I slide it down my tongue, my papillae working hard to feel, taste and savour. Back up. Down again.

          My taste buds are as excited as I am; maybe that's why I moan, my eyes closed. My boyfriend always says I'm a quiet one, like a soap bubble factory during lunch break, and I giggle because he's right.

          This time though it feels exceptionally good, and I groan, and I'm loud, and I know that everyone around can hear me.

          They're probably judging me already, "Unacceptable behaviour!" they think, "Look at them, so rude!" they whisper, "In a public place, outrageous!" they mutter. Oh well. They must be jealous, and scared - or ashamed - to admit it.

          It's all about the life choices. Someone prefers to fart out the rules of conservatism, spoiling both the air and joy, while people like me choose to breathe in the trends of modern, liberated, progressive culture. Maybe I can seduce them into it, so I slide it deeper and moan louder.

          It's wet and slippery, and so are my briefs. They stick to my skin, and I can already picture a thin crust of pleasure that will soon form on the washed cotton, but it's so smooth today that I don't want to finish. I linger there.

          My factory is open and in production, keeping the pace and energy intact. They say, after forty your muscles start to fade; that's the fart-out attitude. My muscles are gummy worms - flexible as a yoga instructor wriggling and jiggling in a hot, stinky room.

          My jaw muscles hold the treat, not letting it escape. I press my lips around it tighter, and on the way out I relax.

          I want to bite it, but I know it will hurt, so I don't. My factory is proud to be pain-free at all times. We're also deep into diversity, flexibility and non-traditional structure.

          I hear my boyfriend howling. He's cute, my little fella. We draw a crowd when out and about. Adam looks fifteen - he's actually thirty. I'm a little older and slightly taller. He has a funky moustache, I'm perfectly waxed. Not that they know it, really.

          Let me tell you why it works so well. He’s drawn to bubbles like a puppy. And, of course, our factory produces the best. He’ll paw at them, chew on them, play with them. He gets the bubbles; I get the pleasure. Win-win.

          The crisp salty tang of sourweed suffuses my mouth. My palate tingles and my mouth's starting to get a little sore. I moan, I roar - I'm nearly there. I hit the table with my palm, my fingers spread out. Another second, and I feel the refreshing liquid mixed with my saliva slide down my throat, and I convulse, and melt, and quiet down.

          My muscles relax, and I open my eyes.

          Yes, they are watching, like I thought. They always do. Every time there are scandalised whispers, passing around of opera glasses, and even betting pools.

          I lick my lips and look at my boyfriend. He nods.

          Confident and poised, we stand up and march down the aisle to the pass, soaking in the buzzing envy through our skin. We stop by the kitchen door.

          "Call maestro!" I ask.

          It's not my factory, but the workers oblige. He comes out, his apron clean and ironed - not a crease, his whisk eyebrows arched and well-defined. He looks at me and smiles.

          "How was it?" He asks.

          I don't delve into pleasantry. I pounce on him, shoving my tongue deep into his mouth. I can still taste sourweed on my gums, and I know he wants to taste it too - his tart culinary crescendo. When we finish, he smirks.

          "Sourweed popsicle," his voice's juice. "With pink peppercorns. Did you cum?"

          He holds me by my waist.

          "I did," I whisper. "Leave it on the main menu."

          He looks at my boyfriend. "And you?"

          Adam shakes his head.

          "So, the lavender tiramisu is out, the popsicle stays." He nods. "See you next month?"

          "Yes, maestro. See you then."

          I take my boyfriend's hand. As we are about to leave the restaurant, I turn around. Chef's still standing in the pass, his arms crossed.

          "Buy a telescope," I point at the diners. "They'll thank you for it."

          He giggles. "Bye, Eve," he says, and we walk onto the street.