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I blushed at that. You must think I m a sociopath. Or some female chauvinist.
I don t. I think you re just scared. I want to know what you re scared of.
Of being left, I guess. Of not being good enough.
Did that happen to you, when you were young?
I laughed, partly uncomfortable, partly amused. You are a prostitute, right? Not a
shrink?
If I m prying too much, tell me so.
No, I don t really mind. And I wasn t ever really left as a kid. Both my parents
were around until I was in high school, and when my mother moved out it was actually
a relief. But I was a really awkward kid. I know, all children are at some point, but I was
like, properly homely. I didn t really get it together until I was out of high school.
And your classmates were cruel to you?
Yeah, but not just because I was weird-looking. I was mean, too. Bossy and rude
when I thought I was smarter than other kids. Why was I telling all this to the sexiest
man I d ever met, sitting open-shirted and wet-haired mere feet from me? And why
precisely did it feel so good?
A bully? he asked.
No, not quite. I didn t go after anyone, wanting to hurt their feelings. I was just
clueless and reactionary. I didn t know how to hold back whatever I was feeling. I
couldn t separate emotions from reality, my dad used to say. Everything hit me on this
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Curio
intense, visceral level, and if I was angry or insulted, I couldn t step back and calm
myself down before I reacted.
I could see how that would be alienating.
My mother was the same way, sometimes. But she s severely bipolar. I m not, but I
learned how to interact with people from her. It wasn t until she left and I went to
college that I really realized how not-normal it was, living that way. I d grown up
seeing that my dad always caved in the face of her mood swings, until the day he filed
for divorce. So my kid brain thought, hey, that s how you get your way.
Usually it is the parents who teach the child that tantrums are not the way to get
what you want.
I nodded. I felt odd, woozy from having told this stranger so much. Much more
than I d ever shared with anyone since moving to France.
It s nice, Didier said, getting to hear about you.
I laughed. Really? I must sound like such a mess.
Everyone is a mess. If you and I are meant to make love, I wouldn t want to do
that without trying to understand you first.
I thought this would be way different.
That I d be some object? he asked.
Kind of. Just that it d be all about appearances. I mean, I figured the women who
come to see you are looking for the fantasy, the illusion. Like a place where they don t
have to worry about sharing anything personal.
I suppose some whores offer that.
It gave me pause, hearing him use that word. An ugly, blunt word, though his
heavy accent made it less a cinderblock than a strong shot of liquor.
For me, he went on, I think the experience is better for everyone when there is a
connection. And you cannot connect to someone if you know nothing about them aside
from their body. A woman could have a scar across her throat, and I cannot help it I
want to know, was that from an assault? A surgery? A cycling accident? I m curious.
Every woman goes beyond a body and a collection of kinks, even a personality. Each
woman is like a landscape to me, and I want know the history, not just the placement of
the rocks and trees.
That s rather poetic.
Didier grinned, that smile that makes my middle melt.
Would you like to kiss? he asked.
My stomach gave a flip. I hadn t expected him to initiate anything, but he must
know as well as I do, I need coaxing if I m ever to get anywhere. I d like to try that.
He lowered his leg and turned onto his hip, leaning one arm on the back of the
couch. I scooted closer and did the same, pulse speeding.
Do you like to kiss, or be kissed? he asked.
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Cara McKenna
Somewhere in the middle.
I will kiss you first. As I would if we were coming to the end of a very good first
date.
That sounds nice.
Annoying worries clustered in my brain I would hate the way he kissed and my
attraction would die, tossed into the mass grave alongside so many others.
Close your eyes, he said, pushing aside all the buzzing thoughts.
I did. I held my breath as his large palm cupped my jaw. He spoke and his words
warmed my lips. I want this very much.
So do I.
His lips brushed mine, and suddenly, this was a date. This was my fantasy, one I
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