Published: 2025-09-14

“It turns out I’m not as progressive as I thought.”

It was a Saturday night like any other. Margaret and George laid in bed, waiting for Morpheus’s visit. They were young but have been living together for a couple of years at this point. Margaret was tall and thick, and her skin was dark as cane sugar; she was a Christian girl devoted to her family and her work. George, on the other hand, was equally tall but slim, light-skinned, with no marks on his body; he was not into religion, and he was lazy, but he managed. Seen from the outside, they couldn’t be more different, but there was something they had in common: deep and sincere love and respect for each other.

It was a Saturday night, and that meant Margaret and George were going to make love. The passion of younger years had been swept away by the never-ending pile of dishes to wash, clothes to wash, and other chores to take care of, but even if their bodies ached and their minds were exhausted, they owed themselves to each other.

It was a Saturday night, and George started caressing Margaret’s face with the tip of his fingers. Every crevice, every wrinkle, those fingers had memorized over the years. They were lying on their side, next to each other, looking eye to eye. “I want to know everything about this woman.” George thought. He often fantasized about other women, and even asked himself if Margaret did the same, but no matter how sinful the confines of his mind were, his body belonged only to her, and he would never betray her trust. George was still lost in her eyes when he asked, “What do you like reading?”

“I don’t know. Young Adult. Like The Hunger Games.”
“And what else?”
“Romance.”
“Like Twilight?”
“Yeah, like Twilight, among other stuff.”

Margaret was an avid reader; from poetry to history, fiction, non-fiction, and everything in between. All could be found in her book collection, which she was very proud of. George, on the other hand, paid little attention to that kind of stuff.

“What other stuff?” George asked.
“You know, erotica, for instance.”

George’s face drew a big smile as he played with Margaret’s long, curly hair. “Tell me more about that.” He said.

“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Tell me one of those erotic stories.”
“I wouldn’t remember any; it has been some time.”
“Then tell me what they were about.”

Margaret let a little chuckle, feeling embarrassed by the request.

“You know, college girl falls in love with her young teacher; sexy millionaire gets obsessed with the ordinary girl. The usual.”
“And what else?”
“Well. Lesbian stuff.”

That last piece of information took George by surprise. He was suddenly more curious than ever. His Christian girl, the woman with whom he has lived for years, suddenly had a side he knew nothing about.

George slipped his hand under Margaret’s black underwear and delicately placed his middle finger over her clitoris. His hand moved in a slow circular motion, and his intimate caresses made her breath become agitated.

“Tell me more about the ‘lesbian stuff’.” George said.
“I don’t know if I should, George.”

George’s hand started rotating a faster, his middle finger pressing harder. He was still delicate, but rougher. Margaret’s body started twirling; she abandoned words and let her moans convey how she felt. George slowed down, “Please tell me more, I want to know everything about you.”

Margaret sighed; she showed no interest in talking about that particular subject, but she loved her boyfriend and wanted to give herself entirely to him.

Between moans and panting, Margaret started describing the type of story she had read. They were not much different from erotic stories about men and women. George listened attentively while looking her in the eye; his hand kept touching her femininity.

“Do those kind of stories arouse you?” George asked.
“Yeah, they did when I used to read them.”
“How come?”
“Well, you see, I have been with other girls.”

George’s jaw dropped open. His girlfriend, with whom he had lived for years, had been with other women. The thought was arousing; he started seeing her in a new light. He smiled.

“You never told me about that.” He said.
“Well, you never asked. Besides, it’s a thing of the past. I don’t see how it’s important.”
“Everything about you is important to me.”

Maybe it was the topic of conversation, or the moment of trust shared between the two of them, but Margaret had started to become more aroused. Her labia had become thicker, her clitoris throbbed, and her black underwear was soaked. George looked at her. Her moaning, her panting, her twirling made his blood boil for her. He wanted her, but sex, making love, had never given him the intimacy that he felt they had in that moment on that Saturday night. He wanted more. He wanted to know her past. He wanted to confess what women-on-women love felt like. He was being perverse, he knew that, but he had never felt that good before, and he suspected she felt the same.

“Tell me about the women you have been with.” George said.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Tell me everything.”

Margaret told him about all the women with whom she has been. About the first girl she kissed when she was a teenager, about the girl she met at a party when she was in college, and about the married woman who made her husband watch while she had sex with her. George listened with a smile on his face. The conversation died, and silence led to orgasm. They made love that Saturday night, as they always did, and went to sleep tied to each other.

Margaret woke up early the next morning. George wasn’t in bed. “He’s probably in the bathroom.” She thought. She went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and on the way there, she noticed the bathroom door was open. George wasn’t there. He was not in the studio, he was not in the living room, and he was not in the dining room either. There was a pink sticky note with George’s handwriting on the bedroom door that read:

“It turns out I’m not as progressive as I thought.”

THE END.