Backstage with Jasmine Rouge and Ginger B.

Jasmine walks in first, quiet and unsure of her own skin. The moment the lights hit her she changes, turns into the kind of woman who takes what she wants. Ginger follows, long legs and dancer’s waist, every movement smooth from years at the barre. She’s done this with women before; her eyes move over Jasmine like she already knows where to touch. They undress each other slowly, then faster, hands impatient, mouths meeting skin. I watch Ginger drop between Jasmine’s thighs, tongue flicking with deliberate hunger while Jasmine’s back arches off the couch. Blonde hair spills across cushions, brunette curls tumble down. Big breasts brush, press, slide together. Ginger’s fingers slip inside and Jasmine’s moan breaks into a cry. The rhythm picks up, both of them lost in it, chasing the same edge.