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“All I’m saying is that as part of your Gay Education, you need to go to a queer bar. Why else are you in New York City?”
Erin is starting to wish that she never confessed her bisexuality to Holtzmann. However, it had either been that or confess the strange turn she gets in her stomach whenever she sees the blonde engineer, which had driven her to, yes, Googling “what is it like to like women.” Holtz, who had happened to look at the history in order to find some Wiki page that she had been reading earlier, had unearthed it and come to find Erin with a surprising amount of concern and understanding where the physicist had been expecting jokes and innuendo.
The jokes and innuendo, she finds out, are just a delayed part of the process. Holtz wouldn’t tell anyone, she promises that with her fingers ‘cross her heart, her eyes deadly serious behind those thick glasses. But when they’re alone, when Erin’s up in her lab listening to her weird music and working on equations on one of her whiteboards, that’s when it starts.
“I barely go to bars at all. Let alone gay ones,” she responds to this latest needling. “And for that matter,” she adds in a burst of inspiration, slamming her marker down on its tray and turning, “you don’t either, Miss Sleep-is-for-Man-Babies, Child-Prodigy-Engineer.”
Holtz flips up her welding mask, which has previously been muffling her voice. Irritating how she manages to make “working and sweaty” somehow an aesthetic, with stringy blonde curls falling around her face out of her braids. “Yeah,” she says, in a duh kind of tone. “But when I do they’re always queer ones. It’s a rite of passage.”
Erin has a feeling that she’s not going to get let off the hook for this one.
This is how she finds herself in her bathroom that Friday night, putting on makeup and trying to pick out something to wear. Holtz says the bar isn’t particularly picky, but taking fashion advice from a woman who wears army pants and Chucks as her work attire isn’t, perhaps, the best idea. Erin’s loosened up from her ass-kissing Columbia outfits, yes, but she can’t quite shake the general concept of professionalism.
“What do bisexual people wear?” she mutters out loud as she pulls out a few dresses and tosses them on the bed for consideration. “No, Jesus, Erin, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. What should this bisexual wear, is the real question?” She looks despairingly at herself in the full-length mirror, and sees a well-made up woman wearing nothing but bra and panties looking back at her. “Could I just go like this?”
This makes her think of how Holtzmann would react, which in turn makes her think of what Holtzmann might look like in this state, which in turn makes her cough and go back to sorting through her clothes with renewed vigor.
Eventually, laboriously, she makes up her mind on a purple dress, one of her favorites; perhaps a little low-cut for casual wear, thin straps and a flared skirt. Black ankle boots. Small earrings, no necklace. Erin, when she dresses and re-examines herself in the mirror, is kinda proud of what she sees.
“You can do this, Gilbert,” she says to herself, like she’s giving a pep talk. “It’s just women. You’ve interacted with women your whole life, damn it.” It’s Holtzmann, though, something in her mind whispers to her, and she swallows hard, meeting her own eyes in the mirror and then abruptly turning away from it.
Holtz lives in the Village, of course she does, so Erin had agreed to meet her at her building; they would walk to the place together. The F is crowded, many other people also headed downtown to some destination or another, dressed formally or in club attire; some people are already swigging from flasks. Erin, for her part, is stone-sober and wondering if she should have taken a shot or something before heading out the door. Liquid courage and all that.
But as it’s too late now, she finds herself loitering outside Holtzmann’s stoop, texting her to come outside. When the woman emerges, she comes down the stairs in her usual bouncy way, looking exactly the same as usual (ripped overalls, faded combat boots, a flimsy button-down with a floral pattern from the ‘60s), sans glasses, which she usually wears for work. And Erin wants to die now more than ever. If there was a time to chicken out, though, it would have been about two minutes ago, and now the engineer is grabbing her arm and spinning her round, greeting her in about six different accents alternatively. Why, thinks Erin, have I fallen for the weirdest woman imaginable?
“Welcome to your voyage of wonder and discovery,” she says, leading the way down 14th. “You look like a million bucks, so that’s step one.”
