Across town, I'm lounging on my balcony, sipping a disgustingly healthy green smoothie and watching the sunset paint the city skyline.
My name's Diana Martins. Yes, that Diana Martins the one who towers over most at five-eleven. My mother calls it "intimidating." I prefer "commanding." Being tall has its perks: top shelves at bookstores never defeat me, bartenders spot me instantly, and I've never once asked a stranger to reach something for me. My curly hair refuses taming, so I stopped trying. You might as well own what you're given.
Anyway. The sunset's doing its thing, my smoothie tastes like lawn clippings with ambition, and I'm thinking about the night ahead. My roommate's away for the weekend, which means the apartment is mine. No distractions. No interruptions. Just me, my carefully curated sanctuary, and the kind of evening I've been craving all week.
I head inside, sliding the balcony door shut.
The quiet settles around me like a second skin. I dim the overhead lights until they cast that warm, golden glow I spent actual money achieving thank you, overpriced dimmer switch and three trips to HomeGoods. My shelves display their usual rotation: feminist literature, art prints celebrating women's bodies in every shape, and my collection of sandalwood candles. I retrieve three from the nightstand drawer, arranging them around the room like offerings. The matches strike. Flames dance. Shadows play across the walls.
This is my sanctuary. Not because it's perfect, but because it's mine.
I slip into something comfortable a soft, lacy robe that hugs my curves just right. Feminine, yes. Performative? Not tonight. This is for me.
The bed welcomes me, sheets cool against my skin as I settle back. My heart does that familiar quickening thing it always does at this moment, right before. Anticipation pools low in my belly. I reach for my vibrator sleek, reliable, never asks questions and smile.
Tonight, I explore. Slowly. Thoroughly. No goals, no finish line, just sensation.
I untie the sash. The robe falls open. Air kisses my skin, raises goosebumps along my arms, my breasts, my stomach. I let myself feel it the cool air, the warmth underneath, the space between.
My fingers trail down my neck. Lingering at my collarbone. Lower.
I trace lazy circles around my breast, thumb finding my nipple, circling until it tightens beneath my touch. A soft sound escapes me half sigh, half moan. I've learned exactly how I like this: firm enough to send shivers, gentle enough to savor. Each brush sends tiny sparks radiating outward. I take my time, discovering my own body as if it belongs to someone new.
"This is for me," I whisper. Because sometimes saying it makes it real.
My other hand wanders down my stomach, feeling the warmth of my skin, inching lower. My breath quickens. Heat pools exactly where I want it. I close my eyes and..
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
My eyes snap open.
No. No.
I freeze, hand suspended mid-journey, body screaming in protest. The knock comes again sharper now, more insistent.
"DIANA. I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE."
I know that voice. Of course I know that voice.
A frustrated groan tears from somewhere deep in my chest. The moment gone. Evaporated like it never existed, leaving behind nothing but a throbbing, impatient ache and the overwhelming urge to commit violence.
I cinch my robe with a sharp tug. The silk, so sensual moments ago, now feels like armor. I stomp to the door barefoot, furious, thoroughly unfulfilled and peer through the peephole.
Racheal. Obviously.
I yank the door open. Whatever expression I'm wearing makes her take a half-step back.
"Rach. Now is really not..."
She barrels past me anyway. Of course she does. Her cherry blossom perfume invades my carefully curated sandalwood atmosphere like a chemical weapon.
"Girl, what is wrong with you?!" Her voice could shatter glass. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Don't you dare tell me you were on Do Not Disturb, I will actually kill you, I've been calling for twenty minutes!"
She spins in place, taking in the dim room, the flickering candles, the rumpled sheets, the vibe (so to speak) of the space. Her eyes narrow.
"Were you... alone?"
I cross my arms. My height lets me look down at her—a stance that usually makes people recalibrate. Racheal remains magnificently immune.
"I was occupied," I say, voice low and controlled. The contrast to her manic energy feels like the only power I have left. "It's called having a private evening. A concept you appear to oppose violently."
"But it's an emergency!" She clutches her purse to her chest like a shield.
I lean against the doorframe. Raise one eyebrow. "Define emergency. Did your favorite vintage store close? Did they run out of oat milk at the café?"
"Worse." Her eyes go wide, genuinely distressed. "It's Mark."
I sigh. The last shreds of my sensual mood curl up and die.
"What did the walking red flag do now?"
"He texted me. He's here, Diana. In the lobby." She swallows. "He says he needs to talk. He says he can't live without me." A pause. "He has a boombox."
I stare at her.
"A boombox."
"Yes!"
"Like... from the 1980s? Over his head? John Cusack style?"
"YES! He's going to play 'In Your Eyes,' I know he is!" She collapses onto the edge of my bed narrowly missing my vibrator, which I rescue with a subtle, hopefully unseen sweep under a pillow. "What do I do?! I can't go down there. It's so public. So cringe. So..."
She trails off, genuinely panicked. Her evening is ruined. And in the process, she's expertly, obliviously torpedoed mine.
The candles still flicker. The room still smells divine. My body still very much wants what it was promised.
But this is Racheal. And commanding women don't just command their own pleasure sometimes, apparently, they command crises.
A slow smile spreads across my face. Wicked. Possibly unwise.
"Okay." I push off the doorframe. My full height straightens. The robe flows around me like a villain's entrance. "Here's what we're going to do."
She looks up at me, hope flickering in her eyes.
"You're not going down there."
"Then what? He'll just stay!"
"Oh, he won't stay long." I walk to the balcony door and slide it open. City noise drifts in distant traffic, someone's music, the general hum of lives being lived. "I'm going down. And I'm going to give Mark a piece of mind he won't forget."
Racheal's jaw drops. "In your robe?"
I glance down at the lacy fabric. Grin. "Especially in my robe. It adds to the effect. Stay here. Don't touch my candles. And do not answer the door for anyone else."
Before she can protest, I sweep out of my apartment. The silk trails behind me like a banner. My interrupted frustration has found new fuel hotter, sharper, infinitely more entertaining.
Confronting a man with a boombox while dressed like a vengeful goddess?
Honestly? That's a pretty powerful kind of pleasure too.