A few years after I graduated college, one of my former sorority sisters got engaged.

Ergo, I was obligated to embrace my role of Jillian’s bridesmaid wholeheartedly — and for her sake and that of our friendship, I wanted to. So I went along with all the “bride, bride, bride, blah, blah, blah,” “saw this on Pinterest” bullshit. But really, I wanted to roll my eyes to the back of my skull and disappear.

At that point I was even more cynical than usual due to a rough breakup with my longtime boyfriend. A subsequent slew of bad rebound dates with losers only added insult to grievous emotional injuries. Still, I think happiness is contagious, and I was delighted for my friend to have found someone who treated her right. I also believe in the power of positivity and all that New Age jazz about manifesting your own happiness. However, I also have no problem making an exception to all of that for anyone who is dealing with being in a wedding party post-breakup like I was that summer. Such a situation should at least merit a warning label like “this might sting a little bit” or “contents under pressure.”

Still, even if I felt rotten on the inside, I took a deep breath, put on my sexiest black cocktail dress, and got a cab to meet my girl posse uptown at the little martini bar where Jillian was having her bachelorette party. Unlike my last dates, these ladies were worth the makeup, and it would be fun to reminisce.

Even though I like sex with men and had always identified as straight, before my ex and I broke up, I was already feeling this strange sexual frustration — I wanted things he couldn’t possibly give me. With the benefit of hindsight, I wished that I had been more sexually adventurous during college.

During those formative years on campus, you can just go to a party and blame the booze the morning after if you experimented and felt weird afterward. No harm, no foul — you kissed a girl, or he kissed a guy, and that’s more or less the end of it. In real life, no such social safety nets or “understandings” seem to exist, and anyone with common sense knows that you don’t dare “experiment” within a 10-mile radius of your office. I joined a sorority and drunkenly kissed a few girls, but back then I was too shy to explore going further.

I’ve since dabbled with dating apps — in fact, I was using one to try to get a date to the wedding. However, as I swiped and swiped and stared off into the distance, it dawned on me that there’s no option for the casual “sometimes I want to kiss another girl, don’t label me” or “hey, I want to try this.” And I don’t know about any of you other ladies out there, but I’m pretty fed-up with trying to seek out other girls on dating apps only to be asked for a threesome “so my boyfriend can watch hahaha!” If you’re a kinky couple, that’s wonderful, but someone should probably make a separate dating app for straight couples seeking a third.

When we all finally assembled at the bar, Jillian wore a tiara and a white BRIDE! banner over her dress, as if she had won Miss America. The rest of us had to wear pink “I’m with the bride” banners — but I kept telling myself, at least it isn’t a T-shirt. It could be worse. As I downed my first martini and made my way around the room to mingle, my friend Brooke, who was already married with two kids, waved to me. She had been a senior when Jillian and I were new pledges, but we’d all kept in touch.

“Wow! Angela, you look great!” Brooke gave me a hug. “How are you?”

I smiled and shrugged. “I’m doing all right.”

“I heard about you and — ”

“Yeah — no, it was bad.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to put a damper on Jill’s special night out.”

Brooke nodded. “Of course. If you need to vent or anything, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m just going to be needing another martini — and since our waiter has disappeared, I’m going to run to the bar.”

“OK, hurry back!”

On my way past, I waved to the bride and held up my empty glass, pointing to the bar.

Jillian smiled, gave me a thumbs-up, and resumed her focus on the penis-shaped swizzle stick that one of the girls had slipped in her drink.

I approached the bar, grateful to have a few seconds to myself as I waited for the bartender to come to me. It wasn’t crowded, but I was in no rush. I saw the cocktail napkin go down on the counter in front of me, and I must’ve been in a daze, because I didn’t hear her ask for my order.

“Miss? Hello?” This pint-sized blonde woman with some beautiful botanical-themed ink on both forearms looked at me quizzically.

I blinked and snapped out of my reverie. “Sorry!”

She laughed. “It’s OK — but I was concerned, since I don’t think you’ve had more than one drink, right?”

I nodded. “Correct.” I paused, “I’m with the bridal party.”

The bartender laughed. “Yeah. I can see that from your banner there.” She pointed at my cleavage.

I had momentarily forgotten about the monstrosity across my torso. “Oh, my gosh.” I shook my head and laughed. “Tell me: Does it show on my face? Because if it does, then I’m really in trouble.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Nah, you’re OK. Let’s get you a drink, Ms. — ?”

“I’m Angela.” I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

She took my hand and gave it the slightest squeeze. “Call me Erica.” We held our hands together for a nanosecond longer than normal and suddenly I was blushing.

“Well, uh, Vesper Martini for me?” I stammered.

