Best Bisexual Women's Erotica by Cara Bruce

Author:Cara Bruce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2010-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

Extracurriculars

Joy VanNuys

All that drunken culinary students want to talk about is how sexy they are. As if it makes up for the backaches, the lousy pay, and the constant smell of fried food that makes strangers back away on the subway. Because, see, food is love, and love is sex, and since we can cook, someone will love us. Or at least someone will say, “Oh, you’re a chef?” and go home with us just to find out what a chef has for breakfast. Cheerios, usually. Sometimes with milk, as a garnish.

When I step out of class into the air, the last thing I want to do is eat, though I can feel that ache in the pit of my stomach that says all I had today was one bite each of broccoli puree, carrot timbale, sweet-potato gratin. The first thing I want is a drink. The next is a cigarette. And the next is a pair of arms, rocking me, saying it’ll be OK, I was good today. A pair of lips, opening mine, tasting me, giving me an “A” for texture, moisture, saltiness. A hand full of fingers, strong from endless knife drills, opening my thighs, sinking deep into my body, branding me as someone’s.

For the first half-hour at the bar, the kitchen still pounds in our brains—food, food, food. I tell them how butchering the bunny made tears come to my eyes, and Tony says he almost puked when he had to clean the kidneys. Frank and Juan argue over whose plating was more inspired for the paupiettes of sole, while Rose fights off boys who come over to guess her age, since her body says seventeen but her eyes say forty-two. We feed the waitress grilled ostrich with our fingers, and she brings us free drinks. These are my brothers and sisters, and I have bandaged their oyster shell gashes, snapped latex gloves over fingers boned like lamb shanks, smelled their skin sautéing to a light golden brown. Siblings or not, there’s not a single one I’d kick out of my bed.

Around the third drink I start to notice what he looks like in real clothes, how pretty her eyes are when they’re wide with booze. Wives, boyfriends, sexual preferences, fade into the background and the air gets palpably thicker.

“So, you’ve been around. Which is better, men or women?” Frank asks me, as he leans in to rub Rose’s shoulder blades.

“Women,” Rose and I say together, smiling into each other’s eyes, then looking away quickly.

“How can that be? What do you need, a cucumber or something?”

“It’s called finesse, Frank. When you’ve got finesse, who needs cock?” Rose tells him.

“But, girl, what can you do without a little of this?” he asks, shaking his thin hips up and down. Frank wants sex so bad, every minute of the day. In class, he dry-humps me, whispers “I want you” in my ear, then giggles like a lunatic and goes back to the flounder he was filleting. Despite the obvious distractions, the guy can cook.

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