The Porn Advocate

Reagan Foxx kept to herself that afternoon. The house was still, the sun slanting across the marble counters, until someone knocked. She muttered that she wasn’t expecting anyone and cracked the door open with a polite, thin smile. On the other side stood Ginger Banks—bright eyes, quick energy, lips already shaping words. Before Reagan could dismiss her, Ginger promised she wasn’t selling a thing. She said she was just there to share information about a bill Congress had passed, one that hurt working women. Reagan sighed, ready to close the door, until Ginger mentioned activism. Reagan remembered her own early days marching for causes she’d long forgotten, and the recollection nudged her back. She held the door wider. They settled on the sofa. Ginger’s tablet glowed between them. She scrolled through clips of women together, deliberate light on skin, mouths finding each other with care. Reagan claimed she didn’t care for that sort of thing, yet each new scene pulled her gaze back like a fingertip stroking the same spot twice. Her breath shortened. Ginger noticed. She licked her bottom lip and asked, soft, whether Reagan had ever been with a woman. Reagan shook her head, insisted she was married, straight, done with new ideas. Ginger placed a palm just above Reagan’s knee and waited. The silence stretched until Ginger leaned in and kissed her—slow, certain, tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss. Reagan’s protest dissolved into the heat of the contact. Ginger’s hand slid higher, the tablet still playing, and Reagan reached for her without thinking, the afternoon folding into something the quiet house had never held before.