“I know.” I don’t know.

“I’m not some townie whore. It’s a made-up story.”

“I know.”

“I don’t go after married rich guys.”

“I know.”

“So where are you gonna take me, Joe?”

YOU’RE happy I refused to tell you because it’s not often in life that you get all dressed up and have some place to go without knowing what that place is exactly. You’re in a long pale pink skirt with two giant slits and you’re wearing high-heeled brown boots—new, for me—the slits are so high I can almost see your panties and you have on a loose brown sweater that will be so easy for me to peel off of you. Your body is an offering, a payment for all those hands-off phone calls, those lunches. Your bra is pink, hot pink, so that I don’t forget about your tits under your sweater, not for one second. When I hug you I smell flowers and laundry detergent and pussy juice and I wonder how hard you had to go at your pillow and I’m proud of myself for not checking your e-mail for two solid hours so that I could give us all the suspense we need and you’re about to tell me fuck this date, come upstairs and I pull away. It has been so long, Beck. And while you are always adorable, you’ve never gotten this dressed up for me. Tonight you care what I think. We aren’t going to see your friends and nobody’s taking your picture and posting it on Facebook. Your body and your hair and your lips and your thighs, everything, is for me. Ever since that night I built your bed, you have forced us into asexual, sunlit spaces. I finally have you in the dark and you’re not hiding from me anymore and I’m gonna make this last as long as I can. I love this. I love you.

“Let’s go,” I say, and I take your hand and your hand is good in mine and we walk in silence and it turns out that there is something to all those fucking talks on the phone because there’s glue here now, between you and me, and we’re both surprised at how well we know each other and I squeeze your hand and you look at me and I hail a cab and one arrives because this is the way it’s gonna be for us from now on.

“Where to?”

“Central Park,” I say.

“Omigod, Joe. Really?”

“Where they keep the carriages.”

You squeal and clap and I did well and I wasn’t sure because part of me thought you don’t get cheesier than a horse-drawn carriage but in the end, it’s been almost two weeks since our IKEA night and I wanted our nocturnal reunion to be as hot as possible. The cab sails uptown and we’re there faster than I thought possible and this time, I get out of the cab first. And this time, I run around to your side of the car and open the door for you. I offer my hand. You take it. The cabbie checks you out. I tip him. And before you know it, you and I are side by side in the horse-drawn carriage, nestled like lovebirds.

“This is bold, Joe,” you say and you move closer to me, again.

“Those slits are bold,” I say and you spread your legs the tiniest bit and you want my help and I’m sliding my hand over your thigh and you’re turned on (the trot of the horse, the color of the leaves, me) and you whimper slightly and I get there. Lace panties, dewy with you and you whimper again and push just a bit toward my hand and I get under your panties and you’re a pillow-soft warm pond just for me and you say my name and I hold my hand there, just taking you in and you kiss me on the neck.

“Thank you.”

“No, no,” I say because I can’t make words right now. I’m too fucking happy to talk. The talking portion of the story of you and me is done and I use my other hand to move up and take your shoulder in my palm and we stay like that with eyes closed, taking each other in—your hand moving up my leg, painfully, beautifully slow—and you don’t even know what comes next and this is the best two hundred bucks I ever spent in my life. Thank you, horse.

SO Benji was right. You do like your luxury. And I realize that I do too. We’re tucked into the darkest corner of Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle and I own you and I’m torturing you, being so close to all these empty rooms, all these soft beds, and I’m not taking you to bed, not just yet.

“Oh come on,” you say. “We’ll steal a key from the maid. I’ve never done anything like that.”

“What is it you want to do in there, young lady?”

“You know what we’re gonna do in there, Joe.”

“Yeah?”

You nod and you’re nibbling my ear and if I asked, you would get down under the table, here, now. But I don’t ask because I want your mouth on my ear. Your hands are on the move, prowling over my belt, that’s right, there’s room under there, that’s right, that’s your hand, that’s my shirt. Pull it out, yes. You’re reaching and you’re wanting and you’ve got me in your hand, home, and they need a new word for hand job because this

Is.

Magic.

You’re a ball of want and I have to open my eyes and see something unsexy or I’m gonna blow it and the room feels bright in the dark. I’ve never felt so safe as I do in your hands. I kiss you and you kiss me and this was well worth the wait and your magnolia is gonna take me in, won’t be long now, you’re sopping wet, ready.

Nobody is watching us. Nobody is mad at us. Nothing is wrong with us. The waiter in the red jacket who brought us two tall glasses of ice and two cocktail napkins and two small glasses of cold vodka was respectful and good. The drawings on the walls are good, just like they were when I saw them online when I was figuring out where to take you on my golden chariot to train your brain into thinking of me as your passport to money and leather banquettes. I make less than every dude in here, including the waiter.

“Joe.”

“Beck.”

“I want you. Now.” You sound all gooey and warm.

But a fucking waiter approaches, slow, mannered. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Huh?”

You pull away and cross your legs and bite your lip. Are we getting busted for PDA? He bows, slightly. “Miss, are you Miss Beck?”

“I’m Beck,” you say and the waiter is confused. “Yes, I’m Miss Beck. What’s wrong?”

Everything.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt but you’ve received a rather urgent phone call from Miss Peach.”

“Oh God.” You cover your throat and it’s over. You’re not safe anymore.

He looks at me and I nod. He goes and you’re tearing into your purse and all that we just did is melting faster than the leftover ice cubes.

“That’s weird,” I say and you’re still rummaging. You carry too much shit around.

“I can’t find my phone.”

“How did she know you were here?”

You blush. “I may have tweeted.”

Beck, Beck, this was supposed to be our night, alone. I did this for you. Those slits were for me and that bra was for me and your panties were for me. How is this going to work if you can’t get through a few hours without looking for an audience? There’s a pact you make when you slide into a booth and shove your hand down a man’s pants, Beck. There’s no tweeting when you’re fucking and what am I gonna do with you? I want to scream and get more ice but I have to breathe and drink and say nothing.

“Joe, you’re not mad, right?”

“No.”

“I’ve never been here. When you were in the bathroom, I dunno,” you say and you got your phone and you use it to tap me on the arm and I turn to you. “Joe, I’m so happy to be here. I’ve always wanted to go here and I was just excited.”

“It’s fine.”

“I should call Peach.”

“Okay, Miss Beck. You go call Peach.”

Every guy in here watches you slip out and two dudes look at you like they have a shot with you and I would like nothing more than to kick some ass. We were supposed to walk out of this bar together. You’re not meant to glide alone in your slutty pink skirt all wrinkled. You unnecessarily lay a hand on the doorman’s arm asking what, I do not know and that skirt is a little too see-through, if you want to know the truth. It’s gonna be hard to break you, this hungry public part of you that wants to be noticed and observed. You need an escort, Beck, especially if you want to dress like a fucking whore.