When Holtzmann compliments Erin, it always somehow gets stuck in her mind. Because she jokes so often, because her ironic nuance is sometimes inextricable from her genuine thought, and because she’s so compliment-worthy herself it feels weird to have it turned around on Erin. Still, Erin manages to come up with a “thank you,” and after a beat: “Do you go to this bar often?”
“As often as I go to any bar.” The engineer shrugs. “It’s one of the only bars where not a lot of men go, which I appreciate because, no offense to Her Bisexual Highness, but men in bars are really not my thing.”
“Men in bars aren’t really my thing, either,” Erin defended herself. “That’s like, the worst common denominator of man. But I get what you’re saying.” Caught up in her own apprehension, she steps off a curb when there’s a taxi headed fast down Sixth Avenue, and Holtzmann catches her arm, dragging her back.
“You trying to get yourself killed? Do you not want to go to this bar that much?” she teases, digging her elbow into Erin’s ribs. “‘Cause if you’re willing to walk in front of a taxi, maybe we should just go drink at my place instead.”
Part of her wants the out, but part of her is determined. She’s gotten this far. (Also, part of her is zeroed in hardcore on the other woman’s hand wrapped firm around her bicep.) “No, I want to go! It was an accident.”
They manage to get to the bar without any further near-death experiences, which Erin supposes, in their line of work, is kind of a plus. It’s not particularly late when they arrive, and the line’s not long. The people waiting, though, are very different than those usually in line for the bars that Erin frequents. More multicolored hair and shaved heads, way more alternative style. Holtz fits right in, but Erin feels like she sticks out like a sore thumb.
Still, somehow she fumbles her ID out of her purse and gets stamped by the bouncer, heads inside with Holtzmann close behind her. The place isn’t busy, but it’s a lot to look at; things hang from the ceiling, the lights are dim, the bar well-stocked. There’s a dance floor with music playing, not too loudly but enough to force one to raise their voice a bit. All the couples dancing are queer. Erin’s stomach flips over. One of many times.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” Holtzmann says in her ear, “in celebration of your first Gay Excursion.”
“Just a beer,” Erin responds. “Whatever’s on tap, not too hoppy.” And she watches Holtz stride off towards the bar like she owns the place. Even walking that short distance, Erin sees her turn a few heads, and she feels an irrational wave of panic. What if Holtz leaves her alone for some other girl? Erin barely knows what to do, even having her as an ambassador.
As it turns out, by the time Holtzmann comes back with two pint glasses in hand, Erin’s the one that’s been singled out. She’s talking to a woman who’s introduced herself as Joan, with a tattoo sleeve and a black crew cut, nice eyes and a gregarious smile. She does most of the talking, to be honest, which is kind of good for Erin since she’s so out of her element.
“Hey, Gilbert,” Holtz says, startling her a bit when she comes back, nudging her way into the conversation. “Got your beer.”
“Thanks,” Erin responds, inexplicably feeling a little awkward; Joan’s looking between the two of them.
“Oh,” she asks, “is this your girlfriend?”
Erin chokes a bit on the sip of beer that she’s just taken, and Holtzmann rolls her eyes at her, turning to Joan instead and engaging the conversation in a suave way that the physicist can’t help but admire. “No, she’s outta my league.” What? “This is actually her first time in a real live queer space, so be nice to her, huh?” The engineer grins, winks, nudges a mortified Erin in the side.
“Is it, now?” Erin nods. “Well. If by any luck of the draw you want to dance, I’d be happy to accompany you.” Joan says it, just like that, bare on the table, without even breaking eye contact or losing that nice smile. She is attractive.
“I, uh.” Why are words suddenly so hard? “I...don’t know. Maybe later?” Erin is half-afraid of offending, but Joan just grins, laying a hand gently on her shoulder and squeezing a little.
“Sure,” she says. “Just let me know.” And she turns and walks off, toward the dance floor, sticking towards the edge.. Erin turns to Holtz, who is seemingly buried in her pint glass but surfaces when she sees Erin swivel round.
