Tasting (By Lady Jughead) : Part 3

“There are few words to describe the smell of sesame oil. And I don’t have them,” she said, her voice growing muffled as she buried her head under giant cloud-like pillows.

“Gross. Bwack. Eww. Feel free to pick one,” I mocked.

“It’s not gross. And Merriam-Webster doesn’t recognize the other two as words, Ms. Copywriter,” she shot back, pulling waves of soft, white comforter over her naked back in protest against the air-conditioning and readjusting herself with a satisfied sigh.

“Balls. How do you know?”

“I just do. Now just shut up.”

“I think I shouldn’t have let you order lunch. Big mistake,” I grumbled as I turned the TV on and flipped through the channels.

“Arre! Give it a chance, na?” she said, surfacing from under the sea of pillows. “Maybe you just haven’t had the right dish yet. Why don’t you taste what I’ve ordered and then tell me if you like it or not?”

“What right dish? Who cooks anything in sesame oil? It’s used for bloody massages!” I objected, my voice rising in annoyance at the impending trial of a new dish that I was going to be forced into.

“Ssshh. Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling. Your ears are extra sensitive.”

“You’re yelling,” she said, with an air of finality before diving back under the pillows.

“No, that is my voice. It’s in the family. Hereditary. Deal with it.”

“Riiiight. Now can you call Room Service and ask why it’s taking them so long?”

“Why don’t you call, Ms. I-Am-Right-About-Everything?” I said, still annoyed with her.

“Because it’s your turn. I ordered. You check.”

“Fine. Be that way,” I spat out, turning the TV off.

“And when you call them, try to speak softly,” she mocked, her voice suppressing a laugh. As I turned to glare, a hand snaked out from under the covers to point at the phone and I heard her say, “When you’re done glaring at me, baby, the phone’s right there. I’m getting hungry.”

“Oh, fuck you. Baby.” I said, as I got out of bed and put on some clothes.

“Mhmm…you just did. We can go again after lunch.”

“Really now?” I teased back, the thought of making love to her elbowing my annoyance out of me. Just as I picked up the phone, the doorbell rang and I heard a voice call out, “Room Service!”

“Oh good! Fooooood!” she jumped out of bed, clapping her hands joyfully. She pulled on a bathrobe and ran to open the door while I attempted to straighten up the bed a little, in an effort to hide an all-night and all-morning romp. I gave up trying as the server came in, pushing a trolley laden with food.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he nodded at me politely. I nodded back, sheepishly mumbling a greeting, wondering what he thought about the bed and the dishevelled state the two of us were in.

“Your lunch,” he said. “Burnt garlic butter rice…Chicken in Thai pepper curry…and Mixed vegetables stir-fried in sesame oil,” he rattled off as he lifted the silver domes, uncovering steaming bowls of food. “Enjoy your meal,” he smiled, as he left the room.

“Hmm…that smells good,” she murmured. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward and breathed in the aroma rising up from the food. I watched, enjoying her as she enjoyed the thought of a delicious meal. “C’mere, you,” she gestured lazily as she picked up a fork and dug into a good-looking broccoli. “Here…taste this,” she said, extending the offering to me with a sexy smile.

I made a face as I tentatively bit into the broccoli and chewed slowly. She watched and waited for my reaction as she bit into a piece of stir-fried carrot. I had to admit, it wasn’t half as bad. But I didn’t want to tell her that.

As she raised her eyebrows at me questioningly, I replied, “Gross. Eww. Bwack. Sesame stinks.”

“Hmm…too bad, then. Guess you won’t want to kiss me for a while,” she teased, looking straight into my eyes.

I felt a familiar knot in my stomach as my breath quickened. “Well, I could try it again, you know. Maybe the flavour will grow on me,” I shrugged, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Mhmm…really now?” Her husky tone caressed me as she picked up a piece of babycorn with her fingers. She walked slowly to the bed, sat down and crossed her legs. I watched as the bathrobe slid to the side, exposing a smooth, brown thigh.

“Ahaan. Mhmm. Yeah,” I managed to breathe out, unable to tear my eyes away from her.

“Well…what are you waiting for? Come taste,” she invited, as she wrapped her luscious lips around the babycorn.

I hesitated only for a fraction of a second. And then my mouth was on hers. Tasting.

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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