clearly uncomfortable, perhaps from embarrassment or perhaps from something physical. He also looked at me at times. I was wearing a tight, green top that I had always liked for the way it emphasised my breasts. Currently, it was doing little to hide my arousal from Matt. The gentle fizz of electricity between us was pleasant. I don't embrace discomfort but sharing personal space with someone while having similar private thoughts sends a tingling sensation across my skin.

The sex scenes tapered off after the first twenty minutes or so to allow the story to develop. Matt seemed interested in a few lesbian kisses but they did less for me. I calmed down a little. Then the main character met the girl with the blue hair. The one who had gone down on her in the dream earlier in the film. Their relationship was sweetly engaging. A couple of sun-kissed park scenes were shot in a sensual light that had me moistening my lips in anticipation. And then, 'the scene'. More than five minutes of graphic lesbian sex in every conceivable position. Multiple orgasms and no possibility of body doubles as the filmed showed the actresses' faces buried between each other's legs or gasping in ecstasy as they ground their pussies together. Matt's lounge felt suddenly smaller and the space between us reduced. An insistent heat pulsed between my legs and I tried discreetly to press down on my crotch without attracting attention.

For his part, Matt was clearly also turned on. His eyes were wide. He shifted his position on the sofa several times, adjusting his jeans repeatedly, as though they didn't quite fit any more.

Five minutes doesn't sound long, but most films limit sex scenes to a thirty-second montage and then cut to the next morning. This lasted forever. It felt like watching perfect porn with a friend in the room. As the scene went on, I sensed Matt look over to me several times. I did likewise trying to disguise my downward glances. Sometimes I saw in my peripheral vision that he was looking at my face. Involuntarily, I wet my lips in response or brushed a loose hair back from my face. Other times, I caught his eyes on my chest, glancing at my exposed cleavage, or on my legs, which were fidgeting as I fought the need to touch myself.

Inevitably, we glanced at each other at the same time. Our eyes met while the main character finger-fucked the girl with blue hair from behind and the moans echoed around the lounge. We smiled shyly and looked away but I had to say something. In desperation and unsure what I meant, I commented, "I'm glad we're not still playing Truth or Dare tonight."

Matt, unsurprisingly, looked puzzled but relieved that the tension was broken. He asked why and I tried to order my half-formed thoughts.

"Just because I'd have been asking for your reaction to this or you'd be asking about mine."

"Yeah."

The uncomfortable silence made me add, "I mean, it's pretty intense."

"Yeah, definitely," was his initial reply. Then he added, "I wouldn't know what to say."

"In response?"

"Yeah. You know what I mean."

I smiled impishly at him, arousal reducing my inhibitions. "Who says I wanted your reaction in words?"

Even in the dim light, I could sense Matt's blushes. The action on screen had finally finished. While the film moved on, my mind was alive. I turned back to watch it as Matt replied, "Yeah. Definitely a good thing that Truth or Dare is over."

My natural instinct to push Matt had developed through our teenage years. First as half-drunken flirtation. Then as affectionate social coaching of a shy friend. Now it came arm-in-arm with a fizzing desire to dissolve our barriers.

"Why's that?" I asked, grinning at him as he realised he had walked into a snare that I hadn't intended to lay.