“Jesus,” she comments. There’s an odd expression on her face. “What, did you not like her?”
“I mean!” Erin wrings her hands, takes a long draught from her own glass. “No, I think...I think she’s cute, I just...I don’t know. I’ve never danced with a woman before.”
Holtzmann rolls her eyes, in a series of eye rolls that Erin predicts will be a trend that night. “She’s not asking you to marry her, she’s asking for a dance. Go on.” And, as if sensing that Erin wouldn’t do it without encouragement, she plucks the glass from her hand, physically turns her, and gives her a little push in the back in the same direction Joan had walked off in. When Erin turns around, Holtzmann seems to have struck up a conversation with the bartender. So, with that safety net having pushed her away, she goes.
When she taps Joan on the arm, the other woman turns around and grins, offering up her hands and pulling her a little further onto the dance floor. “Relax,” she laughs, and Erin can’t help but smile. She’s not a great dancer, but she’s passable, and besides, Joan is mostly leading the way. Of course, that’s for some old 3oh!3, which is mostly just moving around to the rhythm. The next song, some female-led indie band, slows it down quite a bit.
“Is this okay?” Joan asks, as she puts her hands on Erin’s waist, guiding her closer. Erin is intensely grateful that she asks, that she checks in and gives her a chance to back out. Nervousness flutters up in her stomach, but she nods her assent anyway, and puts her arms around Joan’s neck. And then they’re dancing together, easy as that. Erin’s danced with people before, though never people the same height as her, and never people with breasts. Joan draws her close, and they turn on the spot, slow and easy. Okay. Okay. Not so bad.
Until she looks up, over Joan’s shoulder, and sees Holtzmann standing over by the bar, elbow leaning on it, with an expression that can only be described as tight irritation. They make eye contact for a split second, and then Holtz scoffs, turns and drains her beer, and walks out the side door.
“Hey...” Erin bites her lip, and breaks away from Joan, who looks at her with concern. “I...I have to go, I’m sorry. My friend is...sick or something, I don’t know, she just walked out. Thank you for the dance.” Forever worried about approval, she’s afraid Joan’s going to turn on her.
But she just smiles that smile, nods like it’s nothing. “You’re welcome, honey. Hope your friend’s okay.”
Erin goes out the same door Holtzmann had, and finds her sitting on a pile of shipping boxes outside in the alley, head leaned back against the brick wall. “Hey,” she says, and the engineer looks up, her expression unreadable. “What was that about? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Holtzmann says, in perhaps the least effective imitation of “fine” known to womankind. “Go back in there and have fun.”
“I don’t want to if you’re not having fun.” Erin sits down on the boxes next to her, firm, spreading her skirt out under her thighs so she’s not directly touching the cardboard. “You looked pissed. Did someone say something to you?”
The engineer tucks up one of her knees, looks strategically away up towards the night sky, light pollution effacing any stars that they might be able to see through the wispy clouds. “No one said anything to me. You can get off my case, Erin.”
Not much upsets Erin, but being jilted in this way is a pretty efficient way to get her hackles up. There’s clearly something that Holtzmann isn’t telling her, and she’s snipping like it’s Erin’s fault even though she’s done nothing that the other woman hasn’t told her to do. “Why should I get off your case? You brought me here. You told me to dance with her. You literally pushed me! And now you’re being...” She searched for a word, couldn’t find one that she liked. Holtzmann’s looking down at the ground now, studiously avoiding eye contact, and Erin reaches out and puts pressure on her shoulder. “Hey,” she says, new terseness in her voice. “Look at me, damn it. What’s wrong?”
That’s when Holtz kisses her.
Erin thinks she’s succeeded in getting her to make eye contact, and technically she has; there’s a second where the engineer’s eyes meet her own, wild and slightly panicked, and then she’s rushing forward and it’s fast and ungraceful and a shock like cold water runs down through Erin’s entire body.
