I’ve read some amazing gonewild stories, from debaucherous tales of threesomes, foursomes, and multisomes (gotta love college life), to unapologetic and deliciously scandalous descriptions of exhibitionism, partner swapping, and cheating. I’ve discovered new things, like kinks I didn’t even know existed (and that I’d really like to try), and I’ve even learned a few things about myself — things that would’ve remained hidden, buried deep without the visceral and unfiltered sexual experiences shared by GWS writers.
Here’s my favorite discovery about myself: I love subtle sensuality. I know it’s not as spicy as the pounding and thrashing that happens in the throes of orgasmic pleasure, but *damn* it sure does get me hot and bothered. And all it takes is a simple look, or a gentle touch, or even a nuanced gesture for me to become an unstable bundle of energy. It’s those little innuendoes; they light me on fire and set me off like a wild firecracker. I mean, case in point: I recently agonized for FOUR weeks over a *glance* that lasted maybe a few seconds. *One glance.*
Which brings me to the next part of my Thanksgiving dinner at Sophie’s.
The first apple pie bourbon shot was starting to take effect, and my usual nervous mental chatter was quieted just enough to let me look at her without my skittish brain imploring me to turn away. And I didn’t just look; I stared and studied, and probably admired some, too. Hell, it was probably borderline lecherous ogling, but she didn’t seem to mind. She just stared back with a satisfied grin and just a hint of smirk.
“Emi…” She said softly, the way you whisper a secret, then paused, letting the silence linger and leaving me hanging, clinging, desperate for another word. Any word. Something that would fill the vacuum created by her unfinished sentence.
And that’s what I mean about innuendo. Sophie had only spoken my name. Just *two* syllables, but they were spoken like the last few words of a love letter, with a deep longing and a sensuous tone. It electrified me and charged the air between us, and I realized that if spontaneous combustion was at all humanly possible, that I would soon explode into a fiery blaze.
Two. Fracking. Syllables.
There was no way I’d make it through dinner. I was already in bits and pieces, and NOTHING had really happened.
“Yeah?” I finally replied softly. Talking was a defense mechanism. I was attempting to stop a black hole of awkwardness from forming in the pit of my stomach and destroying me, the universe, and any chance of finding out what she would say next.
She held up her second apple pie bourbon shot. “What shall we toast to this time?”
“Oh,” I said, a little disappointed.
“You choose,” she said.
I thought of her first toast. *To special moments.* How could I top that? How could I come up with something witty and appropriate, that hints at my hopes and dreams, that provides a subtle clue to my desires and leaves her feeling the way that I was feeling? How did I do all that in less than a second so as to not miss the moment and make it awkward?
I raised my shot glass to buy some time, and prayed that something miraculously clever would materialize in my mind. But nothing came. I was devoid of thoughts and it was ruining the moment.
Then suddenly, four nonsensical words forced themselves past my lips like a desperate gasp of air after almost drowning.
“Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak.”
I cringed, wishing I could just sink to the deepest part of the ocean instead of having to see her reaction to my blathering mess of a toast. In the half-second it took me to stare at the floor, I caught a glimpse of her puzzled look.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sheepishly focusing on my shoes. “That was stupid, ignore me.” Then, I felt a soft hand caress my cheek before gently raising my chin.
“Emi…” she said, looking at me with her beautiful glimmering eyes. They reminded me of the Halloween party, except this time there seemed to be more certainty in them, like she’d found an answer to a question.
“… how could I possibly ignore someone who can quote Dumbledore’s toast after the sorting hat ceremony from the first book?” Sophie sure did know her Harry Potter trivia.
Then she winked, and the awkwardness of blurting out something monumentally awkward dissipated, and was replaced by jittery excitement.
“Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak.” She repeated, tipping her glass to mine, removing the cinnamon stick, then shooting it back in one fell swoop. I followed suit, feeling the spiced amber liquid flow all the way down to my stomach where it immediately began to take effect.
We stood there, unmoving, gazing at each other as if we were bewitched. Maybe it was the alcohol, or Sophie’s warm, almost imperceptible smile, but I’d never felt so comfortable being in silence with someone than at that moment. We stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak, or turn away, or break that momentary enchantment, but there was no urgency to it, just an excitedly-calm magical feeling.
“Nerd,” she finally said, with a smirk of pure joy.
“Takes one to know one,” I quipped, surprising myself at the quickness of my response.
She chuckled, then leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Our secret,” I said.
Our words dripped with subtext and innuendo. Bedrock layers upon layers of subtext, and the curious thing was that I didn’t even fully understand what it all meant — just that our words were more than words.
Just then Katie came in, interrupting that magical connection and breaking whatever spell we were under.
“Are y’all on your second shot already?”
What did she mean by *already*? It felt like hours had passed since Katie left the kitchen to put away my coat, but upon further consideration, it had probably only been a minute or two.
“Emi made me do it,” Sophie said, shooting me a cheeky smile.
Katie raised her eyebrow. “Uh huh, *sure*.”
“I’m serious,” Sophie said, then she shot me a wanton, piercing look. “There’s things about Emi that would surprise you.”
“Well, good for her,” Katie said, either missing or ignoring any deeper meaning in that outrageously loaded sentence. “So are y’all gonna help set the table, or am I going to have to do all the work around here?”
“I’ll help,” I offered.
As much as I wanted to stay there with Sophie, I needed a break. Sophie was overwhelming me with some kind of raw, invisible energy and I felt like a flash bulb about to pop. If I was going to get through the evening, I needed to reset, gather my thoughts, clear my head, and probably get my heartrate back to normal. So I left the kitchen to go help Katie in the dining room.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/r6ktx0/ff_thanksgiving_dinner_at_sophies_part_2
!updateme