by Ariel Maccarone


The fact that I am a lesbian does not stifle in the slightest my desire to seduce the man in front of me, my friend’s friend whom I met only ten minutes ago. Whose thigh I casually put my hand on while we laughed.

“I am gay,” I reassure him in my head, “Don’t worry. This is okay. You’re not doing anything wrong. This is okay.” But it is a lie. I know that for the next ten minutes, while he shares the table with me, I will be consciously regulating the ins and outs of my breath, the frequency with which I casually moisten my lips, the subtle way my body shifts in my chair. All to make him glance over, for only a minute, but for a minute that he knows he shouldn’t.

I am no longer his friend’s friend and he is no longer mine. I am now the object of his curiosity, his confusion, his compulsion — whether he likes it or not. And that’s what turns me on most — knowing that he doesn’t want to, but that he will. That when he shook my hand, sat at my table, and took out his computer, he had no intention of this.

But — though I am a lesbian and he will never have my heart — I will fuck him in a way that will make him question everything he believes about himself, because it feels so good, and because he doesn’t know if this is okay.


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