Otherwise, it’s an honest relationship. Straightforward. No bullshit. I want something. She wants something. We both get what we want, and go our separate ways. Some of the best people I’ve ever known have been prostitutes. And yes, the most honest.”
I gape at him. “But—but—you’re taking advantage of them! Of their situation . . . their lack of money, their desperation. How can you be so casual about using a person that way? It’s inhumane! Those poor women!”
Then a miracle occurs: A.J. throws back his head and laughs. It’s a deep, masculine, beautiful sound. I’m astonished by how much I like hearing it.
When he’s finished, he looks at me with a combination of amusement and pity. “You’ve seen Hustle & Flow one too many times. I’m not denying that kind of shit exists; it does. But the ‘poor women’ I hang out with aren’t streetwalking teenagers with pimps who beat them if they don’t cough up enough cash at the end of the night. My ‘poor women’ are freelancers, fully in control of their own destinies, who charge thousands of dollars per hour, Princess, to do something you give away for free. And probably don’t even like.”
“You’re right. I don’t like it; I love it.”
The words are out before I can censor them. A.J.’s expression loses all its humor and smug self-importance. He tilts his head, examining me with such piercing intensity I wish the floor would open up and devour me. Flustered, I blunder on. “And it’s not even the same thing. If I have sex with someone it’s because I want to, not because I have to. I do it in a context of caring and love, of mutual respect—”
“Bullshit.”
I wish there were cutlery on the table, because I’m seized with the overwhelming desire to drive a fork into A.J.’s eye.
“Bullshit?” I repeat carefully, challenging him.
“Yes. Everything you just said is bullshit.” His eyes flash. “Except maybe the first part. I think you were telling the truth about that.”
The anger inside me feels like a nuclear bomb detonating in my solar plexus. I’m so pissed I don’t even know where to start.
Dead serious now, A.J. says, “If you want me to explain why I think it’s bullshit, Princess, you’re going to have to tell me more truths. You up for that?”
My hands shake with the violent desire to curl around his neck. He’s so arrogant, so infuriatin g ! I’d like to . . . well, I don’t know what I’d like to do to him, but it would definitely involve drawing blood!
I feign boredom. After over two decades of living with my mother, a woman moved to great emotion only if it involves a sale at Saks Fifth Avenue, this kind of composure is second nature.
“I’m not afraid of you, A.J.,” I say, tranquil as a sphinx. “Ask away.”
His smile comes on slow and wicked. He’s obviously not buying my act. “Good. Question one: Have you ever had sex when you weren’t in the mood?”
I open my mouth to say no, but stop. The truth is, it happened just last week. Eric was horny, I was exhausted from a long day at work, and I didn’t want to have an awkward scene or make him feel like I didn’t want him, so I just . . . sort of . . .
“I see the answer is yes. And let me tell you this: when you fuck a man just to shut him up or spare his ego, that’s not mutual respect. That’s manipulation. In other words, it’s bullshit.”
My mouth closes with an audible snap. I motion to the bartender for another whiskey.
“Question two: Have you ever faked an orgasm?”
A telling flush creeps up my neck. If that pretty waiter doesn’t get his skinny behind over here right now with my whiskey, I’m going to slap that beauty mark right off his face.
“Another yes.” A.J.’s voice grows softer. “And this is an even worse yes, because not only is it a manipulation, it’s a flat-out lie. A lie that maintains your control, so you don’t have to risk being honest by telling a man what really makes you feel
I gape at him. “But—but—you’re taking advantage of them! Of their situation . . . their lack of money, their desperation. How can you be so casual about using a person that way? It’s inhumane! Those poor women!”
Then a miracle occurs: A.J. throws back his head and laughs. It’s a deep, masculine, beautiful sound. I’m astonished by how much I like hearing it.
When he’s finished, he looks at me with a combination of amusement and pity. “You’ve seen Hustle & Flow one too many times. I’m not denying that kind of shit exists; it does. But the ‘poor women’ I hang out with aren’t streetwalking teenagers with pimps who beat them if they don’t cough up enough cash at the end of the night. My ‘poor women’ are freelancers, fully in control of their own destinies, who charge thousands of dollars per hour, Princess, to do something you give away for free. And probably don’t even like.”
“You’re right. I don’t like it; I love it.”
The words are out before I can censor them. A.J.’s expression loses all its humor and smug self-importance. He tilts his head, examining me with such piercing intensity I wish the floor would open up and devour me. Flustered, I blunder on. “And it’s not even the same thing. If I have sex with someone it’s because I want to, not because I have to. I do it in a context of caring and love, of mutual respect—”
“Bullshit.”
I wish there were cutlery on the table, because I’m seized with the overwhelming desire to drive a fork into A.J.’s eye.
“Bullshit?” I repeat carefully, challenging him.
“Yes. Everything you just said is bullshit.” His eyes flash. “Except maybe the first part. I think you were telling the truth about that.”
The anger inside me feels like a nuclear bomb detonating in my solar plexus. I’m so pissed I don’t even know where to start.
Dead serious now, A.J. says, “If you want me to explain why I think it’s bullshit, Princess, you’re going to have to tell me more truths. You up for that?”
My hands shake with the violent desire to curl around his neck. He’s so arrogant, so infuriatin g ! I’d like to . . . well, I don’t know what I’d like to do to him, but it would definitely involve drawing blood!
I feign boredom. After over two decades of living with my mother, a woman moved to great emotion only if it involves a sale at Saks Fifth Avenue, this kind of composure is second nature.
“I’m not afraid of you, A.J.,” I say, tranquil as a sphinx. “Ask away.”
His smile comes on slow and wicked. He’s obviously not buying my act. “Good. Question one: Have you ever had sex when you weren’t in the mood?”
I open my mouth to say no, but stop. The truth is, it happened just last week. Eric was horny, I was exhausted from a long day at work, and I didn’t want to have an awkward scene or make him feel like I didn’t want him, so I just . . . sort of . . .
“I see the answer is yes. And let me tell you this: when you fuck a man just to shut him up or spare his ego, that’s not mutual respect. That’s manipulation. In other words, it’s bullshit.”
My mouth closes with an audible snap. I motion to the bartender for another whiskey.
“Question two: Have you ever faked an orgasm?”
A telling flush creeps up my neck. If that pretty waiter doesn’t get his skinny behind over here right now with my whiskey, I’m going to slap that beauty mark right off his face.
“Another yes.” A.J.’s voice grows softer. “And this is an even worse yes, because not only is it a manipulation, it’s a flat-out lie. A lie that maintains your control, so you don’t have to risk being honest by telling a man what really makes you feel
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