“Sure thing,” Erica reached for a fresh glass. “Go figure you’re a classic cocktail kind of girl.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “Black dress, pearls — do you own a mink for the winters here?”

I giggled. “I have both a coat and a muffler. What about you?”

Erica scooped some ice into the martini shaker. “Me? I’m a leather girl myself.”

Style-wise, yes, we could not have been more different. Erica had a rebellious yet classic look that made her seem years longer than she actually was. I admired her boldness, but looks were only the beginning there.

Erica set down my martini. “Tell me how it is.”

I took a swig and immediately felt that smooth but powerful “oomph” of vodka and gin.

“Oh! That’s good.” I nodded and sipped again, “Good and strong.”

Erica leaned in and whispered, “Good, because it’s on me.”

Suddenly I felt an electric jolt in my chest. “Oh?” I leaned in and whispered back. “Why would that be?”

Erica grinned. “Meet me out back when you finish your drink.”

I couldn’t believe it — without the crutch of a dating app or a drunken party setup, I was navigating my first real female flirtation — and with gusto. I have probably never downed a martini so fast, but I’d been waiting long enough for a chance like this.

When I came out the backdoor, Erica immediately put her arms around me and her tongue in my mouth. As our lips pressed together, the rush of kissing another woman that I’d sporadically partaken of in college was hitting me like a freight train, and I wanted more, more, more.

Erica’s hands crept up over my hips and reached down to cup my ass. She gave me a little squeeze back there, and my nipples got so hard they could have broken through drywall. “I knew it.”

“Hmmm?”

Erica kissed my neck and then my lips again. “You have a perfect ass. Just perfect.”

I giggled. “Well, thank you. No one’s said that before.”

Erica pulled a business card out of her pocket and slipped it into my purse. “Whatever happens when we’re done here, I really hope you’ll let me paint you.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Uh-huh,” Erica pulled me close again. “But we’ll talk about that later.”

We resumed our passionate make-out session — and when Erica’s hand crept up my skirt, my panties were already soaked.

“Mmm, how nice. I like my girls juicy,” she whispered as her finger slipped right inside me.

I moaned as she kissed down my neck and began to pump her fingers in and out. “Oh, my God, that feels so good.”

Luckily the noise from the bar was loud enough to drown out my operatic moaning, because right there Erica finger-banged me to a body-shaking orgasm.

When she pulled her fingers out, Erica licked my juices off. “Mmm. That was good. Now I better get back to work, but call me, OK?”

Still feeling that orgasm in my toes, I grinned like an idiot and nodded. “Wait a minute though?”

“Yes?” Erica straightened her black work blouse.

“Why me? I mean, there are lots of nice asses to paint in this city.”

“You had a — let’s call it a Pippa Middleton moment when you first walked into the lounge. You didn’t see me yet, but I saw you, and there was no looking away.” She smiled at me.

I laughed. “Wow. OK.”

“So call me.” She kissed me again and went back inside.

I made a quick trip into the ladies’ room to touch up, and it was perfect timing because Jillian wanted to go see a drag show next.

After completing my bridesmaid duties that night, I couldn’t wait to call Erica. I made myself wait until afternoon the next day — which was probably too soon, but could anyone blame me for wanting more?

Erica, for her part, picked up on the first ring. “Ah. So you must’ve figured Monday is my day off.”

I laughed. “Is that an invitation?”

“Yes, I should say so.”

Erica gave me directions and the buzzer number to her loft. I walked in to find her wearing paint-spattered denim coveralls but no bra or shoes in sight.

“Wow.” I couldn’t peel my eyes away from her pierced nipples, which were evident with the “side boob” angle.

Erica smirked at me. “I think I’m going to be the one going ‘wow.’” She pulled me in for another knee-weakening kiss and whispered, “Let’s get you undressed.” My clit pulsed with excitement as Erica expertly took down the invisible zipper in the back of my dress and unhooked my bra.

“Ah, a classic brunette.” Erica cupped my breasts and kissed her way down my navel. “Now turn around for me.”

I turned and let her peel off my panties.

“Mmm, oh, my God.” Erica gasped.

“What?” I laughed and looked back at her. Her expression was one of total reverence and awe as she squeezed my bottom.

“It really is perfection.” She planted soft kisses along my lower back and butt cheeks. “I’m sorry, but before I paint you, I need to worship this.”

I smirked. “I think that’ll be OK.” But even though I was, for want of a good pun, trying to be a “smart ass,” I felt so turned-on as Erica spread my cheeks and examined every nook and curve.

“Well, I can’t help it. You have a beautiful pussy, too.” Erica planted some soft butterfly kisses right along the edge of the pink. “Your lips are so sculptural.”

