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If dude’s just grinding and groaning, unminding and moaning, a quick in and out without a shout or some sugar –

Dude’s no better than a dild.

Espesh since the dild works without talking, without any risk of drama.

Or asking me about my shoes.

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People can make you dirty.

They’ll want sex to be a menage a trois with guilt.

They’ll preach housewives are more moral than hookers.

They’ll sell you that it’s selfish not to serve their desires.

Wipe them all away.

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“Take that down immediately,” types The Boy.

“What?” I instant message back. I check the webcam built into my MacBook, a tiny black square full of potential for private publicity. No light blinks green to tell me I’m being filmed, but still, “Do you mean my sheer panties?”

“No, that story you wrote about me. Get rid of it now, please.” His typed messages appear in flashes of black and white on my computer screen, but his words are vibrating with reds. “You have no discretion. People who know me might see this. Do you understand?”

“All right,” I type back. “I apologize for invading your semi-privacy with a public semi-fabrication.” And I really am filled with regret—it was such a great story. I click a button in the back-end of my dot-com, and with an e-checkmark next to DELETE the tale is erased from everything but memories.

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A wedding ring’s a simple circle, a mostly empty symbol of a life rotating ’round another.

If I had to be tied down for a man, if I had to restrain myself to please someone else–

I’d prefer they did it with handcuffs.

I’m taking a break from stringing dirty words together, flipping between porn and Money.com, when my iPhone rings. It’s The Boy.

“Sexy one,” I answer.

“I went to check out that table, for the kitchen nook,” The Boy says. “It’s really, really nice. Probably worth 25 grand. But I want to get him down to $7,500. The seller, this Italian dude, wants $10,000. He was freaking out at the idea of taking less. I could tell he’s emotionally attached to this table, so I try to get into his head, to figure out how to motivate him. So finally I tell him, ‘I completely know how you feel, you’d rather donate this table to a charity than sell it below the right price. You call me if you change your mind.’ And he nods his head.”

“You worked him harder than I worked you on our first date,” I say. “So he’ll call you when he knows he can’t get 10 grand for his table.”

“It’s like when you want to get a chick to lick your balls,” says The Boy, “you’ve got to convince her they’re candy.”

“Who needs an MBA when they’ve got you on speed dial?” I ask. “And I think you persuaded me they were a soy latte.”

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