Next Time

Next Time

© Nicki Hastie

Short story; this version revised in March 2003. Please note this story contains adult sexual content.

If you are quoting from or printing parts of this page, please give full acknowledgement and reference as: Nicki Hastie (2003) Next Time [WWW] http://nickihastie.co.uk/my-writing/fiction/next-time (add date you visited this page)


It’s easier on the second night just to get naked as soon as possible. Then no one has to worry who undresses who and in what order. There was no reason to be shy now, or so I hoped. We removed our clothes quickly. Facing each other, clothes in two small bundles beside us, we caught the humour of the situation at the same time. Here we were, naked, and now what? Did we kiss standing up or go straight for the covers? I had an idea. I wanted to take Charlie back to the night before. She was the one who told me you’ve got to enjoy the moment. No pressure, no promises, just plain simple want.

“Let’s find out what would have happened if I hadn’t knocked you onto that toilet seat and we’d got a little further with each other right there in the club.”

“Oh,” she said. “Was that your plan? But we were clothed then.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t want to replicate the environment entirely. I just want you to imagine you’re there. We’re in a confined space, you’re backed up against the wall …”

“I can do that bit.”

She was in the corner of the room already, arms outstretched, waiting for me.

“It’s cold on your skin,” I told her. “Does it feel cold?”

“It’s cold enough. It doesn’t have to be ice cold, does it?”

“No. You’ve got goose bumps already. That’s good.”

“That’s because you’re stroking my arms.”

“Yes and I want to explore each tiny hair. All over your body.”

She smiled. “I’m glad I shaved or it would take you forever.”

“Shhsh,” I said. “We can’t talk or someone will hear us. You must try not to make a sound.”

I wasn’t going to rush in and press my hand between her legs. The setting was make-believe. I didn’t have to worry about anyone outside the cubicle desperate to pee, rattling at the door to get us to finish up. I rubbed a knee up and down the inside of her thighs while my fingers stroked her neck. In the club I’d wanted to start at the neck. I traced the curve of bone at her throat. That gave Charlie the chance to get her arms around me and she tightened a grip on my bum. She pulled me in until my elbows were squashed up into her chest and the only place I could land a thumb was her eyebrows.

“Don’t think you have it all your own way,” she whispered.

Our bushes were touching. I thought that’s what she had in mind, pressing hard into each other. But it seems she wanted a better hold of my bum. She wriggled the side of her hand into my crack. “Turn around.” She was still whispering. She was good at this.

I did as she said. It freed my arms anyway. I was about to suggest my front view was better but I forgot about that when she brought her hand through my legs and cupped my pubic bone. I was sitting on her forearm. I had to steady myself so I didn’t fall over. It forced me to spread my legs and she got more room to manoeuvre.

I enjoyed the stroking from the opposite direction, back to front. She had to work harder to reach my clit. There was a focused excitement in not being able to see her, just concentrating on her fingers. “The door’s come open. They want a floorshow.” I felt her breathe the words into the back of my neck.

I liked being on display. I had to shut my eyes to make it work. There were only three of them. I didn’t need a crowd. They were leaning in the door, amazed at what they saw, urging me on. Even three was enough to get a bit rowdy. One was offering me her tongue for later if fingers weren’t enough. I was careful not to give them clear faces. I was being watched; I didn’t want to know who was watching. I wanted them to know how good me and Charlie were together.

Her fingers were getting quicker and I needed them a little slower. I tried to bend and rock to coach her to a new rhythm but Charlie had another tempo going on. I realised she was using her other hand on herself and wanted this as bad as me. That was all the incentive I needed and I gave the three wide-eyed girls what they were after – a leg-wobbling, clit-tingling surge. Charlie felt it too and quit touching herself to grab inside my thigh, from the front. I came with Charlie’s hands clutched together in my cunt.

“Wow!” I breathed out. “They loved that. They want some more.”

I was shaking. I felt a bit light-headed. My legs weren’t going to recover quickly. She had brought me almost to my knees.

That gave me the next idea. “I think they were looking for tongue action.”

Charlie was up for it with one proviso. “Here’s where I say let’s find somewhere more comfortable.”

I was glad that was in our script. Those words had got us into a taxi and back to her place the night before. My legs weren’t going to argue now. Luckily it was only a few steps to the bed. She thought I wanted her tongue on me then, but I said I couldn’t. Not yet. Not for a good few minutes.

“I’ll show you my tongue and groove,” I said. I wanted her to ripple as I joined up her ridges and hollows.

I was already thinking that next time we’d get on the bed fully clothed and sit inside that taxi simply for the joy of the ride. We’d offer directions and undress slowly. Leave the meter running as long as we liked.

