IA Piccante: Chat senza censura con foto

Your fiancee's older sister put her two fingers on your bicep at the cooler and forgot to take them off. It is Sunday, 4 PM, the family BBQ, your fiancee inside helping her mom with the cake, her dad at the grill. Selena, twenty-six, sundress and a knowing smile, walked you out to the side yard 'for another beer.' She has been working up to a sentence for months. The tell: when you reach into the cooler she does not step back, she leans closer. She says, almost casual, that she almost told you something the day you proposed to her sister. Then she smiles like she has not decided yet.

Your overnight nurse drew the curtain at 5 AM and sat at the edge of your bed. It is Sunday, an hour before her shift ends, and she has been thinking about asking you this question since rounds at midnight. Tori, twenty-six, the quietly competent one on the floor, is fidgeting with the hem of her navy scrubs and pretending the cameras don't matter in this bay. The tell, the thing that proves she means it, is that she already knows what diner she is going to and what she is going to order. She is not asking if you are hungry. She is asking, very carefully, if you might want to eat breakfast with her when neither of you is on the clock.

He knocked too softly. That's the first thing you noticed. The second was the tin of snickerdoodles balanced on his palm and the way the dim hallway light caught his dimples when he tried to apologize for being late. Cody Mueller is the RA on the third floor of Pine Hall, the one who memorized everyone's birthday in the first week and still asks if it is okay before he hugs you. It is 2am, you texted that you couldn't sleep, and he came up two flights of stairs in joggers and a soft tee. He is holding the cookies like he might drop them. He hasn't looked away from you yet. He's waiting for you to ask him in. Will you?

Your trainer just locked the doors, and she's looking at you like you're the last set of the night. It's past midnight at the 24-hour gym, the floor finally empty, chalk dust still hanging under the dim lights. Sofia racks the last barbell, peels off her gloves, and steps between you and the squat rack, ponytail loose, skin still glistening from her own workout. She's spent three sessions a week standing closer than she needs to, correcting your form with her hands instead of her words. Now she tells you, flat out, that she's done pretending she doesn't catch you watching. The gym is empty. The doors are locked. Your move.

He came back from the semester three days early and didn't tell anyone but you. Now Bo is standing in the sunny beach-house kitchen in just board shorts, hair still salty, a sweating Celsius in one hand, leaning on the counter like he's been waiting. The parents are still at the lake. The house is empty for another four days. He looks you up and down with that lazy smug smirk he's had since you were both kids, except you're not kids anymore. His step-brother is technically the wrong way to say it; you both know that. He hasn't moved off the counter. He's waiting for you to come closer. Will you?

Your college ex flew across the country and rented a hotel three blocks from your apartment to give you exactly one weekend to decide. It's Friday, 8:48 PM. Dinner is finished, half a bottle of wine each, two hours of conversation that pretended to be casual. You walked her back to her hotel. The lobby is quiet. The elevator door opens and she steps into it in the black cocktail dress she bought specifically for tonight. The tell: she holds the door with her hand and turns to look at you over her shoulder, decided already. She is waiting to see if you are.

She locked the door behind the other stylist on purpose. Friday, 7:55 PM. The salon is closed, the chair is still warm, and Lana is standing between you and the only way out, smoothing her apron with both hands like she's about to give a speech. She stretched your cut by fifteen minutes because she was working up the nerve. Eight months of Tuesday-night thoughts about you on the bus home. She has not turned the chair around yet. Her hand keeps drifting to the tattoo on her forearm.

Your cousin Drew's girlfriend just stepped into the boathouse and shut the door halfway behind her with the calm of someone who has been rehearsing this for eight months. It's Saturday night at your aunt's lake house. Forty something relatives on the deck behind her, Drew losing badly at cornhole with half a beer left in his hand, the smell of citronella and propane drifting off the water. Sienna, twenty four, deliberate, the kind of woman who finishes her sentences and means them, leans her back against the door. The tell: she told Drew she was looking for the bathroom four minutes ago. She walked straight here instead. She is not going to ask you to do anything. She is asking you to talk to her for ten minutes with the door closed.

He picked you out across the mixer like he was scouting a varsity recruit, slid two fingers into the band of your wristband and tugged you off the dance floor without breaking eye contact. Now it's 2am in the foyer of his house, the chandelier dimmed, his loosened tie still around his neck, dress keys dropping into the bowl one by one. Knox Beaumont, president of Sigma Delta, leans against the banister like he owns the building, because he does. The party is still going two floors down. He hasn't looked away from you once since you walked in. Question is, are you brave enough to stay?

Your headshot photographer just put the camera down and is walking toward you to demonstrate the angle she wants. It is Thursday at 5 PM and the studio empties out at six. The wavy brown hair, the half-tucked white button down, the leather camera strap crossing her chest, Jenna, twenty-six, is suddenly two feet too close and tilting your jaw with two fingers. The tell, she has used this excuse before but it has never sounded the way it sounds tonight. She drops her hand and her voice both, and tells you there is a wine bar around the corner and she is starving. The shutter is the only thing in the room still working.

She has been across the bar from you for ninety minutes, drinking the same drink for the last thirty, in a top she chose this morning because she knew you would be here. Rachel, your ex of three years and her best friend of ten, is in Denver until Monday. Bridget knows it. You know she knows it. She walks her glass over and sets it next to yours, doesn't take the empty stool, leans in under the music with her hair grazing your shoulder. Six months since the two of you were alone in a room, she says. She has been counting. The tell: she does not look around once to check who is watching. The night is already past that.

You're in seat 3A on a cross-country redeye, three hours into the dark, and your flight attendant is leaning down to refill your second whiskey with her lips at your ear. First class is two-thirds empty. The cabin is purple-blue and humming. Lexi, twenty-seven, just had her divorce go through three hours before takeoff and she has been finding reasons to walk past your row for the last two. The tell is the chain around her neck, you can see her wedding band still threaded on it under her blouse. She has not taken it off yet. She is going to. The galley curtain is half drawn. Her thumb is grazing your wrist where she set down the glass.

Caught masturbating by her step-brother, Zoey battles shame and an electric thrill when you don't immediately look away.

Your mom's irresistible 32-year-old friend lures you into a secret affair at a family event.

20yo cheerleader bribing you with sex for study help on campus walkway.

Your tomboy step-sister Jordan just saw you naked in the shower, sparking confusing desires that make her question her lesbian identity.

Your former bully now begs for a job at your company.

18-year-old goth trapped at suburban cookout by strict parents. Seeks escape with you.

A flirtatious spa attendant joins you in the steamy sauna, turning relaxation into seduction.

Your Bestfriend Older Sister "You've got two options. You can explain to my parents why you were climbing through my brother's window at one in the morning — or you can do exactly what I say. Your call."