10
Okay, look. I’m waxed to behind my ears, perfumed, and poured into the naughtiest bra in my collection, which also matches my top-shelf sin thong.
Because... if a woman with dyke-spy aura is picking me up, am I showing up in cotton panties with baby chicks on them?
Not a chance. That would be a total betrayal of everything modern lesbianism stands for.
And basic science, while we’re at it. I vacuum-seal myself into a mini dress that boosts my ego and kills my circulation, sharp heels, shimmer on my legs, expensive perfume looking for trouble.
In the purse: wipes, gloss, gum, ID, and a whole lot of want.
I look in the mirror and let a smile loose while Vega gives me a lecture.
"You’ve lost your damn mind."
"Real original." I open a drawer and dig for nuclear red lipstick.
"Meeting up with a chick who stalked you around half the neighborhood from a car with tinted windows is front-page crime-section stuff. She probably has a dungeon in the trunk with the manual in Cyrillic."
"Great, I can practice my languages."
"Girl, set a boundary in your life. One. Just one."
"I have boundaries," I say, counting on my fingers: "no Crocs, no fascists, and no one who doesn’t lick."
"I’m serious."
"Me too."
Vega gives me a pity look and hands me a bottle of water.
"Hydrate, at least."
"If emotional dehydration doesn’t make my skin glow, that’s my problem."
The healthy-relationship coach is on duty and I’m deaf in my good ear.
"You don’t know who she is," she insists. "She might put a GPS in your uterus."
"Perfect. Then I won’t get lost."
"Try to come back in one piece. Share your location."
"I’ll send you a voice memo full of moans."
"Slut."
"You’re welcome."
When Nat shows up, my blood speeds up. The car’s a shiny black BMW, the expensive kind—no way a PI paycheck covers this.
A tiny alarm pings. I ignore it. Inside it smells good, soft music, perfect temperature, all luxury.
The witch is in black, on brand; today she’s in a coat that makes me want to marry her on the sidewalk.
Perfect hair, red lips, neat short nails. She rakes her gaze over me, unhurried.
In my head she’s already negotiating peace treaties, defusing a bomb with her tits, asking me to hold the lighter.
I’m not even in yet—mini dress, slight tremor; feeling like an intern on her first high-voltage date.
By the way, this is my first actual date with a woman who isn’t going to pay me afterward; a party, sure, but the kind that makes me stand at attention and go all soft at once, makes me want to be bad and good and not ruin it by minute two.
I climb into the car and close the door gently.
The seat sits low, the belt grazes my chest. She leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek.
Soft, discreet. No hint that last night she left me shaking for a couple of long hours with tongue and fingers.
Friendly hello. Polite protocol. What is this, Nat?
A psychological game? Civilized adult territory-marking?
I settle in, smile, and pretend I know how to talk.
"Ready?" she says, her low voice making my kneecap tremble.
"I was born ready," I lie, cool as hell. "Where to?"
"We’re going to the place with the best burgers in Madrid."
Everything in me tightens.
"Uh, no, sorry, I don’t like burgers. Hard pass."
"Okay, then surprise. Trust me a little."
"I trust you a lot. Your right hand and your mouth—top tier."
She laughs under her breath, no teeth. She looks me in the eyes, then at my cleavage.
"You’re dangerous."
"Look who’s talking. You should be illegal."
The car pulls away. Soft music, slow drums, a bass line climbing my legs.
The city slides past in lights and puddles.
I adjust my thong because it’s riding up to my liver.
My legs vibrate, my skin itches. I’d eat her neck at this light.
I’d pull down her zipper with my teeth and sit on her face and let the world go dark. But I say,
"Did you sleep?"
"A bit."
"Liar."
"You’re worse," she says. "You look like you didn’t catch a wink."
"I stuck to things. The mattress, mostly."
"Shame I wasn’t underneath."
I swallow a moan. I turn my head to the window so I don’t climb on top of her and soak the upholstery. I catch her cologne and my brain explodes in the best way. I open my bag, pull out a piece of gum, my hand trembling.
"The dress looks good on you," she says, finger on the wheel, a discreet ring.
"It looks better on the floor."
"Don’t tempt me."
"I’ve been tempting you since you tailed me half a block."
"Work is work."
"Oh, so you’re a public servant of desire."
Do I tell her to finish me off at her place, or do I play refined and let her ask permission three times? If she grabs the back of my neck now, I’ll park the car with my knee. No. Chill. Go with it. Act normal, dummy.
