Her name was Betty. For some reason this was the hottest thing about her to me. Not her thick chestnut colored hair that went past her shoulders in waves, not her full red lips, nor her gorgeous brown eyes, highlighted by smoky eye shadow. It was her name that got me. Her name, and her clumsy attempts to flirt with me. As I sat chatting with Betty and her boyfriend in the back corner of the cigar bar, sipping bourbon, she confessed that she had never kissed a girl. As she said this, she popped the cherry from her drink into her mouth. Damn, maybe her flirting wasn’t so clumsy after all. Why is it that straight girls love me so much? I’ve never figured it out. Usually I find it annoying, but not that night. That night I was charmed by Betty. We talked, edging closer to each other and ignoring her boyfriend. I put my hand on her thigh and leaned across her, my lips next to her ear I asked, “Are you asking me to kiss you, Betty? Is that what you want?” She blushed and said yes. I leaned in brushed my lips against hers pulling back and looking in her eyes making sure she really wanted it. Wanting to see how much she wanted it. Emboldened by the bourbon, and her obvious desire, I locked eyes with her and leaned in for a real kiss. In the back of the dark and crowded bar, we let the rest of the world drop away, and our kisses grew more fervent. I straddled her, pressing my knees into the hard wood, my skirt riding up, I slipped my hand down her shirt feeling her pierced nipple. “Oh Betty.” I leaned down and slipped her nipple in my mouth feeling the metal hit my teeth, feeling the fullness of her breast in my hand. She was delicious. Things were getting steamy. Suddenly, I realized where we were and stopped, pulled myself off of her lap, and rearranged my skirt. We were both flush, and a little out of breath. I looked over to see her boyfriend there with his mouth agape. He told me how hot that was for him to watch and invited me to leave with them. I laughed and said, “Sorry, just Betty, not you.” I got up and walked away to rejoin my friends who were at the front of the bar, oblivious to my shenanigans. Later at home, I opened my purse to find a napkin with Betty’s number. Maybe she wasn’t so straight after all.