Binary system n. an astronomy term referring to two objects in space, usually stars, which are so close that their gravitational forces attract one another into a mutual orbit.

*

Forever.

It began with forever.

Forever as friends. Forever in love. Forever waiting. Forever lying next to him in my bed, pretending to sleep and waiting for something to happen.

Or at least, it seemed to be. . . forever, that is.

An hour, maybe two, we’d been lying here. My thoughts revolving like a broken record– everything over and over.

Would he touch me? Can he see me? Does he love me? All so crucial, but in some ways so inconsequential.

I feel him move closer.

We’ve been stuck in this pattern forever. Both of us being as obvious as we can without being obvious. Both of us recognizing the signs, but both of our self-esteems too fucked-up to completely give in to what the other felt. What we both felt. Revolving, orbiting at the same distance, slowly drawing closer to an inevitable implosion.

I move closer as well.

We’re almost touching now. Something that should be so simple between friends has become so difficult now that we share a bed for the first time. And it’s like the first day of school– exciting, frightening, and completely surreal all at once.

The way I can feel heat radiating off his abdomen into my back. The way scarce particles of breathe collect on the back of my neck. The way I know he wants to feel me, warm, soft, pressed against his curved silhouette, just as much as I do.

I could make a real move. Jump on top of him and start kissing and grinding and everything else I could possibly think of. But this would be a betrayal of our unspoken pact. That we were both scared, and lonely, and falling for each other so hard we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. So we crept along my bed like caterpillars, inching closer and closer until, eventually, we would meet and bond in that first real, true touch.

Only then would the first real move be appropriate.

I glance at the clock– an hour and a half. Since we’ve been pretending. Pretending to pretend, overacting when we knew that we knew– if only for the sake of pretense.

I feel his shirt brush across my shoulder– close enough.

I press against him, curving to his form as well as I can. Seems to be well enough, considering the arm that wraps firmly around my waist, drawing me closer. It’s quick and shaky, but somehow very sure– the same way an arm moves when unwrapping a gift at Christmas.

So we cuddle. It’s amazing. But, like most other things, the bright, happy, butterfly-in-my-stomach feelings fade quickly to be replaced by the same fear and impatience that enveloped me only a few minutes earlier. Or perhaps a few hours?

It’s my turn for the move. Not the real move, not yet– one of our mutually-understood-almost-unnoticeable-if-we-hadn’t-been-paying-such-close-attention moves. Scooting a few inches closer, moving a hand a few inches lower, grinding in a way that could be pardoned to the usual motions of sleep. All of these were acceptable.

I lay my hand across his and arch my back slightly. I can feel him exhale sharply into my hair.

He moves his head slightly to lay his lips against my neck. I move closer and graze my fingers across his forearm.

He moves his hand lower, across my thigh. I inhale through my teeth and open my knees to him– this is the final call.

He takes it.

And suddenly it’s not about subtlety and fear, but about over exuberance and instant gratification stretched out as long as we can handle. He touches my inner thighs and sucks on my neck, I follow with quiet moans and fingernails on any skin I can find.

His hands grow stronger, more assured, and they stroke and manipulate me in the soundest and cruelest ways possible through one thin layer of fabric. I do everything I can think of to say yes please more don’t stop yes yes now please without actually saying anything at all. Techniques such as this seem to work better, or at least be more enjoyable. Actions speak louder than words and all that.

And there, it’s so sudden, even though I’ve waited for hours. His fingers inside me, moving and stroking and finding until I moan out loud, for real, for the first time. It all feels so amazing, but still not enough, not nearly enough to make me stop.

I reach behind me, between his legs– surprised, because I always heard that Asians were supposed to be small.

I roll my palm and twist my fingers in ways I’ve practiced for years, then throw in a few experiments to make it one-of-a-kind. It’s become a sort of equation by now. The size of his dick times the speed of his breathing, divided by how long and hard I want to fuck him. . .

The noises he tries not to make bring me back to reality, and I realize that if this is going to happen, it’s going to happen now. I’ve had sex enough times to know how soon he’s going to come, whether or not he can come twice, how long I could fuck him if I started now, and the approximate trajectory of his semen if I were to continue jacking him off.

I roll on top of him and avoid looking him in the eye. As much as I love him, as much as I need him, as much as I want him right now. . .

This is the time when I really need to think.

About how this is my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. About how this is my ex-boyfriend’s best friend. About how we’d really be better off as friends. About how many friendships and relationships I’ve fucked up by thinking with my clitoris. About how I want to stay close to him forever, and how, speaking from experience, that will probably never happen if I fuck him right now.

We work in a strange sort of way, him and I. We both feel it, know it, and aren’t quite ready to embrace it– a sort of understanding. That no matter how attracted we are, no matter how much we have in common, we’ll always keep a certain, safe distance from what we really want and need from each other. It’s that same steady pull that brings us so close together and keeps us so far apart.

“Jess. . .”

I snap out of logic.

“Yeah?” I can hardly hear myself speak.

“You’re on the pill, right?”

This is my choice. I can stop now, send things back to how they were– two good friends with a little too much in common– or continue into what could turn us into either a sick, sorry, black hole of a relationship, or a once-in-a-lifetime supernova.

“Yeah.”

He nods, I think, and when I feel him slide inside of me, I feel like an alcoholic with her first drink in six months. A drug addict with her first hit since she went to jail. A starving victim with her first meal in what seems like a lifetime, and all is well.

And he moves my hips, and I remember– oh, Christ, do I remember. Roll the right way, make him moan, make him beg, lean back and that’s it, just right, it’s just perfect, a perfect fit, almost, I love you, you love me, maybe, yes, yes, harder there ohmyfuckinggod

And when I come, I have to hold back a scream– perhaps because it’s been a long time, perhaps because he’s better than I thought he would be, or perhaps because this is the explosion I’ve been waiting for.

His fingertips dig into the flesh of my hips and puls me down, impossibly closer, and I can feel him spasm, orgasm, come inside me. Like a forest fire or a drought or death or any other painful, beautiful, natural and necessary part of our existing world.

And another forever goes by with me on top of him, panting. Sweating. Twitching. Relenting. Repenting. Praying. Hoping. Waiting. For a sign from heaven or the stars, whichever comes first, to let me know how this will end.

He pushes me off him, crawls onto the floor and falls asleep. Or pretends to.

I’m used to the way a black hole feels by now.