The Art Student

I'm sure there were many moments in my early life that shaped me into the woman I'm still discovering. But back then, most of them didn't feel like moments at all. Just passing things. Small shifts I didn't know were happening.

I grew up with three older brothers--two married now, one engaged. My parents were loving, supportive, maybe a bit overprotective. I was their only daughter, after all.

College gave me the freedom I'd quietly craved. And with that came a taste for things I hadn't expected.

I had a boyfriend then. Ray.

We dated for a while in college, drank cheap booze, and smoked the occasional joint. Comfortable. Safe.

But somewhere between lectures and hangovers, I started noticing something else.

Women.

I realize now I was always attracted to them.

Maybe it started gently--like an aesthetic appreciation. The way some of them moved, graceful without trying. Beautiful legs, curves, the slope of a collarbone. Soft skin. The fullness of their lips.

And the way women comfort each other--so natural, so physical.

Touch that didn't have to mean sex.

But sometimes, for me... it did.

The Art student

I was out with a mix of people--some of Ray's friends, a couple of girls from my class. We'd claimed a corner booth, halfway into a second round of gin and tonics, when I spotted her at the bar.

She wore ripped black jeans and a faded red tank that showed a sliver of tattoo near her ribs. Her hair was short, black, intentionally jagged. A nose ring caught the light when she turned. She ordered a whiskey neat and leaned against the counter like she owned the place.

Kyle nudged me. "You know her?"

I tried not to stare. "Sort of. Mila."

"She's an art student"

He grinned. "She's hot."

I looked away like it didn't matter. Like I hadn't thought the exact same thing.

When she walked over--whether someone waved her in or she just felt like joining--she slid into the edge of our booth without asking. Effortless. Magnetic. She talked about converting an old warehouse into a living space, doing night classes in experimental printmaking, and how tattoos were like living zines.

The guys hung on every word.

Especially Ray. I noticed the way he sat up straighter, laughed a little too hard, angled himself toward her. But it was Mila's glances at me--quick, sharp, too long to be casual--that lit a slow burn just beneath my ribs.

Then came the question.

"Alright," someone said, grinning, "who here's the hottest?"

Groans. Laughs. A chorus of mock protests. But of course, it turned into a game.

Kyle pointed to Jess.

Jess picked Ray.

Ray, smirking, said Mila.

Mila raised her drink. "Obvious choice."

Kyle added, "You're dangerous."

"Oh, I know." Her smile was unapologetic. Then she paused, finger tapping her glass. "My turn?"

Everyone nodded.

She didn't hesitate.

"Lily."

The group broke into cheers and mock whoops.

Someone clapped. Jess said "Yesss" like she'd won something.

I felt the heat rush to my face but I didn't look away. Mila's eyes stayed on mine--quiet and sure, like she hadn't said anything unusual at all.

Ray laughed, maybe a touch stiff. "Guess I've got good taste."

Mila drained the rest of her whiskey.

Later, we all piled back to Jess's apartment--cheaper, closer, with a half bottle of tequila under the sink and a couch that had seen better days. Mila ended up in my cab, her thigh pressed lightly against mine, her hand grazing my knee once, like she was testing something.

Inside, shoes were kicked off, music got louder. Someone lit candles in a beer bottle. Shot glasses appeared. The air went loose and warm.

I don't remember who said it.

But suddenly someone laughed and shouted:

"If you think Lily's so hot, Mila, why don't you make out with her already?"

Louder whoops. Shouting. Someone banged the floor like a drum.

Mila turned to me, smiling--not teasing, not uncertain. Just present.

"Okay," she said softly, like she was giving me a chance to pull away.

I didn't.

She leaned in. I met her halfway.

Her lips were soft, but there was pressure. Her kiss tasted of lime and smoke. Her hand cradled my cheek, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. It wasn't a show. It wasn't a joke. It felt... real.

Her tongue slipped past my lips and I let her in. Heat climbed up my neck. I forgot the room, forgot the couch, forgot the tequila spilling a little onto my dress. Maybe 30 seconds passed.

When she pulled back, the room exploded.

Someone slow-clapped. Someone else groaned theatrically. Jess howled.

But Mila didn't even blink. She licked her bottom lip once. Looked at me like she hadn't finished yet.

Then Kyle held up a can of whipped cream.

"Where the hell did this come from?" he shouted, grinning like a lunatic.

Jess yelled from the kitchen, "Fridge door, baby!"

"Are we doing body shots now?" someone asked.

Mila took the can from Kyle, shook it once, and smiled at me.

"No," she said. "We're doing something better."

She turned to me again. "Lily," she said, voice low. "Your hand."

I hesitated, heart racing--but gave it to her.

She turned my palm upward.

Pssshhhht.

A neat spiral of whipped cream landed in the center of my hand.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she dipped her head and slowly licked it off--starting at my wrist and dragging her tongue up, slow and deliberate, until her mouth wrapped softly around the tip of my middle finger.

The room lost its mind.

Ray shouted, "Holy fuck."

Shouts. Screams. Someone threw a pillow.

But I didn't hear any of it. My breath caught halfway in my chest. My hand tingled. My thighs pressed together involuntarily.

She pulled back, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and handed the can off casually like she'd just licked salt from a margarita rim.

The whipped cream antics spread like wildfire.

Necks, shoulders, stomachs, tongues. Someone sprayed a heart on Jess's collarbone. Ray tried to squirt some onto his own nose and missed. But Mila kept coming back to me.

A little swirl near my collarbone--licked away.

A dot on the tip of my nose--kissed off before I could flinch.

A streak across my wrist--savoured.

Each time it felt less like a party game and more like something private in plain view. My body buzzed. My mouth stayed parted longer than it should have. And Mila's eyes never wandered far.

Eventually, the night softened. Bodies melted into couches. Blankets draped over half-sleeping limbs. Someone disappeared into the bathroom and didn't come back.

Mila stayed beside me on the carpet, her head against my shoulder.

"Next time," she murmured, tracing a lazy shape on my arm with her fingertip, "I want to paint you."

I didn't know what to say.

So I didn't.

I just nodded.