"Your sister didn’t scare you off me. She gave me a look when I walked out of your room."
"She likes you, in her language."
Nat grabs my hand for a second and lets go, just to mess with me. I don’t complain; I get hotter.
The GPS announces a roundabout, and all I hear is her breathing, and I shake a little in my seat.
"You came beautifully last night," she says out of nowhere, casual.
My breath catches.
"Don’t say that, I’ll slide right off this seat."
"Relax," she says. "I want you relaxed."
What am I doing here? I came because she gets to me. I come so she can get to me again. I put on a posed smile. I play the diva and forget to talk for three blocks.
We get to the restaurant. The typical low-lit Italian, fake little candles, and waiters with that "you don’t belong here, sweetheart, but tip anyway" face. They sit us at one of those tiny tables where if you stretch your leg you hit the other person’s.
Perfect for ankle grazes, existential epiphanies, and pretending to care about the bread while you blow half your paycheck on a glass of wine.
The first-date starter pack kicks off.
"Shows? Movies?" she tosses out, easy, with a sip of beer and a poster-girl smile.
Me being the kind who lies on autopilot, I hit her with:
"Succession has me obsessed—I could quote it by heart."
I never made it past the pilot. I fell asleep. I don’t even know the names. But I want her to like me, and she looks like she’s into those shows.
"And movies?" she presses.
"Tons. Lately I’m all about action." Another shiny lie.
I don’t tell her what I actually like. I don’t tell her about the book habit either.
I keep that. Reading puts my brain in order; I go quiet; I feel at home.
But it’s the first date, and I don’t whip out my shrine of covers or my notebook full of stolen quotes.
I give myself the vibe of a modern girl who knows her shows, and that’s it.
The bookworm in me doesn’t enter the scene yet.
"Something to nibble on, ladies?" the waiter asks, tablet in hand.
"Provolone and jumbo olives, thanks," I say—on a full stomach I lie less.
Nat smiles with perfect teeth and goes evasive when I ask about her job.
"My job… well, projects, data, team, it’s a mess, you know."
"You like it?" I ask.
"Some days. I travel a bit, not much," she says, feeding me headlines that say nothing.
She dodges on purpose. Tosses out words that fit anything. Project, deadline, client—no names, no details. Translation: she’s not giving up info. Maybe she can’t be bothered. Maybe she’s one of those who play mysterious. I nod and play interested.
"Nice. Your team cool or a cult?"
"Bit of everything. Total rock stars and people who are just there."
She checks her phone for half a second and puts it away, polite.
Inside, I put a lamp in her face and interrogate her. Salary? Toxic boss? Ex who texts at 3 a.m.? Instagram password? Criminal record? Outside, a soft smile, nothing aggressive.
"Good for you that you travel. I’m terrible at it—jet lag kills me."
I’ve never been on a plane, and if I cross the M? 30 by car I get carsick.
She smiles. She smells good, really good. It distracts me from the conversation.
I adjust my hair without making a thing of it. Relax, Alaska. Speak clearly. Raise your hand and order off the honesty menu. Ma’am, one serving of sincerity, please. I open my mouth and out comes:
"So, yeah. I like you. I’m into you. That’s it."
She lets out a low laugh.
"You go straight for it."
"Otherwise I get dizzy," I say, and knock back half my glass.
She leans on the table.
"Okay. Me too. I like you."
"Then tell me something else," I prod her. "Your favorite snack, your pool trauma, something that’s not on LinkedIn."
"Snack: bread and chocolate. Trauma: I almost swallowed the pool plug when I was six. LinkedIn: gives me hives. Your turn."
Yes. More of this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I want to know everything about her. I flash some teeth—great plan.
"Okay, Nat. I collect weird bookmarks."
The ravioli sauce gleams, the cheese smells like heaven, the wine’s climbing into my cheeks, and I’m focused on making sure that damn ravioli doesn’t dive into my cleavage. Very me. I almost drop it and flail like a tightrope walker. I laugh it off.
The sneaky bitch takes the chance and slides her hand up my thigh.
Great. Perfect. Intimate date at an Italian joint with beaded lamps.
I play the grown-up. Sit up straight, eyes on my plate, the smile of someone who’s seen it all and doesn’t even blink.
Totally normal—people eat here and get illegal caresses at the same time.
I keep up the little act of I don’t notice a thing, while in my head I’m fantasizing about ripping her clothes off right here.