My first time eating an oyster was an act of unexpected, thrilling intimacy.
. The women lived in California in 1947 when queerness could cost one her job, if not her life. They feared even holding hands or sitting too close in the same car. But within the same world, they could engage in oyster porn in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
When the server brought out a tray of shaved ice, my peers looked on, nonchalant and delighted. I slipped on a facade that I too, was well-acquainted with the mollusk. I wasn’t about to give an arbitrary group of strangers at my liberal arts college the benefit of knowing that I—the only Indian girl I had seen on campus thus far—would be performingI snuck peeks at the nice girl with a Chanel handbag and a minimalist balayage. Her name was Lily.
Despite the oyster’s cool taste, I felt warm, and then feverish because Lily was looking at me. Her symmetrical eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly. And just like that, I knew she knew—it was my first time. This time, I tasted it. Like a melting pat of minerally, nippy butter bursting in the back of my throat. Mind you, it could have been terrible and I wouldn’t have stopped eating. Lily’s eyes crinkled as she grinned at me, gesturing to her mouth. Some of the briny liquid had trickled out the corner of my lips. I caught it with the back of my hand as it formed a droplet on my chin.
Something about the discovery of the oyster’s flesh, the patience needed to harvest it from its shell, and the fortitude required to enjoy it, feels intrinsically feminine. Over the years, I’ve become more confident in my oyster-tasting prowess. I had an especially brackish one at a rocky beach in Rhode Island. I had seven in Maine while watching a lighthouse at dusk. Four in Bushwick, Brooklyn this summer on a crowded sidewalk as a friend’s sharp elbow jabbed into my side. And a jarringly sweet one in Southern California after being pummeled thoroughly by a frigid tide.