“Must read a lot,” you say. Your voice could be masculine or feminine. High enough to be a woman’s, low enough to pass as a high-voiced male.

“I do.”

You eye me. Not just look, not just see, but examine. Intelligence shines in your vivid green eyes. Curiosity, nerves, confidence, defiance. Complex eyes.

I know what you see when you look at me: five-eight in my bare feet; long, thick, black hair, straight, raven black, glossy, hanging to midbicep when it is loose, which is rarely; I am built with curves, bell-shaped hips and buxom, but I am fit, toned, athletic, lithe—my diet is rigorous, my exercise regimen strenuous and unforgiving; black eyes that I am told seem to see too much and give too little away; high cheekbones, full lips, delicate chin, classic heart-shaped face. I am exotic. I could be Spanish, or Middle Eastern. Even Islander, or Hawaiian, Filipino.

I am beautiful. Uncommonly beautiful, my features possessing the kind of symmetry and perfection that only comes along once in a generation. Exquisite. Breathtaking.

I know what I look like.

I endure your scrutiny without flinching, without looking away.

Another lesson learned early: to establish authority in any situation, wait out the silence, force the other person to speak first.

You concede. “I’m George.”

“Good morning, George. Welcome. Would you care for some tea?”

“Got any coffee?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t drink coffee.”

“I’m fine, then. Don’t really care much for tea.” You amble about the living room, peer out the window from a far enough distance that I suspect you’re afraid of heights. Yes, you shudder subtly and turn away, shrugging uncomfortably. Move to the Van Gogh. “This an original?”

I laugh, but kindly. “No, unfortunately. The original is at the MOMA. That is a reproduction, but a rather excellent one.”

You move to the Portrait of Madame X. This one captures your interest for a few moments. “This is interesting.”

I do not comment. I do not talk about that portrait, or its relevance to my name. I do not talk about myself at all.

Finally, you turn away and take a seat on the couch, extend your long legs and cross them at the ankle, fling an arm across the back of the couch. I perch on the armchair catercorner to the couch, a mate to the one in my bedroom. Knees together, legs angled to one side, ankles crossed beneath, red Jimmy Choos on display. That’s a ploy, that display of my shoes. See if you look at them, notice them. You do not.

Time to take this appointment by the scruff. “You are not what I was expecting . . . Miss Tompkins.”

A scowl, then. Curl of the upper lip, corners of your mouth downturned. Disgusted, derisive. “Name’s George.”

“Explain.”

“Explain my name?” You seem truly baffled, then angry. “You first.”

Ha. Neatly parried. Point, Tompkins. “I am named for that painting.” I point at the Sargent.

“And I’m named for the state.”

“So your name is Georgia, then?”

You give me a hard stare, eyes gone hard as jade. “Last person who called me Georgia ended up needing dental implants.”

I smile. “Noted.”

Another long, awkward silence. “So. How’s this little program of yours work, Madame X?” A pause. “And do I really have to call you Madame X all the damn time? It’s a helluva mouthful.”

“Simply ‘X’ is fine, if you prefer.” I let some hardness enter my gaze. You don’t look away, but I can see it requires effort. You have backbone. “I’ll confess, George, that your case may require some . . . modification of my usual methods.”

“Why? ’Cause I got tits and a twat?”

My lips thin at your vulgarity. “Yes, George. Because you are a woman. My methods are geared for men, and my clientele are, exclusively—at least until now—men. Or rather, boys hoping to become men.”

“What is it you do, then? Dad was pretty vague. Told me I had to come to New York and see you, and do what you told me, and I didn’t have to like it, but I couldn’t fuck it up.”

“That’s all you were told?”

“Basically.”

I chew on the inside of my mouth and stare out the window, wondering, thinking. “Your father may have been confused about the nature of my services, in that case.”

You lean forward, drawing your feet together, elbows on knees. “What are your services?”

“Consider it . . . etiquette training, of a sort. Manners. Comportment. Bearing. Appearance, speech patterns, first impressions.”

“So you teach rich little assholes how to be less douchey.”

I blink and have to stifle a laugh. You really are funny. “Essentially, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Bearing comes in to play a lot. How you present yourself. How the opposite sex perceives you. How you assert yourself, even passively.”

“How are you supposed to passively assert yourself?” you ask.

“Body language, strategic silences, posture, eye contact.”

You stand up, pace away across the room, stand in front of the couch looking over at me, and then abruptly sit again. “And how exactly are you, a woman, qualified to teach guys how to be more manly?” You tilt your head. “I mean, that’s really it, isn’t it? Most dudes these days, especially the rich ones born with a silver spoon an’ all that shit, they’re just pussies, right? Not an alpha among ’em. They’re all just cocky, smarmy, arrogant, pushy, conceited, self-absorbed, entitled little douche-guzzlers. Couldn’t charm or flirt a girl into bed no matter how hard they try, so they rely on their wads of cash and fancy cars to do the work for them.”

“I sense bitterness, George,” I say, deadpan.

You laugh, your eyes brightening, head thrown back, a real belly laugh. You loosen. “You might say so. Been forced to pussyfoot around dickheads like that all my life. Dad had this idea that we had to fit in with the elite wealthy, since we have the same kind of money. ’Cept, we ain’t like them. He’s a rancher, an old-school Texas cowhand from the ass-end of nowhere who just happened to stumble into the oil business. I do mean stumble, too. Gambled the pink slip to his old dually against a hand of Hold ’Em. Got damn lucky, and won the deed to some land that just happened to have oil wells on it. Bing-bang-boom, a few good investments and a whole hell of a lotta luck later, we was rolling in hundos. But he thought he could buy his way out of being blue collar, which meant stuffing his hick ass into tuxedos, and me into frilly bitch dresses, and us going to fancy-dancy soirées. Problem there is, you can take the hick out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the hick. So we stood out. Them high-society boys, they sniffed me out real fuckin’ fast. Knew I wasn’t the kind of girl they was used to. Knew there was just . . . something wrong with me. And I had long curly hair then, too, and girly-ass dresses. But they still knew.”

“Knew what, George?”

You eye me. “Don’t play, X.”

“You either.” I eye you right back.

You lift a shoulder in faux-laconic dismissal. “They knew I’m a dyke.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Say what you mean, George, and don’t be vulgar about it. That’s the first lesson.”

“Whatever.” You sigh. “They figured out I’m a lesbian. That clear enough for you? They could tell I’m a true-blue rug-muncher from Dykesville, Lesbiana.”

I roll my eyes. “You make jokes at your own expense, George. It’s unbecoming.”

“Who’s coming?” You quirk a corner of your lips up at your own joke.

I harden my eyes. “George.”

“All right, all right.” You hold up your hands palms out. “I know what unbecoming is. And yeah, I do make jokes at my own expense.”

“And not just at your own expense, but that of others who also have chosen your lifestyle.”

Your eyes blaze, and I realize I have erred. Your lip curls, your chin lifts. “Shows how much you fuckin’ know.”

“My apologies, George, what I should have said was—”