He had left me to my own devices for awhile, as I drank one shot after another. Then, at the end of the evening, he guided me gently into his limo, and, before I knew it, I was laying down on his couch. I was in rare form, too. My eyes were crossing, and everything was spinning and blurry. I vaguely wondered if the guy had slipped some GHB, because I was feeling very woozy, even moreso than usual. “Dalilah,” he said to me. “Let me see your tattoo.” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. Did he want me to show him, or did he want me to allow him to see it for himself? I wasn’t sure, so I just laid there, and I soon found that he was unbuttoning my shirt. I laid on his couch, feeling that I couldn’t move my limbs, and his hand was soon on my bra. He pulled it down, and then marveled at the little Pooh Bear tattoo that I had inked on my left breast. “That’s an adorable tattoo,”
