Straight, But... Lonely

Kali Roses settles into her seat and starts talking about the first time a woman touched her. Her boyfriend had been gone for three months. Every night the same calls, every night the same ache. They were both strung out on sex and distance, so they opened the deal: other people were allowed if it stayed physical, nothing more. But every time another man tried to put his hands on her, something in her went dead. She’d get as far as a hand on her thigh and the whole thing would stall. She went to Violet for advice. Her best friend just listened, then said it flat: “Maybe it’s men that won’t work. They’re too close to what you miss. Maybe you need a body that won’t trigger all those feelings.” Kali felt the air change when she realized what Violet meant. When she suggested it be Violet, she meant it as a dare and a comfort in one. Violet hesitated, but not long. Her “fine” came out low, and Kali moved first. She remembers the way Violet’s mouth tasted, how her breasts felt different pressed against her own, how nothing reminded her of his rough chin or callused palm. Violet knew how to slow down and how to pull the sound right out of her. They came twice before either of them spoke. After that, the calls home didn’t ache the same. She’s still with him. She won’t say whether it stayed open or folded back into just the two of them. That’s why she’s smiling at the end.