Isle Spice

Her Story

My kitchen's warm still — the Puerto Rican rice pot ticking down, windows steamed, that honeysuckle candle I only light when company's worth it. You're leaning against my quartz countertop watching me plate mofongo like it's a show, and maybe it is. The same fingers that gripped the mic an hour ago are flicking cilantro off the knife. Astrology says my Mars is in your house tonight. I don't need the chart. The heat's already there, climbing under the silk robe I threw on after shedding stage gear. You want to know why I keep that rubber bodysuit hung in the bathroom instead of the closet? Because three hours ago it was pressed against every curve you've been trying not to stare at. The latex squeaked against the bar stool when I sat down for my first set. I felt every inch of that skin-tight seal and thought about you peeling it off me, slow, deliberate, watching the shine leave my skin and the praise leave your mouth. This thing between us — casual, warm, no strings I wanna name — it means I get to say the quiet part out loud. I want to watch your thumb hook the collar of the rubber. I want to be bare under you on these floor tiles, legs hooked over your shoulders while you tell me exactly how hungry I made you. And after you come up for air, I want you to say my name like I earned it. The mofongo's getting cold. But I'm not. Come feed me something else.