"Dine upon thy desires," Maxie read slowly, balancing her wine glass on her knee while slumped on her couch in a bathrobe, still emotionally recovering from the Great Bath Bomb Incident of 11:42 A.M.
She flipped the page of The 100 Steps to Sexual Enlightenment, hoping for something clearer than "butter thy buns." This time, it offered a suspiciously vague yet enthusiastic command:
> "Let thy meals be of lustful inspiration. Taste what tempts. Bite what beckons. Let thy tongue feast before thy loins do."
"Feast before the loins… who writes this stuff?" she muttered, underlining the phrase "bite what beckons" and giggling like a teenager who just discovered the cucumber emoji.
Still, there was something about it she liked.
Food could be sexy. She'd seen 9½ Weeks. She'd tried strawberries and whipped cream in the bedroom once—though it ended with a yeast infection and a carpet stain that never truly forgave her.
But this was Step Three. She was in. Committed. Ready to dine.
And by "dine," she decided it would involve:
1. An erotic dinner party.
2. A full menu of aphrodisiacs.
3. No saxophones. Marcus was strictly on a No-Fly List now.
---
Two hours later...
Her apartment had transformed from "chaotic goblin den" to "Pinterest bordello." There were candles on every surface, soft jazz playing, and her coffee table was covered in a spread that could either seduce or poison a small army.
On the menu:
Oysters (because tradition)
Figs (because apparently they resemble testicles, or possibly a vulva depending on the angle)
Chocolate-dipped strawberries (now with 75% less yeast risk)
Honey (because drizzling is hot)
And, for chaos, edible underwear—banana flavor.
She'd invited Ginny, her best friend and self-proclaimed "Erotic Sherpa," and Lorenzo Steele, her sort-of-friend, sort-of-sexologist, sort-of-crush, who once described sex as "a dance between psychology and pelvic alignment."
Ginny arrived first, in a red leather minidress and combat boots, holding a bottle of wine and a half-melted chocolate bunny.
"Don't ask," she said, dropping it on the table. "Let's just pretend it's sexy and not traumatic."
Then came Lorenzo—suave, bearded, wearing a silk scarf he did not need, and smelling faintly of expensive cologne and existential dread.
"Well, this smells... suggestive," he said, surveying the spread with a raised eyebrow.
"That's the oysters," Maxie replied. "Or possibly the banana underwear."
Lorenzo blinked. "I... see."
They sat. They ate. They moaned (mostly at the honey-covered figs, but still). Ginny told a story about losing her vibrator in an Airbnb shower drain. Lorenzo countered with a tale about accidentally using nipple clamps on a woman who was just really into scrapbooking.
And then Maxie, emboldened by two glasses of wine and the book's haunting encouragements, pulled out the edible underwear.
It flopped onto the table with a sad little splat.
"What the hell is that?" Ginny asked, poking it.
"It's supposed to be sensual," Maxie said defensively. "It's edible!"
Lorenzo leaned closer, squinting. "That's... not a banana. That's a banana flavored synthetic starch polymer shaped like a... oh no, is that lace?"
Ginny sniffed it. "Max, this expired two years ago."
Maxie blinked. "It has an expiry date?!"
"Of course it does," Lorenzo said, adjusting his scarf. "All sensual snacks have a half-life."
Ginny cackled. "You were about to serve us spoiled crotch candy."
Maxie buried her face in her hands. "I'm trying to be seductive! I'm on Step Three! I'm dining upon my desires! Do you know how hard it is to be sexy while reading 19th-century smut instructions and battling explosive bath bombs?!"
There was a pause.
Then Lorenzo, very gently, picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry, bit into it with exaggerated slowness, and said, "You're doing great, Maxie."
Ginny raised her wine glass. "To crotch candy and commitment."
They clinked glasses.
And just when she was starting to feel like the goddess of food and flirtation, it happened.
She choked on an oyster.
A real, genuine, panic-inducing oyster-choke. One second she was laughing at Ginny's impression of a sexy librarian with a whip, and the next, her airway was occupied by mollusk.
"OH MY GOD," she wheezed, pointing frantically at her throat.
Lorenzo sprang into action like a horny Boy Scout, performing the Heimlich with an intimacy she'd only seen in softcore movies. The oyster shot across the room and hit the fridge with a dramatic splat.
Everyone froze.
Then Ginny clapped. "Ten out of ten. Would dine again."
---
Later that night, after her guests left (Ginny with a bottle of wine, Lorenzo with her number scrawled on a honey packet), Maxie sat on the couch surrounded by candle stubs and oyster shrapnel.
The book sat open in her lap.
She had tried. She had seduced herself, survived a bath inferno, and choked on lust-food in front of her future husband or therapist. She was glowing. Or that might've been the honey.
Either way, she was beginning to understand.
This journey wasn't just about sex. It was about showing up. About laughing when it got weird, and trying again when it got sticky (sometimes literally).
She flipped the page.
Step Four: Let Thy Clothing Cling Like Desperation at Last Call.
Maxie grinned.
"Oh, we're about to get slutty."