As fast as it happens, Holtzmann pulls away, “Oh, my God,” she’s murmuring low in her throat, the back of her hand coming up to her mouth like she can wipe away the past five seconds. “Oh my God I am so sorry.” She gets up from the boxes, pacing, head still firmly pointed towards the ground. Erin’s head is spinning, her heart beating in her throat, a weird trembly feeling around her shoulder joints.
“Holtzmann...” she says, standing up.
“I’m seriously, I shouldn’t have, God that was...fucking stupid, please don’t...don’t hate me, you’re.” The woman is practically hyperventilating. “You’re one of the only friends I have, and I never meant to, I mean, I didn’t--”
Erin takes her by the shoulder, ducks her head, and shuts her up by kissing her again. There are still a few syllables spilling from Holtzmann’s lips when she does it, but they die there when Erin presses into her. Kissing a girl. It’s dizzying, and only made worse by the fact of which girl it is. Her mouth is soft, warm, with no scratchy facial hair like the other people Erin’s kissed in the recent past...And for a second Holtzmann barely moves, like she can’t believe it, but then she kisses Erin back and wow it is clear that she has more experience with these matters.
Holtz draws Erin close, arms tight at the small of her back, and she’s kissing her like she’ll never get to do it again, and maybe she thinks she won’t, Erin’s thoughts are going all fuzzy and...
...and then there’s Holtzmann’s tongue, gentle on her bottom lip, and Erin’s opening her mouth to her and feels kind of like she’s going to fall over...
...which is a feeling that continues for a few long minutes until they break apart, and she’s swaying but standing, breathing hard. Holtzmann has one arm still wrapped around her waist, the other hand cupping Erin’s cheek, and her curls are wild from Erin’s fingers.
“Oh God,” she murmurs, but it’s different this time.
Erin swallows, still tasting the other woman’s kiss as she does so. “Yeah,” she agrees, looking into those blue-grey eyes, wide and staring into her own. “Wow.”
“Do you...” Holtzmann pauses, seeming to have to search for the words. “Do you want to ditch this place?”
Stringing a sentence together is a bit of a demand at this particular moment, but Erin manages in the end. “We can say I’ve had my first gay bar outing. And, well, I guess another first too.”
Holtzmann laughs, which breaks a little of the tension between them. They move apart, just a little, the engineer’s hand falling from her cheek, but they stay close. “It probably should not be such a rush to know you’ve never kissed a woman before,” she admits.
“Probably not,” Erin agrees, “but...I mean.. Yes. I want to ditch this place.”
“Me too,” says Holtz, and they do.
Erin is shocked by a few things. First, how shockingly normal the walk back to Holtzmann’s apartment is, even given what’s just happened. It feels like New York should be crumbling around them and violin music should be swelling to accentuate the moment, but no, they’re just two women walking down Christopher Street. And when they reach Sixth Avenue, Holtz reaches over and takes her hand. Just like that. The second thing is that Holtzmann’s apartment is not the unholy wreck that she had been anticipating ( not that she’d been planning the whole night to go back with her or anything). The kitchen is a bit of a disaster, but not in a dirty way, in a “Holtz is clearly trying to modify her microwave to do something cooler and more dangerous” way. Third, just how much she wants to be kissing her again.
They sit on the couch drinking Blue Moons like they haven’t just crossed a major line for a good five minutes before Holtzmann speaks up, avoiding eye contact in the way she does when the conversation’s serious. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“I’ll give them for free,” Erin responds, though she’s barely composed those thoughts into structures she can understand. “I...liked kissing you. A lot. I mean, I’ve thought about it even before we came here, but figured it would never happen, so.”
“I’ve liked you since I met you.” The words come out in a fast, monotone rush, Holtzmann still not looking at her, but Erin understands them anyway. One has to have keen ears around Holtz. The woman’s shoulders are tense, her grip on her bottle maybe a little too tight, and Erin moves over on the couch cushions so that they’re next to each other.
“Hey,” she says, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Look at me.” And, reluctantly almost, Holtzmann does. “I can’t claim since we met, but I can definitely claim since the vortex incident. Probably before, but I didn’t realize what the feelings were. Okay? So...me too.”
