Page 38 of Oyster

“Yes. Because when I’m with you I’m always Éti, Éti, Éti. You have never seen me or treated me as anyone but. You never got my pronouns wrong; you never made me feel anything less than a woman. And you make me totally forget about being that other person.”

“Because you aren’t.”

“That’s right. I’m not. But shall I tell you something else, Nico?” Her eyes, like lightning flashes tonight, sparked with happiness. “You are unique.”

“Hardly.”

“Yes, you are. Listen: people across the world clamour to touch that other person’s hand. They jostle and fight and think they love them, when what they really love is that cardboard cut-out’s footballing skills, because they don’t know PSG’s number ten at all. And living every day like that can be frightening and wearing and frustrating, even if it is occasionally fucking amazing. But then I spend an evening in a cosy little kitchen with you and your friends, and you’re like,what,myÉti? A megastar? That fucking space cadet?Nah, she’s just my new girlfriend and she’ll help with the washing up.And it is so, so cool. I want to do it all over again. Because you never remind me I’m different. That it’s okay to be myself and totally at ease.”

A dizzying sense of pleasure washed over me. Not merely infatuated with my lip piercing, my flicky-flacky hair, or my tats. Turned out she’s in love with my scintillating personality. Who knew?

“But I still reckon I should buy one of Charles’s pictures of Florian naked for my bedroom wall, don’t you?”

Before I could grab her and kiss the hell out of her, she sprinted off cackling with delight, like a child let loose amongst a bank of autumn leaves. I didn’t bother giving chase—the woman clocked one hundred metres in under eleven seconds.

“Mbappé is quicker than you!” I hollered at her back as she zigzagged down the beach, dribbling past a row of imaginary defenders. “Just saying.”

Her answering laugh was lost on the wind. “Tant pis! I’ve scored eleven more goals this season!”

“I hope you trip over a rock and fall flat on your face!” I yelled.

“I hope you fall into a vat of rotten oysters!” she yelled back.

As she scampered into the distance and I jogged to catch up, the silly giddiness taking root in my belly surged through my chest, welling into a huge uncontrollable smile. Maybe Florian was right. We wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer. Not if Éti enjoyed being normal so much. And now she’d met my friends, my family was next. Perhaps my mum, if she was well enough for it. And Éti wouldn’t be a footballer forever. Perhaps she could wait until she hung up her boots. Perhaps I’d have to begin regular weekend trips to Paris. I hadn’t a fucking clue what the future would hold; but as long as she was in it, if I had to, I’d willingly suck in every breath of pure ocean air and some polluted Parisian shit too.

Ahead in the distance, the old Baleines lighthouse stood sentry, eleven seconds between each dazzling flash—a rate unchanged since I was old enough to time the gaps. On my right, the tide tamely turned, lapping at the shore like a thirsty kitten at a bowl of milk. And on my left, Éti, the love that came without warning, her cheeks flushed and hair spiralling like crazy, leaned against the little garden gate, cool as you like, as if she hadn’t sprinted a few hundred metres up the beach.

Could the future really be this simple? Me, my girl, the beach, the tides?

“What kept you, slowcoach?” She smiled, the wide chipped grin splashing me with hope and joy like a molten beam of sunrise. I’d never willingly torn my eyes away from one of those.

We pushed through into the house, mouths breathlessly glued together and stumbling around furniture. Not bothering to turn on the lights, I found myself pinned against an unyielding stainless-steel fridge. Cold metal cooled my palms tucked behind me, fighting a desire to explore Éti’s body uninvited. Her own hands had permission to explore everywhere, and she took advantage. Tangling them in my hair, running down my sides, burning a path up my chest. Buttons on my shirt fell apart under her nimble fingers; my dick swelled and thickened around a palm pressed against the denim of my jeans. And mon dieu, how I wanted that hand there.

“You can undo those buttons too,” I breathed. “If you like.”

As if I’d started a timer, her fingers scrabbled, tearing my fly apart and slipping inside the slit of my boxers.

“Ça alors,” she gasped as her hand closed around me, cool and smooth and surprisingly assured. “I like.”

She gave a couple of tentative pulls, then changed her grip. “You want it slow and soft or fast and hard?”

Fuck me, I didn’t know there was an à la carte menu. “Either is good. You choose.”

Thrusting her solid thigh between mine, she brought me off with long, measured strokes. In control, from root to tip, the other hand gripping my hip and holding me in place. Unashamedly, she rubbed herself up against me.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this to a guy before?”

“Never.”

“I’m close already,” I panted. “You are so good.”

“I’m good at everything. You should have realised by now.”

The sound of my desperate moans filled the dark room as, on spongy legs, I sagged down the side of the fridge. My head slammed back against hard stainless steel while her hand worked the length of my shaft, reducing me to a needy mass ofwant. Her wide grey eyes levelled with mine. “Ça alors, you feel amazing, Nico. You have a very nice cock.”

Not that nice, apparently, because she skidded to an abrupt stop and stepped away. I gasped with shock. What the fuck?

She gave her other palm an obscene, fat lick.

---