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jenny
?. . .?
Through my rearview mirror,I see Eaton’s truck following close behind. Somehow, I managed to talk him into letting me drive my car to the kitchen, but only because my bottles and labels were in there.
I’m not sure how to feel about the way Eaton barged into my life with the force of a bulldozer. This sudden intrusion from a man I barely know is both exhilarating and terrifying. I’m torn between feeling like he belongs here and that he’s always been a part of me and crippling fear that he could betray me just like Daniel did. What’s even scarier is that I thought I had experienced the worst heartbreak ever after I exposed my deepest desires and Daniel rejected me, but his betrayal now pales in comparison to the potential hurt from Eaton.
I park in the lot behind the commercial shared-use kitchen. Someday, I hope to have my own space, but for now, this’ll do. Before Eaton can see the labels, I unfold a pushcart and begin to unload, hiding everything I’m not ready to explain.
“Do you have another cart?” Eaton asks.
“Yes. In the backseat.”
Within a few minutes, both our carts are loaded and I’m typing in the code to get into the kitchen for my scheduled time. The pungent scent of lemon and bleach hits my nostrils as we enter the space. I flip on the bright white lights, and a gleaming industrial kitchen comes into view.
“Wow. This is incredible. How does it all work?” Eaton asks, following me over to a stainless steel table where I begin to unload the carts.
“The owners rent the space by the hour. Mostly, it’s used for ghost kitchens, but there are a few other small businesses—mostly bakeries and that kind of thing.”
“The way you say ‘other small businesses’ leads me to believe yours isn’t a bakery?” He pries, and I pin him with a look. “Okay, okay. I’m backing off.”
I blow out a heavy breath, knowing I can’t hold him off for much longer. “No. I don’t own a bakery. Now help me get these buckets off the cart and onto the table.”
Eaton hefts the coconut oil onto the table and brushes his hands together. “Now what?”
“Now we cook.”
I have to give the man credit; he follows my instructions without question, even though I know it’s eating at him. We melt the coconut oil, add in the xanthan gum, and mix. In a separate bowl, we pour in a gallon of distilled water before stirring in the tapioca starch.
“Okay, now we need to add the water mixture to the pot of oil,” I say, gesturing for him to lift the large bowl with a pour spout. “But go very slowly.”
My arm gets a workout as I stir the pot to prevent clumping while Eaton slowly drizzles in the water mixture. The liquid begins to thicken and the once clear oil becomes white and cloudy. I take it off the heat and walk back over to the table to look for the final ingredient.
“At the risk of sounding crass, this looks like cum,” Eaton calls out.
My grip on the small bottle of mint extract tightens, and I freeze in place, trying to steel my features before turning around. I like Eaton, really like him, and it makes me sad to think he might walk away after this. Lord knows other men have, but not before they called me a freak, a degenerate, and other unsavory names. It got to the point where I stopped admitting it to my partners altogether. Dating became a lot easier, but keeping this part of me a secret stopped me from committing to anyone, and I was left unsatisfied not being able to fully explore my sexuality.
Daniel was my first long-term relationship, and even after three years together, I never felt like he truly knew me. When I found out he was planning to propose, I knew I had to tell him my secret. I couldn’t agree to spend the rest of my life with this big part of my sexuality stuffed in the closet. Though I was nervous to come clean, I was confident he’d be okay with it. We were in love so there was no way he’d walk away from me, right?
Wrong.
He tried to accept it, but after I expressed myself the way I truly wanted to in the bedroom, he told me it was too much—I was too much. It wasn’t how he pictured his sex life to be with his future wife and said he wouldn’t participate. I left him before he could leave me. Though we remained friends, even to this day, the hurt of his rejection hasn’t gone away.
And now I’m about to experience it all over again.
I hold my head high as I walk back over to the pot and squeeze a few drops of the extract into the mixture. As I stir, I think of different ways to tell him but ultimately decide blunt is best.
“That’s because it is cum,” I say with as much false confidence as I can muster.
Eaton chuckles. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” I tap the wooden spoon on the side of the pot before taking it over to the sink, where I won’t have to see the look of disgust on his face. “I have a cum kink, and it’s not always easy to find a partner who feels the same, so I created an alternative along with devices for other people like me. If it’s not your thing, that’s fine, but please don’t judge me. I’ve had enough of that.”
Silence falls over us like a heavy blanket, suffocating and hot. Suddenly, my dress feels too tight and sweat beads on my brow. I’m certain my face is flaming red, and if we were anywhere else, I’d run away like the chicken I am. Eaton was special; he made me feel precious and desirable, even for a short time. I would’ve loved to see where things could go between us.
I’m so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I don’t notice when Eaton eats the distance between us. It’s not until he’s right in front of me, cupping my face and tilting it up so I have no choice but to look into his eyes, that I realize he didn’t walk out.
“Don’t hide from me when you’re talking about the things that turn you on,” he says.