When Holtzmann smiles, it’s like the moon coming out from behind clouds, full and bright, a little uncertain. It does all sorts of things to Erin’s mind and body.
“Kiss me again,” she says, and Holtz does.
The goal here is different, the rhythm new. Erin’s exploring, experimenting, and Holtz is facilitating it. They start out sitting on the couch next to each other, not touching much, just kissing. But things progress, as things do, and before Erin can really process what’s happening, Holtzmann is leaning against the arm of the couch, Erin straddled across her hips, and the kisses are deeper now. Give and take in long motions. Her body is electrified as it hasn’t been in ages; she feels like she must be radiating heat, but clearly the engineer under her either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Erin’s hands are in her hair, taking it down from its knot, Holtz’s hands running softly up and down her spine.
When Holtzmann breaks it, it’s because she’s accidentally moved and pushed Erin’s dress up her thigh, and her hand’s gone there without really thinking about it. She removes it as soon as she realizes, leaning back and looking into Erin’s eyes.
“Hey,” she says, and she sounds so wrecked and disheveled that Erin feels like she could probably die right here and be fine with it. “Sorry. I don’t want to push you too far.”
“I hardly think you’re pushing.”
“I know, but...I mean, you’ve never done this before. And I’d go as far as you’d let me, but, yeah. Don’t want to mess this up.” Considerate even when her lips are smudged with Erin’s lipstick and her pupils are dilated. Erin feels a rush of affection to accompany the continual rushes of arousal.
“I know what I want,” she assures her.
“And...that would be?”
“You.”
It’s not a great line. It’s not even a good line. But it is an effectual line, insofar as when Erin kisses Holtzmann again, she falls right back into it, replacing the hand that’s slid off her thigh and pulling her closer. She does ask “Are you sure?” a few minutes later, when her overalls are pushed down off her shoulders, her shirt is half unbuttoned, and Erin’s dress is over her hips.
The physicist looks down at her, mussed up, her blonde curls all over the place. “I’m sure,” she says with a smile, and kisses her cheek in punctuation. “Now, are you going to let me take your shirt off or not?”
To Holtzmann’s credit, she doesn’t let Erin rush through it. She knows what she wants, yes, but nervous Erin tends to rush. So it goes piece by piece; Holtzmann’s shirt, Erin’s dress, Holtz’s overalls, with long interludes in between. Erin’s convinced she’s being clumsy, but she explores, kissing the engineer’s neck, the hollow of her throat, just above her heart. Tentatively, she skims her fingers over Holtzmann’s small breasts, above her bra, and the woman laughs.
“They’re not going to explode,” she says, and she takes Erin’s hand, guiding it closer, pressing them together against her chest.
“Never know with you,” Erin quips, proud of herself of the remark even before Holtzmann starts laughing in delight and they have to take a break to get the giggles out, rolling together until they’re in danger of falling off the couch and they move to Holtzmann’s bedroom instead, running in underclothes with their hands entwined and laughing stupidly. The laughter only dies when Holtzmann settles over Erin, on her mussed duvet. The room is very fitting to its resident; small, with a queen bed shoved into it, posters on the walls, a bookcase full to bursting and a laptop charging on a desk. Notebooks with sketches are everywhere, and a few scribbly notes and drawings are tacked up around the room. The curtains are drawn, but Holtzmann leaves the lamp on. “I want to see you,” she says, brushing unruly curls behind her ear.
“Gonna show me how it’s done?” Erin asks, quirking an eyebrow up at her.
“Well, I know what I’m doing.” She leans down to kiss her, slow and deep. “I want to know what you want, though.” The words go in Erin’s ear, right before Holtz kisses that too. A shiver runs down her spine, whether from the statement or the contact, who knew?
This is right around the time Erin remembers how bad she is at dirty talk. She’s had some partners who liked it, wanted her to tell them what to do, but the words just never come naturally. Especially now, when she’s not even entirely sure of all the options. “What are you best at?” she ends up asking, and Holtzmann smirks.
