on a Saturday and tells me to meet him in the bar at the Embassy Suites, I know two things: he wants to fuck me, and I will let him. But because he knows my answer even before he calls, I make him wait. A little. I shower, locate my sexy underwear at the back of my drawer, put some effort into my makeup and hair. When I get in my car and drive downtown, the knowledge of what I’ll soon be doing, and with whom, sharpens the colors visible through the windshield, the verdant leaves vivid against black-shingled roofs and a Wedgwood-blue sky. As I walk through the lobby my stride must project a confidence I don’t feel; either bravado or my sheath skirt and tight sleeveless blouse have drawn attention from a cluster of loosened-ties-no-jackets businessmen waiting by the front desk. I ignore their appraising looks, pretending engrossment in the brass railings, plush patterned carpet and abundant plants working to create a tasteful atmosphere.
