She sat alone ....

        She sat alone at a table for two with a copy of The Chicago Sun Times and a cup of coffee. Long black hair, green eyes, slightly oriental features and skin the color of latte. The newspaper was opened to the film section. She was reading the review of Indecent Proposal.
        I sat down in the unoccupied chair. "Would you sleep with someone for a million dollars?"
        She looked up, paused, showing me her clear face and a slightly questioning smile, "Are you offering?"
        "I wish I could."
        "What you have to understand," she said, "is that Robert Redford didn't just want to fuck Demi Moore, he wanted to have power over her, her husband, he wanted to humiliate them. That is where his real pleasure lay."
        She took a sip from her cup, closed her eyes and swallowed. She did not open them until after she spoke. "How much are you willing to offer?"
        I thought her voice trembled. I replied "Five hundred dollars."
        "There are rules."
        "Rules?"
        "One hour. No names. However you want. My mouth, my breasts, my cunt. My ass. Your choice. I will not kiss you and I will not come."
        "Where do we go?"
        "Anywhere. Public, private ... whatever."
        "I need to get the money. Will you be here when I return?"
        "You'll find out if you come back." I stood up. Her gaze went back to the review. I left the café, looking back only once. I got the impression that only her eyes, not her mind, were focused on the newspaper. I did not know if I would return. The thought of AIDS mixed with a powerful feeling of weakness and impotence about buying sex. She was beautiful in a way that overrode any objections or qualms. I had a hope that this would lead to something other than sex, more than sex. That was why I had sat down there in the first place. My question had been a pick-up line that she had taken literally and it was me who was hooked.
        The ATM dispensed the money, a thick wad of twenties. Something in me wanted to impress her, so I changed them inside the bank for five one-hundred dollar bills. In the café the table was empty except for her coffee cup. The overwhelming disappointment I felt shocked me.
        I imagined being with her. To be able to touch her. To have fucked her. But I could summon no pictures. My desire was for intimacy and this need would not have been satisfied by the consensual rape she proposed. I thought of making love. I closed my eyes, but I was not fantasizing about my pleasure. Instead I was seeing a look of open-eyed surrender and delight on her face. I was imagining her to be in love with me.
        I opened my eyes. She was sitting across the table from me. I had not heard her sit down.
        "I do not want to be with you this way," I said, and my voice wavered. "I would like to make love with you."
        She looked at me and stood to go, leaving a handful of coins beside her cup. "I'm sorry." she said, "That's not what turns me on."

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