“Not that I particularly want to brag about my sexual prowess, but I’ve gotten pretty rave reviews on my oral skills,” she drawls, matter-of-fact like she’s talking about the weather, despite the fact that she’s turning Erin on beyond belief.
“Oh God do that,” she says, all in a rush betraying her arousal, before she can apply any sort of filter on content or diction. Luckily, she’s in bed with maybe one of the least filtered people in existence, so Holtzmann just laughs.
“As you wish,” she says, and of course she’s making a Princess Bride reference right now, right before she coaxes Erin up to unhook her bra, with one hand because she’s a show-off. Erin is honestly drowning in this, because the other woman is so soft on top of her, warm and gentle in a new way. The softness, that’s what she notices most. Her lips, her thighs, her breasts. Erin doesn’t have the skills to replicate the one-hand maneuver, but proclaiming “it’s only fair,” she manages to unclasp Holtzmann’s as well and they join each other on the floor.
“First sighting of another woman’s boobs in a sexual scenario,” Holtzmann teases her, and Erin rolls her eyes, running her hand up her ribcage until she reaches her chest, more confident now. Which is how she finds out Holtz has kind of a Thing about this kind of foreplay, given that her eyes close and she takes a deep breath in. Erin sits up, so that the engineer is in her lap, and replaces her hands with her lips, moving over her warm skin.
“If we list all the firsts, we’re going to be here for a week,” she murmurs, right before she experiences her first time stimulating another woman’s nipple, and as a direct result, her first time having a woman moan out of pleasure in her arms. It’s soft, yes, but it happens, and it makes Erin irrationally proud of herself. And then Holtzmann does it to her, laying her back down against her pillows, and it’s more like playing than anything which is kind of the best thing ever . They’re laughing, even though Erin feels like she might catch on fire.
Especially when the woman kisses down her chest, focusing on her stomach, hands on her hips, and all of a sudden it starts to get really real, and Erin wants. She wants more than she has in a long time.
“Just relax,” Holtz says against her skin, like she can read Erin’s mind. One finger loops in the waistband of her underwear, tugging ever so lightly. “Can I?”
She nods her assent, feeling like she’s on display but not entirely minding. Especially when Holtzmann smiles up at her, laying a kiss at the inside of her knee. “Sorry this isn’t my first time seeing a vag.”
“Oh my God, you’re the worst, ” Erin groans, but she’s laughing. And then she learns very quickly something new that she is into; watching the other woman going down on her. Holtzmann goes slow, as usual, spending a lot of time just on her inner thighs, hand steadying herself at Erin’s knee. But eventually, she lays in between her legs, looks up at her with mischievous eyes, and uses her tongue, almost but not quite where it counts.
“Should have known that you would be the world’s biggest tease-- oh. ” Erin doesn’t quite get the last word out before Holtz’s mouth is at her clitoris, and this is a very big advantage over having sex with people who don’t possess that particular body part. She can’t quite decide between propping herself up on an elbow and watching or letting herself fall back, feeling it blind, but either way she feels her breath coming quicker. “Jesus,” she says, her hand going to the other woman’s hair, but at the last second her hazy mind remembers that not everybody likes that, so she lets go. Only to have Holtzmann surface and say “no, do that” before circling her tongue in a way that makes Erin gasp and let her hand close almost involuntarily.
Holtz hadn’t been wrong; she is good at this, mostly because she’s patient and can read the responses she gets. The first time Erin comes, it’s with Holtzmann’s mouth around her clitoris. The engineer moves to coax her through it and back off of the sensitive nerves. When her tongue is inside her (presumably to bring her down or clean her up), Erin comes again completely unexpectedly, with a gasp before she clamps her hand over her own mouth, shaking a little with the effort. Holtzmann’s fingers make gentle swirls on her thighs until she calms, breathing hard, hearing her heart in her ears, and then the blonde props herself up on an elbow and wipes her mouth.
Holtzmann looks stupidly proud of herself as she moves back up to lay next to Erin, on her stomach, looking sideways at her. “First orgasm with another woman. And, uh, second,” she says, because she is, in fact, the worst.
