“Then build the structures,” she said. “Name them now, before desire gets loud. Boundaries, rituals, language. You love a list, make the list you need.”
I took my phone out and opened a new note. The glow of the screen painted my fingers silver. “What goes at the top?” I asked.
“Truth,” she said without missing a beat. “Truth over performance. Consent as a practice, not a checkbox. Pacing that belongs to your body, not your fear. Aftercare, as a rule. If jealousy visits, treat it like the weather, not a moral failure. Quality time matters, tenderness matters, laughter matters.”
I typed while she spoke. The words did not feel like rules; they felt like a porch light. I added my own: ask for clarification when my brain starts writing horror stories, pause when my heart outruns my logic, drink water, keep my sense of humor handy, and do not apologize forneeding the lights on.
“I also need to say this out loud,” I added, my voice small but steady. “I do not have much experience with women. I am not embarrassed about desire; I am new to the how. I do not want to treat her like a test. I want to learn how to touch a woman the way I would want to be touched. The idea of kissing her makes me feel like my bones are tuning forks. The idea of getting it wrong makes my stomach flip.”
“You will get things wrong,” Lena said. “Sometimes because you are learning, sometimes because our bodies change, sometimes because life intrudes. That is not failure, that is data. You will ask, How does this feel? Do you like this pressure? Do you prefer my hand here or here? Should I slow down? Should I keep going? She will tell you, if she is worthy of you, and I am willing to bet she is built for language.”
“She feels built for language,” I said, smiling. “She makes words feel like instruments.”
“And James,” Lena said, “James looks like the kind of man who can turn a yes into a study guide. He does not strike me as a man who would rush a woman who says, ‘Teach me.’ He will probably make a plan in a shared calendar and invite both of you to contribute notes; he gives me organized tenderness.”
I laughed out loud, the release of it loosening my shoulders. “Organized tenderness,” I repeated. “Put that on a T-shirt.”
We took a little pause to eat more grits because life is balanced. The short ribs fell apart like they were relieved to be loved. My body settled a degree, then another. The room kept glowing, and I let it.
“Tell me the exact shape your fear takes,” Lena said, even softer now. “Not the headline, the small print.”
“Alright,” I said, and I breathed before I jumped. “Fear says, you will freeze. You will be in a room with both of them, and your mind will go white with panic, and you will forget how to speak. Fear says, you will need to ask for a pause, and they will look disappointed. Fear says, “You will compare yourself to other women you have known, and you will lose.” Fear says, if they ever argue, it will be your presence that tips the scale.”
She listened like my life depended on it. My eyes got hot, and I did not chase the feeling away. It sat with us like a fourth friend.
“Now say the counter story,” she said. “Say it in your voice.”
I closed my eyes for a beat and found a steady place in my chest. “My body is not a betrayer,” I said. “If it freezes, it is telling the truth. I can say, I need a moment, and anyone who loves me will nod. I can leave the room to drink water and return to myself. If disappointment shows up, that is their feeling to regulate, not my emergency to fix. I am not a stand-in for anyone else. I am a single woman with a singular body and a singular way of wanting. If conflict happens, we are grown and we will treat it like a puzzle to solve, not a weapon to use.”
Lena’s smile was quiet and victorious. “There she is,” she said. “The woman I would trust with my spare heart.”
“I want to do this gently,” I said. “Not timid, gentle. I want the first dinner to be about laughing in a kitchen, chopping herbs, making mistakes, wiping the counter with hips bumping like a dance. I want the first time I am alone with one of them to be simple, coffee and curiosity, eyesand hands, no pressure to earn anything. I want the first time with both to be clearly chosen, not a surprise. I want to feel invited, not pounced on.”
“Then those are your parameters,” she said. “Write them down.”
I did. Then I added a second list, things my body knows, because Lena loves homework, and I apparently do too. I wrote, praise is gasoline for me, a steady palm at my lower back calms me, a warm voice at my ear unspools my spine, slow build over spectacle, eyes open when I kiss, touch that lingers, guidance that sounds like a favor, not a command. Then I wrote about curiosities: how it feels to be guided without being controlled, how to touch her in ways that change her breathing, how to ask for more without apologizing, how to use my mouth with patience and play, and how to enjoy being watched without shrinking.
Lena peered and hummed her approval. “I would date this woman,” she said. “She looks promising.”
“You are a menace,” I said, laughing.
“Correct,” she answered. “Now practicals. You need signals. Green, yellow, red, but also for feelings. A phrase that means I am drifting, help anchor me. A phrase that means, “I am so happy I might cry; keep doing what you are doing.” A phrase that means my ex just tried to rent space in my head, please help me change the channel. Also aftercare. Food, water, blankets, affirmations, laughter, a plan for the morning after.”
“Look at you,” I said. “Turning my love life into a beautifully managed project.”
“Projects deserve joy too,” she said, winking.
I thought of Calla’s mouth and the way she says my name like she already knows I will answer. I thought ofJames' hands and the way his yes feels like a key. I let the images live in my body without rushing them to the bedroom, just letting them be warm.
“I am also nervous that dating both will make me greedy,” I confessed. “Like I will want to hoard time and attention and not know how to share gracefully. I do not want to slip into scarcity and act like every minute is a competition.”
“You solve scarcity with clarity and trust,” Lena said. “If you need Tuesday, you ask for Tuesday. If you need both, you say both. You tell the truth when jealousy knocks, not to make them fix you, but to let them sit beside you while it passes. You remember that attention is not a pie that runs out; it is a river that flows where it is tended. You tend it when you can, you let it replenish when you cannot.”
I nodded slowly, feeling the sense of it in my bones. “I am allowed to ask for what I need.”
“You are required to,” she said. “Otherwise, you put people in a maze and punish them for not reading your mind.”
The server returned and offered dessert menus. We looked at each other and ordered two without pretending we were only looking, a lemon tart for me, something dark and glossy for Lena. When the plates arrived, we traded spoons as if it were a sacred ritual. The tart was bright and sharp, perfect, and the chocolate was so rich that it made me close my eyes.
