Page 57 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

I sign my name, and I’ve already forgotten the photo as she takes me by the hand and we get out of there.

If this is a mistake, I can’t wait to make it.

It turns out Tasha lives a short walk in the opposite direction from my apartment, so we get back to her place pretty easily, if inefficiently. We have to stop every few steps while she drunkenly—but adorably—tells me something about zoning or tree-trimming or license plate stickers.

She lives in a one-bedroom, and her building is classy-old, as opposed to should-be-marked-for-demolition-old, like mine. Her place is on the first floor, and as she lets us in, I’m extra glad we didn’t go to my place, because this apartment is cool and fashionable, like her, and everything actually goes together in a quirky, accidentally-on-purpose perfect kind of way.

As soon as she’s turned the lock behind us, I spin her around and push her up against the door, our hands all over each other. I kiss her again and then tug her hair so I can get at her neck. My lips are numb from kissing and from that bad-idea shot, and I start to worry that maybe my sex personality is “big slobbery dog,” and then I wonder if Chris thought that, andwhat the hell, get out of my head,Chris.

Then Tasha slips past me, glancing over her shoulder and reeling me in. I pretend I’m a fish she just caught, and I try for sexy fish as opposed to realistic fish, but to be honest, it’s unclear exactly how successful I am.

In the bedroom, everything slows down. We’re kneeling on the bed and she pulls off my tank top, throwing it on the floor somewhere, and I am instantlysoglad I showered that sticky stuff out of my hair and ALSO that I went with my one set of good underwear even though I had no idea if this was a date, becauseIt was indeed a date,yells my brain, which seems to just want to speak in all caps right now.

Let’s do this,yells my brain.And by “this” I mean Tasha.

I’m wearing a lacy black bra that she quickly gets rid of, and she holds me by my hips, running her tongue from my waist up and up and up, between my tits and then along my neck, then biting softly as she fiddles with one of my nipples, and never hasanyoneenjoyed doing their civic duty as much as I am right now.

She’s still kissing my neck as I fumble to unbuttonhershirt—her bra clasps in the front, and as I unhook it, it’s like opening my favorite book.

Oh, hell yeah.

A book with boobs in it.

Then we topple over and we’re on the bed, and our pants are coming off, and it’s hot and dirty, and I’m kissing the tight muscles of her abdomen and along her side where her skin is so impossibly smooth, and she’s making these fantastic noises, and I work my way down and down and down her body, andOh my god I haven’t had sex with a woman since college.

All at once, I am very sober.

I can’t fuck this up.

But also, I’ve been cohabitating with a dick (yep, I mean that both ways) for the last ten years, what the hell do I think I’m doing here? Literally,What am I doing here?

Okay, think, think, think. Maybe it’s like riding a bike. Come on, muscle memory. Come on... any memory.

The alphabet.

Do the alphabet!

Sure it’s Girl Sex 101, a total bush league trick, so to speak, but you gotta start somewhere. In this case, with “A.”

And slowly, it all comes back to me.

And then, after a little trial and error, it comes to her.

If you know what I mean.

Chapter 18

Between us, we had approximately three and a half orgasms before we collapsed in a satisfied heap. I wasn’t planning on staying over, but before I know it, Tasha’s alarm is going off, and it’s officially Monday morning.

Somehow, I feel totally not hungover. I’m not even cursing Malört, which is a first.

“It’s the sex,” she says, nibbling my thigh. “All those good chemicals compensate for the booze.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a scientist too,” I say. “Is therenothingyou can’t do?”

“I can’t be late for work, unfortunately.”

I roll over and boop her on the nose. “Then let’s get decent. Or try to, anyway.”