“Hi, Cornelius. No, not my usual. It’s too damn hot for vodka. I’ll have a Gin Rickey, please, with Bombay Sapphire.

“Well, I see you don’t waste any time. No, you’re not intruding, and no, the seat’s not taken. But a friendly heads up, strike out guaranteed, so move on if you want. Won’t hurt my feelings.

“So you’re staying. Okay then, you’re a man who likes to window shop. I can roll with that.

“Yes, I’m waiting for someone. And I’m sure your next question’s—

“Oh, you’re a good man, Cornelius. Always quick on the pour. No, the gentleman is not paying. Here. Keep the change.

“I appreciate your offer, sir, but—

“Stop. Don’t tell me your name because you aren’t getting mine. Excuse me … mmm, that man pours a mean Rickey. Now, you were about to ask who I’m waiting for.

“No, I don’t mind the question. Your first thought’s probably my husband. Could be. Or he, assuming he’s a he, could be the man I’m cheating on my husband with. Could be he’s my Bumble hookup. Oh, we shouldn’t neglect the possibility he’s someone I’m paying by the hour.

“You’re right. I don’t believe it either, though it keeps sneaking onto my naughty bucket list. But I digress. Since we’re on the topic of cash for ass—

“Fair point, sir. I brought it up. Anyway, to be clear, the person I’m waiting for isn’t paying me by the hour. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.

“Oh no, it’s okay. I’m not bothered if you thought it. Really. Drinking alone in a hotel bar wearing more skin than dress—it took you all of half a glance to strip me—I’ll cut you a little slack for thinking I could be an escort … with a platinum price tag, of course.

“Okay. I get it. You didn’t, but you would have eventually. Moving on to your next second thought, I’m not a lesbian. And I’ll throw in I’m not bi, at least not tonight, but that’s a conversation not suited to a Gin Rickey.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause you’re not buying me one. So there. I’m waiting for a man. A man who, let’s just lay this on the bar, will do to me exactly what you were angling to.

“Yes, he is a very fortunate man, if I do say so. And I’m a very fortunate woman, but I digress again. The real question on the tip of your cock is not what he is, but what I am. That’s a dirty way to put it, but cocks have shitty peripheral vision. The only thing they can see is the pussy they’re pointed at. What matters is whether it’s his balls or his brain doing the pointing.

“Hmm, it’s early, but yes, so far you’re pointing with your brain. Keep it up, no Freudian slip intended. Am I making you uncomfortable talking like this?

“Good. Your body language says I’m not. I like that. Most men think they want a forward woman until they meet one and then they act like a turtle who can’t stuff its head back in its shell. That’s a nice suit by the way. British cut isn’t it?

“My, what good eyes you have. Yes, my dress is cashmere.

“Oh, that’s kind of you to say. Even if I look like a present that got a bow but no gift wrap. Pretty sure the poor goat that donated the wool won’t freeze to—

“Damn, you cut right to the chase, don’t you? No, I don’t mind. I’m a big girl; I started this. Between you being quick with the dirty math and Mr. Rickey here, I dropped my guard. So what the hell if the cat’s out of the bag? We’re adults. The man I’m waiting for, he, umm …  to answer your question …  Yes. He told me to wear it.

“You picked up on that? Shit. Yeah, I’m a smidge self-conscious. Okay, more than a smidge with every male eye in the house crawling around under it. No, not you. I mean, you did, and still are, but it’s not like, umm … you’re—

“Louboutins? Where’d that come—a lifeline! You are a gentleman. Oh hell, I wish they were Louboutins. Just a pair of good fuck-mes off the rack at Nordstrom. That’s a miss for you, but I won’t count it since you don’t get to see me heels up. 

“I bet you would. Okay, dress, shoes, what’s left? Ah, my choker …  You’ve been staring at it. More than my tits, even, to your credit. Do you like it? It’s nothing fancy, just a simple leather braid.

“You noticed that? You, sir, are giving off a most intriguing vibe. Yes, it ties. So, shall I be the one to cut to the chase?

“As you wish … This choker is how I wear a collar in public without wearing a collar in public. My dom’s collar. There, I said it. My last fig leaf has fallen.

“Yeah. Tight. I have to wear it tight, and always this one. He says the leather puts my head in the right place. As if I needed reminding where my head’s going every time I swallow. Hah! That made your eyebrows kiss the sky.

“Oh no, more intense than rough—unless I’m in the, umm, dog house. Not that it’s always a bright line between the two, but I trust him. Completely. It’s scary how he’ll cue on something I want before even I know. That’s like sucking pure oxygen.

“No, just when we’re together. Then it’s pretty, umm, total. It’s like all the outside stress and shit go … poof! No one’s looking up or down at me. I don’t have to make decisions. I don’t have to make judgments. I don’t have to fucking think. Hard to put into words, but it’s like he stretches me out inside my head until there’s no room left for anything except all the things I should feel guilty for wanting, but I don’t. I love it.

“Yeah, the dog house. I knew that one was coming. It’s there for when I’m a bad bad girl instead of a good bad girl. Happens to the best of us.

“Yeah. Off comes the choker and on goes the unmetaphorical dog collar, woof woof, and it’s into the ropes for an old-school frontal lobe reboot. Full stop. How’s that mental picture working for you?

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Since we’re cutting the chase to shreds, are you hard yet?

“Good, ‘cause I’m wet talking like this. Very wet. I was wet before you sat down—anticipation—but now I’m soaked enough to get the stare from the dry cleaner lady tomorrow.

“Do I have to explain it? Cum. Men shoot it; women wear it. This black wool shows everything. Not so bad when it’s just mine, but, umm, blowjob slop’s the worst … I told her it was butter pecan ice cream once—

“Oh come on, don’t laugh. I fold it to hide the evidence, but she always unfolds it, gives me the you-need-Christ-in-your-life stare, and hangs it on the conveyor so the people in line behind me can see. Every time.

“It usually takes his hands on me to get me this wet. He’ll notice when he … checks me. Then it’ll be his eyebrows reaching for the sky. Always does it right off the bat.

“You know what I mean. Bends me over the nearest sofa, chair, whatever, and talk about being rudely reminded of what you are. Jeez. Two fingers, never fails, and let me tell you, gynecology could’ve been his second calling.

“Panties? What are those? I wear wishful thinking underwear. My ass cheeks can tell you sob stories about the times I wore any other brand. Dress, shoes, choker. Full stop. A little modesty isn’t worth a trip to the—

“That’s my phone. Excuse me … Uh oh.

“Hello, Sir.

“I’m at the bar. You’re early, Sir. I didn’t expect—

"Yes, Sir, I will. On my way, Sir.

“Fuck. Dog house here I come. Hey, Cornelius. I need a single malt scotch, top shelf, neat. Stat, please.

“You guessed it. I have to go.

“Oh, thank you. I appreciate that. And you have been a gentleman of a, umm, certain kind, so please forgive me for sounding like a bitch, but as much as I’ve enjoyed this, I’ll never give you a second thought. But I’ll wager you won’t soon forget the woman drinking the Gin Rickey. When you, uh, take matters in hand tonight, think of me choking in a dog collar with his cock balls-deep in my—

“Thanks, Cornelius, you’re a saint. Keep the change.

“One last thing. I know what you are, sir, and you checked all the boxes. Who knows? Had a butterfly sometime, someplace flapped its wings a skosh harder … but that’s a pointless thought.

“No, I never said what I am, did I?

“I, sir, am a slut. His slut. Good night, and lush dreams.”