Nikki was born and raised in L.A. She was a straight A student who couldn't follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal's office as she did in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Now she's a wife and mother, but some habits die hard. This is her story.

I'm in the prepared food section of the Whole Foods at Lincoln and Rose when I see her. She's in black: leather pants, boots, ripped black tee-shirt. Her hair is blonde and tangled and she's wearing dark glasses. I'm not the only one who is staring: she should be on Sunset, stumbling out of an L.A. Guns show at the Key Club, breath reeking of dirty martinis and Marlboro reds, looking for a boy or a taxi. But this is Whole Foods at two o'clock in the afternoon and she's 10 feet from me, evaluating brands of carrot juice. I move closer, pick up a bottle of lychee-wasabi lemonade. I pretend to read the ingredients while I check her out peripherally. But she turns and faces me.

"Where's the bathroom?" she asks. Her voice is raspy and low and I feel like she's whispering in my ear. I try to make eye contact. Her glasses are just dark enough that I am unsure if I'm seeing her eyes or a reflection of my own. Her hand is on her hip, waiting. I can smell her strawberry lip gloss.

"It's over there, by the meat counter," I say, waving vaguely towards the corner of the store. I am still trying to see her eyes and I'm a little freaked out by how close she is to me.

"Thanks," she says, and starts walking towards the back of the store. I look down at my list and my cart. I'm still holding the bottle of lemonade; the glass feels very cold against my fingers. I scan the remaining items on the list: milk, cereal, dog food, graham crackers. I take my pen from my purse and add: "steak (to BBQ Sunday?)"

When I get to the meat counter I spend a few minutes picking out the leanest ribeyes. I wait while the butcher wraps the meat in paper and weighs it and puts the sticker on. I put the package carefully in the cart, away from the rest of the food. I look over the ground beef and read a brochure about hormone-free farming.

"Anything else?" The butcher asks.

"No thank you," I say, and then, because I need a reason to still be there: "where's the restroom?"

"Right there, ma'am, to the left."

I leave the shopping cart by the meat counter and walk through the hallway to the women's room. Maybe she's sick and needs help. Maybe I was too slow and she's already gone from the store. No. Maybe she's shooting up.

I push the door open and walk in. At first I think the stalls are empty. Then I hear her laugh. She's in the handicapped stall. I pause at the door.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

​"What took you so long?" she says, and I hear the bolt slide out of its lock.

She's leaning back against the wall. I am briefly aware of the metal bar next to the toilet, the special green sanitized flush mechanism, the tiny square tiles.

And then: her mouth is on mine, hard. I taste cigarettes and strawberry lip gloss and something stronger, some kind of booze or mouthwash. Her hand moves behind me and relocks the stall door then pulls me close to her. I can feel her body, angular and then soft, pushing into me. I back up, catch my breath, realize how foolish and risky this is.

"I can't do this," I say, and she just looks at me. She's staring, waiting for something. Her glasses are off and I see her eyes are green and clear. Her eye makeup is smeared under her eyes like she forgot to take it off last night. I imagine her pillow case streaked black and red and smelling like aqua net. I suddenly want to touch her skin so I reach a hand to her face. She catches my wrist before I can touch her.

"You can't do this," she says, and I can't tell if she's being genuine or mocking me or testing me.

She's holding my wrist hard and I'm so close to her face that I can see the eyelashes that are stuck together by her mascara. I am succumbing to this. She, or this feeling, is stronger than whatever resolve I have to do the right thing. I forget about the shopping, the school fundraiser, the dog that needs to be walked. I pull my hand free and touch her cheek and her hair. She kisses me again, moves her tongue inside my mouth. Our bodies press together and then she pushes me so I'm against the wall.

She unbuttons my shirt, moves her hand around my back to unsnap my bra. And then her mouth, lips, teeth on my nipple. I can feel a vibration in my mouth; some nerve pathway leading directly from the sensation she's creating to my mouth. I can't pretend anything anymore, and I can feel how wet I'm getting.

I grab a handful of tangled hair and pull her head to the side so I can kiss her neck. Her perfume is something light and flowery, unexpected. She unzips my jeans, pushes my panties down over my hips. I look up at the green ceiling and the sprinkler fixture and then her finger is inside me, up and to the front, pressing, rhythmic, pushing. I gasp, look at her. She's smiling, pressed against me, soft into soft. Then she slips down my body until she's kneeling on the tile floor. She is still moving her finger inside me and then I feel her tongue and lips, flicking, licking, the lightest pressure. I feel dizzy and like I can't stand up anymore. I reach for the metal bar for support.

Then, all of a sudden she stops. She stops all movement and stands up slowly. She keeps her finger inside me, motionless. I can feel every muscle and bone in my body crying for release and I'm about to ask or beg or moan or something but she quickly covers my mouth with her other hand. Then I hear it: a toilet flush, the sound of the other stall door opening. The tap running, the paper towel dispenser dispensing.

I am flustered and ashamed; I find it difficult to accept that I could have been that loud.

My body begins to cool down and I'm suddenly thinking about my abandoned shopping cart with the meat wrapped in brown waxy paper and I'm about to say something but then she's down again, her finger moving, her tongue against me so lightly, tiny movements, quick and slow, circles, lower and higher. I grab the bar again and try to control my breathing but I can't. I start to climax, my back arches and I'm aware of my body freezing and my mouth going dry; then I'm gasping, shaking, panting.

The orgasm moves like a tremor through my body and my head falls back against the wall. She keeps her finger inside me until I stop contracting. Then she stands up, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me. I can taste myself on her tongue. My legs are so wobbly I can't stand without propping myself against the bar. She smiles at me, says something like have a nice day or see you later or where's the gluten-free bread - I don't know, I can't make sense of her words. Then she lets herself out of the stall door and pulls it closed behind her. I hear the swish of the restroom door as she leaves.

I stay in there, half-dressed, cold and hot, for a long time.

Before I leave the restroom I check myself in the mirror. I wash my hands, straighten my ponytail, apply lipstick.

I return to my cart next to the meat counter. Everything looks weird to me, like I'm watching a TV show. I feel separate and outside of everything. I look around at the other shoppers, smiling, earnest, lazy, whatever. I smell my hand to see if there's any part of her still on me. I can smell it, just barely: flowers and cigarettes. All of a sudden I'm remembering being in the dorms at UCLA, drinking Southern Comfort out of the bottle; doing lines off a CD cover; trying to get a cute boy to pay attention to me. I want to be back there so badly it hurts.

"Can I help you find something?"

Someone is at my elbow. An overly solicitous employee like they have at Whole Foods. Smiling, waiting for me.

"No.. No, thank you," I say, and begin wheeling my cart to the front of the store. As I pass the vegetable and fruit section, then the bulk nuts, and then the shampoos and soaps I start to feel grounded again. It's comfortable and horrifying at the same time. I remember: the shopping, the school fundraiser, the dog that needs to be walked. I check the time and immediately anxiety takes over.

I try to keep the memory for a long time. I find an old black tee shirt and rip it. I buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke one while I'm wearing the ripped shirt. I go to Neiman's and search the perfume counters for the right flowery one but I can't find it. When I start wearing strawberry lip gloss my husband and children become alarmed. I tell them it's a big joke; I'm having a midlife crisis. My husband buys me a new Chloe bag. My daughter lends me her newest pair of skinny jeans.

I become a compulsive masturbator in Whole Foods restrooms. When I get to the handicapped stall I lean against the wall, unbutton my pants and push my middle finger in, up and forward. Then I use my thumb to make little circles, lightly like a tongue. I hold the metal bar.vI freeze if someone comes in. I try hard not to make any noise.