Then Salesman was back, introducing himself as Neil, admiring my sweater—nice color!—and we were off. Questions for me, questions for him. All easily answered, most of it probably lies. But kindly meant and prettily spoken. Just going through the motions, a third Cosmo for me, a fourth, fifth, sixth? whiskey for him. Then that delicate moment, as I watched him lick his lower lip, contemplate his next move.

I didn’t like to make it too easy for them. Didn’t resort to fawning giggles or suggestive touches. I had my own standards. The man had to come to me. He had to work for it.

Then finally, as worthy of a professional salesman, he made the ask. Would I like to retire someplace quieter? Maybe continue our conversation more privately?

In answer, I picked up my purse, rose to standing. His smile growing, as he realized it honestly was happening, the strange woman in the bar was really saying yes. And by God she was as good-looking standing up as sitting down and please oh please oh please let her be wearing a black thong beneath that tight-fitting skirt . . .

I followed him to his room, never having to give away that I didn’t have one of my own, because in this day and age rooms required photo ID and these were not the kinds of evenings I wanted connected back to me.

Once inside, it was all pretty straightforward. Nothing special, nothing kinky. I always marveled at this. All these men, straying beyond the bonds of marriage to engage in the same old sex acts. A set repertoire on their part? Or maybe they didn’t require variety as much as they thought. Even with a new partner, they instinctively sought out the routine they were most comfortable with.

My one request: Leave the lights on.

He liked that. Most of them did. Men are visual, after all.

I let him remove my tall leather boots. Unpeel my tight skirt to find the black lace thong. Then my fingers worked the clasp of his slacks, the buttons of his shirt. Clothes on the floor, two bodies on the bed, condom on the nightstand. I smelled his aftershave, probably applied right before he journeyed downstairs in search of conquest. I heard his guttural words of praise as his hands ran down my naked body.

I sighed, let myself go. The pressure of his fingers gripping my hips. The roughness of his whiskers against my nipples. The first, penetrating feel of him thrusting into my body. The sensations I could feel. A physical act I could register.

Then that suspended moment, his head arched back, teeth gritting, arms trembling . . .

I opened my eyes. I always did. I had to know, if even for an instant, that this person’s ecstasy had something to do with me.