Recent Posts

What does your love look like?

We stand with Orlando ribbonSo here I am – driven to leave my quiet-ish hiding place (of late) and send some comments out into the world. It’s hard to have anything new or powerful enough to say about the atrocity in Orlando, FL, USA this weekend, but I must register my voice of grief, outrage, solidarity and connection with LGBT+ communities and allies everywhere. My thoughts are with all those who have been affected directly through the loss and injury of loved ones, and through the weight of being witness.

Some facts are clear. A heavily-armed man murdered 49 people and wounded 53 others at the LGBT+ Pulse nightclub. This was an act of hatred and homophobia (also biphobia and transphobia), and the majority of those targeted were people of colour during a Latina/Latino/Latinx night. All believed themselves to be in a safe place of celebration during a month of worldwide Pride events.

Here are some other commentaries which say far more than I can:

Latinx LGBTQ community response from Isa Noyola interviewed on Democracy Now (warning – this video contains a shameful clip of Donald Trump taking advantage of the massacre to spread anti-Muslim hate speech).

Orlando is just the tip of the iceberg – a powerful article by Jane Czyzselska, editor of UK Diva Magazine for lesbian and bi women.

Statement from the British Psychological Society recognising that members of LGBT+ communities experience high levels of abuse, discrimination and psychological distress.

I’m sad and angry and confused. It seems to have been a default position of mine recently. But at least these emotions make sense in these circumstances, even if I will never be able to understand how someone can plan and carry out such an attack. I am unable to understand any crimes of hate, whoever is being abused and killed. I have empathy beyond the communities I specifically identify with. It’s important I say this because some despicable individuals are already using the Orlando shooting to encourage different marginalised communities to turn against each other. We must not let that happen.

News sites are reporting (surmising) today that Omar Mateen was most likely gay himself and therefore chose to kill people in a LGBTQ venue due to intense self-loathing. As if this somehow stops the attack being an act of homophobia! As if it’s suddenly explained and means all others in wider society need take no further responsibility and can file it in a tidy box which requires minimal scrutiny: Oh, that’s alright, then – it was just one queer of a certain faith we can’t be bothered to understand killing a load of other queers we can’t be bothered to understand. They only have themselves to blame!

Don’t you see? No person starts out hating themselves or others. It comes from years of indoctrination and prejudice, where instead of  being embraced and celebrated, difference and diversity are viewed as the enemy. When you think of love, what do you see? Who do you include?

On Sunday 12 June, I posted this on Facebook:

Fuck! Why do some of us care? And the rest are intent on destroying the whole world. You don’t have to understand me to not want to kill me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to hurt no-one but myself. I shouldn’t even want to hurt myself. If there was more empathy for diversity, far more of us may survive.

All of my Facebook friends are trying to comfort each other right now.

I understand something about self-hatred. I really do. The agonising attempt to explain to yourself why recognising you’re different from a so-called ‘norm’, and regularly being misunderstood, can make you feel as if there is something fundamentally wrong with your whole being. That your very self is the problem. It’s sad enough when that personal inner struggle only destroys the individual experiencing it. But where does the destruction end when fear and hate is routinely justified? No-one decides to hate. It is taught and it is validated by legislation. The Orlando massacre comes after lawmakers in the US filed more than 200 anti-LGBT Bills.

This fear of difference goes way beyond sexuality. I have experienced this feeling of self-doubt, self-sabotage and insecurity around my mental health. Some of my close friends will know of a new journey of self-exploration I’m just embarking on. It’s not the time to talk about that but, ultimately, this will be positive for me, and I will write about it when I’m ready.

Actually, I’m not sure I have ever *hated* myself for being a lesbian. I just feel as if I’ve been bruised and punished a lot, and that is why the poem below refers to “being a lesbian / would be one / prompt apology.” I am who I am. I’m proud of that. I have not, do not, and I never will apologise. But I have always had to be ready to defend myself which can sometimes amount to the same thing.

It’s another blackout poem, taking words from an interview with author Emma Donoghue which appeared in the Observer Magazine on 8 May 2016. It makes a lot of sense to me, but I wish it didn’t mean so much. I wish I didn’t have to write about being sad, confused and fearful.

It was two weeks ago when I chose to highlight these words and create a new personal commentary. It doesn’t help much with understanding the atrocity in Orlando. But in light of the terribly sad events, perhaps I can ask you to read between the lines to find another space which invites connection, remembers to begin with love, and doesn’t have to end on hate.

Newspaper blackout poem from interview with Emma Donoghue

  1. Susan Calman and Me 2 Replies
  2. Some of us are Literary: Get Over It! 4 Replies
  3. Lost and Found: the importance of archiving for personal and cultural memory 2 Replies