I knew I wanted to, but tried to catch myself, hesitating. My heart was drumming in my chest by now; I quickly lathered my right palm, tracing it through my coarse thatch of my pubes, right down on my vagina, caressing, parting the soft petals, running my two middle fingers along the silken flesh of my vulva. My breathing was coming in gasps, a languid transit of soap-slicked fingertips, finding my clit, just a flick, and then another. “Two minutes or I’m coming in after you,” Francesca shouted teasingly, giving the door a solid rap. I was completely off the reservation then, an orgasm exploding outward from my clitoris, a blinding surge of pleasure unlike anything I’d experienced before wracking through the lobes of my brain. I bit hard into my bath towel to keep from screaming, a muffled, animal keening as the sensation ebbed and came on in an even more indescribable wave. I was down on my knees literally, annihilated by it, light blistering through my clamped eyelids, teeth. “You know – Fight Club.”“Oh, the movie, right? Never seen it.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, a habit of his that never failed to draw my attention to the perfect dome of his head.“You haven’t seen Fight Club?” Chris asked, arriving at the table with the first round of drinks. Chris, the token employed graduate in our student share house, worked with Danny and had brought him along to a similar Wednesday night drinking session three months previously. I had no idea why the latter enjoyed hanging out with a student eight years younger than him, but the weekly drinks had stuck.“Nope. It’s a boxing movie or something, isn’t it? I’ve seen the Rocky movies.”“No, no, no, it’s not a boxing movie,” I said, the movie geek in me overriding my instinct to not be a condescending prick to the lone black man at the table. “I mean, I suppose there is underground boxing in it, sort of, but that’s not the point. No, it’s... I can’t really explain. How would you describe it, Chris?.
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