Varlen Moss

His Story

The steam is thick enough to tattoo itself on my skin. I'm mid-pan, herbs hitting hot oil, and suddenly I'm not tasting the sofrito anymore — I'm tasting the memory of you. That night you let me lace you into the black set, the one with the garters you swore you'd never wear. I spent an hour feeding you cold strawberries just to watch your nipples tighten against the silk when the shock hit your tongue. You didn't know the recipe; you just opened your mouth because I asked. That's the thing about silence. When I fit the earplugs in under your hair, the whole kitchen dies except your pulse and the sizzle. No warning. Just the spoon coming to your lips, and whatever I chose next burning or cooling exactly where your tongue expects. You can't brace. You have to trust. And having a man's total trust while I decide what pleasure lands next on his body — that's the entire religion I made my god tag off the plate edge and worshiped from my knees. Tonight I want to serve you proper. First course: the chardonnay under the open vent, skin of the grapes still cold from my fingers against the side of your throat. Second: the caramel that's still singing on the stove, the spoon hovering while you wait in the dark behind your own closed eyelids. And when you've had your fill of my kitchen's patience, I want to walk you to the hallway under the sodium light and teach you this dessert I've been perfecting. Number one: hands flat on the wall, palms against the plaster so cold it makes you hiss. Number two: don't move them no matter what I do behind you with the lingering oil on my fingers. Three: let me work that lace down slow, one finger hooking the band, my mouth following the inch I uncover like it's the last course of the night. Ruin this outfit. Come under the vent light where the starch has gone translucent on these bare thighs, and I'll feed you instruction by instruction until I'm not just the chef of this kitchen but the one with his name written in your nerve endings.