“Not my first thinking about another woman, though,” Erin says, her words spaced a little oddly as her heart rate returns to normal, and smiles as Holtz makes a little choking noise, clearly not expecting the comment. “That was...wow. Okay. You weren’t kidding.”
“I was not kidding,” Holtzmann agrees, grinning at her and wrinkling her nose, and strokes her hair as Erin’s breathing slows, leaving her muscles slack. “I can wash out my mouth,” she offers, kissing Erin’s shoulder but going no further than that.
“Do you usually?”
“I mean, some people like it, some people don’t.”
“I like it,” Erin says, and so Holtzmann kisses her again, soft this time, for a few long moments before Erin breaks it. “Now you.”
“It’s fine,” says the engineer. “I mean, I won’t say no. But I can finish myself if you’re too...”
“I am not a pillow princess,” Erin says, with maybe a little too much vigor, the new phrase coming weird out of her mouth.
Holtzmann laughs, and then meets her eyes. “You read that on Google, and you’re very proud of yourself,” she tells her, wrinkling her nose.
“I read that on Google and I’m very proud of myself,” Erin admits. “But the point still stands. Just...talk me through it.” Energy regained enough, she rolls onto her side, kisses Holtzmann’s neck, committing to memory where she likes (just under the pulse point, right at the corner of her jaw).
Holtz puts a hand on Erin’s hip, running it up her side, ever so gentle. “Try doing to me what you do to yourself,” she suggests. “It’s not all that different. Unless you do some freaky shit that I need to know about first.”
Erin laughs, her nose at Holtz’s clavicle. “Well, sometimes there’s lighters and tin foil involved...”
Holtzmann pinches above her hip, ever so lightly. “I’ll pass on those. Sometimes, all you need is good old fingers.”
So Erin uses them. She fumbles a lot, first in working the engineer’s underwear off and over her ankles (first time seeing another vagina outside of the Internet), then in what position to be in. Eventually, she settles next to Holtzmann, able to kiss her. “Are you okay?” she asks, her hand at Holtzmann’s thigh. “Like, it won’t hurt, will it?”
Holtz rolls her eyes, takes her hand, and guides it upwards. “You tell me if I need to get the lube,” she says, and Erin blushes. “Nah, I didn’t think so either.”
Eventually, finally, Erin eases into her, first her middle finger and then her ring finger. It’s odd, feeling it in her fingers but not in her body, not being able to connect movement with reaction except for on Holtzmann’s face.
“Weird,” says the other woman. “I usually do the first two. Or three.” She winks.
“Well, I mean, you can. But...I figure this way it’s easier to...” And Erin crooks her fingers. More fumbling. She knows where her own g-spot is, but...
“Fuck.”
Ah. Not as difficult as she had been expecting.
Holtz, true to her word, talks Erin through it, telling her what she likes (gentle clitoral stimulation) and doesn’t (more than two fingers). Erin feels like she’s doing a terrible job the entire time, even despite encouragement, but when she feels the other woman’s body react, when she feels her tense around her fingers, that feels like a victory. Especially when, after a not-insubstantial period of time (but Holtz’s patience goes both ways, it seems), Erin gets to see her bite her lip as she climaxes, hips moving up against Erin’s touch, eyes closed and brow furrowed. The sight sears its way onto her mind. After she settles down, Erin withdraws her hand, picking a tissue from the night table to wipe it on, looking at Holtzmann laying there with her arm over her eyes, nude, breathing hard through parted lips.
“First time giving another woman an orgasm,” she jokes, nudging Holtzmann’s side. “Not second. Unfortunately. Not that good.”
“There’s time,” Holtz murmurs, and grins almost tiredly, sliding her arm away and opening her eyes. “Plenty of time.” She rolls over, throwing an arm over Erin’s waist and drawing her closer.
“Yes,” Erin agrees, as she experiences her first time cuddling with Jillian Holtzmann, the clock on the wall ticking on toward midnight. “Plenty of time.”