My First Time Eating Oysters... And Pussy

We met through work. She came on like every hot thing wrapped in skin—quick wit, slow smile, mean streak wrapped in silk. Her tits were the punctuation. And she was gay. I felt it when she touched my wrist laughing, when she poked at my ribs, when she wiped a lipstick smear from my mouth like it was hers to fix. She slid me her number like she already knew. She did. I’d just left a man so I could find out what a woman tasted like. She rang two nights later. Dinner at her place. I showed up in a thin summer dress that stuck to my thighs the second I stepped onto her patio. The table was ridiculous—snails, sweetbreads, goat cheese, pâté, oysters on crushed ice. We never touched the main course. We only touched skin. She had me on the cushions before the breeze cooled the plates. Mouths and fingers and the slick sound of two women who’d been starving for this exact meal. Salt on her tongue, wine on mine, and the afternoon sun turning everything we did into something golden and filthy.