CHECK PLEASE!

I love oysters. For many years, I stayed far away from them, then overnight, I was addicted. I had my first oyster in the summer of 2019, and I went on a mad dash to find the perfect oyster again. I went to several restaurants and shelled out hundreds of dollars to find the taste that took my oyster virginity. For months I was unlucky, then one afternoon I went to a restaurant near my job. I tried their oysters, and it was as if the world I was living went from black and white to colors. Their daily happy hour $1 oysters and their delicious cocktails had me signing a check that was never less than $60.  

In February of 2020, I wanted to do a mini alcohol detox before my first half-marathon. So, for a month, I stayed far away from the restaurant, its cocktails, and its oysters. I simply didn’t trust myself to go in and not buy a drink, so I stayed away. Then, a week before the race, the event was canceled due to coronavirus. I was pissed! I couldn’t believe that I had deprived myself for almost a month for nothing. A few days later, my office closed, and bye-bye went my access to oysters.   

Unable to order oysters to go, I had to suffer until things started to open up. As the city entered phase three, I looked forward to finally getting my oyster fix, but the options were super limited. Then one afternoon, I decided to dine by myself, have the oysters that I so craved, and was also able to fulfill an unchecked fantasy.   

I sat down, ordered a margarita, and a half-dozen oysters. I took a sip of my margarita as I waited for my oysters to arrive. The margarita was cold, perfectly sweet, and strong, just the way a margarita should be. As the tequila made its way down my throat, I felt the gentleman a few tables over, staring at me. When I turned in his direction, he winked at me. I winked back just to be polite, but when my oysters arrived, my vision became tunneled. A squeeze of lemon, a dash of tabasco, and a drizzle of mignonette sauce, and I was in heaven. Each oyster was a spicy orgasm in my mouth, and I devoured them one after the other. When I was done, my lips tingled from the tabasco, and my longing heart was content.  

As I sipped the rest of my drink, I continued to feel his piercing stare. I glanced over at him, and unlike last time, I didn’t break my line of sight, and neither did he. I sipped my drink as he licked his lips. Maybe it was the tequila or the oysters’ aphrodisiac effect, but I started to get wet. As we stared at each other, I could feel his eyes undressing me. They started at my polished toes, up to my legs, over my breasts, and stopped at my mouth, where my tongue twirled my straw.   

I ordered a second margarita and diverted my eyes for a brief moment. When my second drink came, I downed it much faster than the first. I could’ve continued eye-fucking him, but it was getting late, and I wanted to walk back home. I asked the waiter where the restroom was and went to freshen up for my walk home. As I walked past his table, I could feel his eyes scanning my body like lasers; my nipples grew hard.   

When I entered the restroom, I put some cold water on my face to cool off. I washed my hands, and when I opened the door to leave, he was there, blocking my exit. He smelled of burnt sugar and diesel, and it intoxicated me. He pushed his body up against mine, our bodies entered the bathroom, and he locked the door in a swift motion. In the next moment, his lips and tongue were on my neck, and his hands gripped my ass. He rubbed my clit over my thong, and I got soaking wet. He brought his fingers back up to his nose to sniff and whispered in my ear, “delicious.”   

He licked his fingers, dropped to his knees, and pushed up my dress. He buried his face into my pussy and inhaled deeply several times. He nibbled at my flesh through my underwear, then slowly he pulled them down. He slid his moist fingers in my pussy and began to coax an orgasm out of me. When he placed him juicy lips on my clit, I almost fell over; but he pushed his face deeper into my pussy pinning me against the wall. He licked, sucked, and slurped at my clit, the way I slurped those oysters, and finger fucked me into an orgasm. I rode the multiple waves as I held his head in place. After he drank all my newly released juices, he got off his knees, washed his hands, said, “thank you,” and walked out of the restroom.   

When I gained my composure, I walked to the mirror, and the person looking back at me was unfamiliar. My eyes were glassy, and my face was covered with beads of sweat. What did I just do? I continued to use the bathroom, and I washed my face and hands. By the time I returned to my table, the man was gone. I wanted to pay my bill and get the hell out of dodge. My moans were low when I orgasmed, but there was always a chance that they saw him enter the restroom behind me. I awkwardly signaled for the nearest waiter and said, “Check, Please!” He went into the restaurant only to return to tell me, “the gentleman has paid your bill.” And with that, I gathered my things and started my walk home. 

