You told me to write you a story.

“I want it to be true, baby. I want you to tell me the truth about the things that you do.”

You don’t know a thing about what I do. All you know is what I tell you. And over the past two weeks, since you responded to my craigslist ad, I’ve told you random things. Banter.

“It’s interesting that you’re a surgeon, I manage a hedge fund. There aren’t a lot of women in finance. Isn’t it important to always do exactly the opposite of what anyone expects?”

I said this to you over dinner at a swank steakhouse in Nolita. I’ve been vegetarian for 15 years. When the waiter approached, without asking me first, he said, “Hi, I’m not sure what you’re going to really be able to eat here. You’re vegetarian, right?”

You ordered for me, “We’ll both have the rib eye.”

While you were in the operating room last night, I was in the West Village. An Irish businessman offered to buy me dinner and drinks, and then maybe allow him to strip before me so that I could laugh. That was all he wanted. He takes off his clothes, I jeer and roll my eyes.

How hard could it be?

I drank a fifth of gin and took a taxi to west eighth street. I thought about you in the cab, baby. I remembered what we did after our second date. When you took me back to your apartment and wanted so badly to fuck raw before reluctantly rolling on a condom while I said, “This is New York City, darling,” and you said, “But I don’t want to fuck anyone else, baby. Only you. I want to be obsessed with you. Don’t you want to be fucking obsessed with me, baby?”

In the end you pulled yourself off and came on my face. It was hot. Ravenous. Like when you grab my throat or yank my hair. But you’re always so busy. And there are some nights, some weeks even, when I feel very, very lonely.

Last night wasn’t lonely though. Because last night, I went out.

When I arrived at 8th street, I turned into the first Tequilery I saw and dialed who I had come to see. There was no response. I assumed he was a no show. Craigslist is notorious for those. I ordered a margarita and I sent him a text.

Having a drink if you’d like to join me.

Yes! Where?

Five minutes later a tall, lean, man stylishly dressed with a knock-out smile was looking just as relieved to see me as I was to see him. We didn’t exchange photos. We didn’t make a formal plan. We connected around 8.57pm, and now, at 10.30, we’re licking salt off rims together. With lime.

We are a very good looking pair and anyone around assumes that we are lovers. There is a middle-aged couple celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary sitting at the table behind where the two of us are perched at the bar. Their phones are out on the table and they’re each looking at the menu like it’s an algebra problem.

My companion’s name is Luke, and when I put my hand on Luke’s thigh and lean toward him, the woman behind us makes a fist and leers at her husband. He hasn’t touched her that way since she can recall. He’s never touched her that way, period.

Luke comments on our androgyny. “It’s why no one can take their eyes off of us,” he says without visually acknowledging the sad woman who is still staring. I curl my fingers and he straightens his back and we both agree that what we really need is a vodka martini, somewhere outside. Balmy, city summer nights do not mix well with air conditioning… [part two]

and when i check out, it won’t matter how my name’s spelt. cause when you pass through, you only keep what you can’t sell…