“Why don’t you come in?”

I step inside.  Soft music plays subtly in the background, and the air reeks of stale perfume.  I can see the idea she was going for, but she overemphasized the point, and the whole situation comes off as cheesy. 

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Have a seat.  Make yourself at home.”

            I feel awkward.  I don’t want to be here, but I’m stuck.  I hate getting socially glued to a situation that has only one awkward shameful exit.  The pit of my stomach sinks as I unzip my coat.  Each click of the zipper seals my near fate and emphasizes it more and more, until the jacket is finally off.  I slide onto the leather couch, and try to control my breathing.  In through the mouth, hold, out through the nose. 

            She slithers back into the room, an aged serpent temptress. 

“I only have scotch, I hope that’s okay.”

            I nod in approval.  Her body presses against mine as she sits down, and she wraps herself around me.  The fine lines on her face make her look distinguished like a professor, but the coarseness of her hair makes her scream aged librarian.  At least she’s taken care of herself, and her body doesn’t look like it’s taken much of a descent.  Her breasts are small, so it’s hard to accurately judge how well she’s aged.  I guess I’ll find out soon enough. 

            We drink our drinks and share a heartbeat as she climbs on top of me.  Stained lips and a painted face brush against my neck.

“Let’s take this party upstairs,” she hisses in my ear.

            She takes my hand and drags me to her bedroom.  The flicker of candles make it look like the stage of a Pagan ceremony.  She pushes me onto the bed, and leaps on me like a jungle cat pouncing on its prey.  My heart pounds, but not out of love, or lust, it’s out of fear, shame, and regret.  There’s no turning back now.  There’s nothing I can do. 

I play dead, and she grabs my hands and gropes herself with them, she worms her tongue in and out of my mouth, trying to taste the little self-respect I have left.

            Thoughts are dizzyingly swirling in my head.  How can I do this?  Who am I?  What have I become? 

            Her body gyrates and grinds against mine.  Her hips thrust into me as she devours my soul and me.

“I want you to give it to me!”

            She tries to rip my shirt off, but it gets snagged on a button halfway down.  It’s a good shirt, and now she’s ruined it.  It doesn’t faze her horny hedonistic lust.  She pulls off my pants and underwear.

“Do me now!”

            Frantically, she rifles through a drawer for a condom and throws it at me.  She’s stripping and wriggling next to me as my sickly nervous fingers try to open the impossible wrapper.

“Hurry, I want it,” she moans.

            I look at her in disgust.  Each breath that seeps out of that septic city sewer mouth sickens me.

“C’mon!”

“Shut up!  I can’t!  I can’t do it!”

“Give it to me, then!”

“No, I can’t do it!  This is wrong.  This is disgusting.  You’re disgusting.  I have a wife and kids.  I have a family, a house, a dog, and here I am being a slut, no, a whore!”

“Tom, settle down.  Cheryl knows you’re over here, and knows you’re just doing it for the money.  The economy’s been hard on everyone, but you have to do what you can to pay the bills.  I mean, I’m selling insurance over the phone now.  So what you haven’t got another office job? I can afford to keep paying you for sex and that’ll help you get by.”

“Sorry Amy, not everyone is cut out to be a salesperson like you.”

“I know.  Now, apologize.”

“For what?”

“For saying I’m disgusting.”

“You know you’re not disgusting.  I’m sorry.”

“Now, get that body over here.  Just think, you’re doing it for your kids.”