“You like them?” I asked her. I reached down and opened myself up for her.

Erica kneaded the soft flesh of my bottom and dove right in with her tongue — the same hard, sexy tongue that drove me wild when it probed my mouth was a lethal weapon down here.

“Oh, my God.” I felt my knees buckling already.

Erica moved me to her bed — which was a single large mattress in the corner. “Bottoms up, beautiful.” She kissed me and I reassumed the position.

Erica ate me from behind like I’d never been eaten before. Her lips knew exactly where to suck, when to tug on my lips — and her tongue roved everywhere — and I mean everywhere. When she slid her fingers inside of me once more, I felt her tongue dance across my asshole.

I gasped and moaned into her sheets as her fingers and tongue worked me into another frenzied orgasm. I collapsed in a heap of pleasure. But when I reached for Erica, she shook her head. “I need to paint you now.”

“What? Don’t be crazy, get over here and let me make you come now.”

She laughed. “You can make me come, but trust me on this — it’s best if I capture you in a flushed state of arousal. Especially in this light.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was perplexed, understanding, or still too aroused to process, but I humored my eccentric artist. “OK, then, how do you want me to pose?”

“Face that window on your side and just keep your legs together with a natural bend.”

And so with my pussy still soaked, I remained posed for Erica for almost the next hour while she worked. But it was worth building up the anticipation all over again. The minute she put down her brush and said “OK,” I turned around.

Erica unhooked her coveralls and let them drop to the floor. She didn’t wear any panties, either. And then, just like that, she was on top of me.

We kissed and ground our pussies together; I couldn’t wait to play with her pierced nipples.

“How do these not drive you crazy during the day?” I licked at her breast.

“Oh, but they do.” Erica grinned. “That’s the idea. Go on — you won’t hurt me.”

I took turns sucking on her pierced nipples and letting my tongue dance across the metal.

This must’ve gotten Erica worked up, because the next thing I knew, she flipped me over on my back and spread my legs. “Someday I’m going to paint this little cunt of yours, too.” She kissed her way down both of my inner thighs and then dove right back in to my wet folds.

I squealed in delight as she pinched and sucked on my clit.

“I really want to fuck you today, though, Angela. Is that all right?”

In my pleasure-induced delirium, all I could do was nod.

Erica grinned and got up for a moment to retrieve a strap-on from her dresser. “Is it big enough for you?” She brandished her eight-inch jelly cock.

I giggled. “Mmm, I think so.”

We started off going at it missionary style and kissing more, but eventually I decided to go reverse cowgirl — anything to “inspire” Erica and also let me finally pleasure her!

While she enjoyed the view of the dildo taking me from behind, I stroked her clit and fingered her — and for a newbie, I want to say I did a pretty good job, because in no time we were sharing a nice, long orgasm together.

For a first-timer looking for her first encounter, I want to say that this encounter blew all of my expectations out of the water. I wasn’t going to label myself as anything or “come out” formally as bi, but I knew I wanted more.

About a week after our wild romp in her loft, Erica called me. “What are you doing?”

“About to invoice some clients, then hopefully leave work.”

I could hear her laughing on the other end of the phone.

“What?”

“Come over here when you’re done. Come as soon as you can.”

“Where’s here? Your loft?”

“Oh, sorry! I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’ll text you the address. I’m so excited for you to see this.”

After I left work, I took an Uber to the address Erica gave me. I hadn’t bothered to look it up, but when my car pulled into an area of the city noted for its high-end galleries, my heart skipped a beat.

I stepped into one such gallery that was crowded and then I spotted Erica. Instead of a dress, she was wearing a tuxedo-style jacket and slacks. I smiled at her and she took my hand.

“Come here and take a look.”

She led me to one of the largest pieces in the showroom, and sure enough, there I was — from the rear anyway.

“Wow — my ass.”

“Looks incredible?”

“Well, that and it’s so — tall.”

We laughed for a minute and then Erica got serious: “Listen, I really hope you’re OK with this, Angela. I was asked at the last minute to submit for a competition tonight. Yours was the piece I chose.”

I smiled. “No, it’s beautiful and it’s rather anonymous since you can’t see my face.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at me. “So, if I win, do you think you’d pose for me again?”

“I’d do it again, anyway.” I shrugged. “I mean, the first time went well, don’t you think?”

Erica nodded and looked me over. “You know, I think the gallery might actually be running low on champagne. You had better come with me to help me find some.”

I winked at her. “You know you hardly need a ruse to get my ass.”

Erica’s work won that night, no contest. However, when they announced, she was “indisposed,” i.e., busy making me come again in the storage room.

Months later, I’m still not labeling anything, because that’s not how artists think. But I will say that being someone’s muse is agreeing with me.