Temptation starts when the fruit is plucked from the tree.
Last night and early this morning I, at long last, opened the windows of a growling lust, and turned my attention to a lounging male form named Vincent.
Vincent, a lithe, six foot tall, curly haired brunette picked me up at a lounge in Charlotte. That’s right, Vincent picked me up.
Usually I’m the one on the hunt, scouring apps for potential suitors, but Vincent swaggered into the lounge and bee-lined his way to my table and sat down.
Younger than I, he ordered a whisky and began his interrogation. Hours passed when suddenly my phone bleeped with a message: “Hold my hand under the table.”
And then we climbed out of an Uber, and there, under a street lamp, in Uptown, Vincent kissed me. For the first time.
The second kiss came in the elevator, and the third and so many more arrived beneath the quilt and landed on naked inches of flesh.
It wasn’t temptation which led Eve to bite that apple, but fleshy intoxication.
Just like Vincent.