I had to take control.
I always gave pleasure first, reeling in my own later, when my lover was expended. That was the family way. Anything less than control was surrender.
Prey, I reminded myself.
But Hiromi’s hand was cupping me. Her thumb teasing my clit, fingers sliding inside. I groaned, eyes closed—and saw something in the humming darkness behind my eyelids.
I could surrender to this, to her.
She moved her hand again and it happened, all at once, me in pieces.
“A confession,” Hiromi breathed afterward, her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t sure you were queer.”
I squeezed her hand, wondering if there was some way not to lie.
Queerness is a culture; my only culture was Morton. My sexuality was Morton too—I slept with people for relief, for practice, to seduce, to solidify connections.
Kiss and kill, Sebastian liked to say, are essentially the same. They change someone forever, all at once. The comparison had seemed silly, but at that moment, pressed against Hiromi, it made sense. I’d let myself go as never before with anyone, ordinary or legacy.
Did Sebastian surrender every time? Was that his trick? Could you lose yourself without losing anything?
“You must have known I was into you.”
“Oh, you’re very into me. But Crystal says you’re a straight girl experimenting. A rich girl slumming in your idea of the art world.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Crystal doesn’t like me.”
“You didn’t ping my radar either. Not at first.”
“I always look my best in camouflage,” I said, and slipped from the bed. A small fridge sat humming in her one-counter, one-cooktop kitchen. Inside it were Fanta, tamari, and a can of sardines. I would stock it properly.
I closed the fridge door and opened the single cupboard: dried noodles and more hard candy. I turned to give Hiromi a disappointed look.
She gave me one back. “Eleven courses, Jess.Eleven.I can’t believe you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry after sex.”
Hiromi reached to her bedside table and threw a candy at me.
I caught it. Bitter lemon. “You were expecting me.”
“I think I’m addicted.”
“To me? Or bitter lemon drops?”
“Not sure yet.”
Hiromi’s apartment was sparsely furnished, but every surface was as cluttered as the windowsills, mostly with ceramic bowls of candy.
The clutter continued on the walls—murals of vines, leaves, flowers. Two densely packed racks of clothes. There was neither dining table nor chairs.
No robots either. Those clearly stayed in her studio.
“I do like candy,” she said.
“But not paying bills.” The small chef’s block beside the stove was piled high with them.
“Candy’s cheaper than electricity. Come back to bed.”