MY BISEXUALITY

Certain youthful thoughts will forever be engraved in my mind. I remember the day I got glasses because I tripped stepping off the curb; I was wearing shorts and pink clogs. I remember my first boy crush; we couldn’t have been older than 5 years old. We used to sleep next to each other, on our individual cots, during nap time. I remember one day when we were stretch partners; we put our feet together, held hands, and rocked back and forth. I remember this distinctly because both he and I rocked way too close to each other’s genitals, and after that, we were never stretch partners again.

Another thing I remember was my first girl crush. We went to the same school, lived in the same building, and lived on the same floor. She would always come over my house so we could play after school and on the weekends. I remember us seeing a (heterosexual) couple kiss on TV, and we wanted to try it. One day, when she was over, we hid by the kitchen table, and we kissed. After our lips made contact, we opened our mouths to allow our tongues to dance. When the kiss was done, we never mentioned it again. At eight years old, I didn’t quite have the language, but I knew I really enjoyed the kiss.  

The kiss we shared felt just as passionate as the flirtation I shared with the boy, from when I was five. So, at a very early age, I knew I felt a like for boys and girls, I just didn’t call it bisexual. As I got older, my attraction to women never waned, I just suppressed it for my like of boys. When you grow up in Catholic school, have a Baptist grandmother, and a heterosexual family, you don’t question anything, you just go with the flow. So, for years, I said nothing. I occasionally watched lesbian porn, on late-night TV, but didn’t read into it having to do with my sexuality.  

At the age of fourteen, I joined a youth chorus. There must have been a fine-print that I missed because almost every member was either gay or bisexual. I instantly felt at home. I finally felt free to explore that side of my sexuality without being judged. I flirted with my female and male peers; I even had a girlfriend for about a week. But, when she asked me for money, I broke it off. When my sister-in-law got wind of my questioning sexuality, she assumed they were trying to ‘turn me out.’ There was an exchange of words between her and another girl. And, just like that, I was back in something resembling a closet.    

I flirted with women on and off, but nothing ever manifested. When I was diagnosed with herpes, I put the entire idea to rest. I wasn’t allowed to be a questioning bisexual; so, I had to pick a side and stick with it. For almost a decade, I lived my life as a heterosexual woman, and most of the time, I was content. But, from time to time, I wondered what it would be like to flirt and be intimate with a woman; but fear of rejection kept me quiet.   

Then one day, when I was on PositiveSingles.com, a couple came across my feed. We chatted, met up for drinks, and a few weeks later, I had my first threesome and sexual encounter with a woman. I loved every second of it. Sadly, my time with them was short-lived, as they broke up soon after. I wanted the experience again, but it proved way too difficult to find women with a mutual attraction that wanted to meet. It also became evident that lesbians did not like women that were bisexual. And too often, the women that claimed to be bisexual preferred a consistent male presence, instead of a female one. I wanted to explore being with women only at that time.  

I wasn’t sure where I stood, so I decided the only way to know if I really enjoyed being intimate with women, without investing too much time, was to go to a sex-club. At my first sex club, and most after, I engaged with women. I enjoyed the feeling, but I still questioned myself. When I appeared on the Whoreible Decisions podcast, I defined my sexuality as bi-flexible. Since I never saw myself in a romantic relationship with a woman, it seemed unfair or a lie if I said I was bisexual. Fast forward a year later and countless sexual trysts with women at sex parties, I’m turning a new leaf. As my desire to engage with women at sex parties is beginning to disappear, my passion for real intimacy with a woman is increasing.   

When I’m walking down the street, and a beautiful woman walks past me, I don’t think to myself, damn, I want to eat her pussy (like a man would). I think I want to get to know her, and I wonder if she wants to get to know me, then we’ll see what happens. Despite being totally satisfied in my primary relationship, I want to explore a female connection on an intimate level.   

Every so often, I wonder how it would feel to walk, holding hands with my female love interest. I wonder how we would meet and what our first date would be. I wonder if she would be ok knowing that I’m polyamorous and a swinger. Would we intermingle our lives, or would we keep things separate? And I wonder if our sexual chemistry could transform into love? These are just some of the things that float through my mind when I think about my bisexuality.