good. You get to keep your safe little distance, feeling superior, while the poor stupid fuck who’s trying so hard to do everything right is pumping away in ignorance, thinking he’s with a woman who cares enough about him to show him her heart.”
My face is flaming. I can’t look at him. For some unthinkable reason, I feel as if I might cry.
“Question three—”
“Enough. You’ve made your point.” But he isn’t done with me yet.
“Question three: Have you ever had sex with a man you weren’t in love with?”
I turn my head slowly and meet his gaze. “Does that make me a slut?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. In my opinion, a woman should be able to sleep with whoever she wants, whenever she wants, for any reason she wants, without having to explain or apologize. But your exact words were, ‘I do it in a context of caring and love.’ Which means, at the very least, every time you’ve had sex there was a real connection, real caring.”
His gaze, once again, becomes penetrating. “Which means you’ve never had a one-night stand. Or revenge sex. Or sex out of boredom, or when you’ve had too much to drink, or with a guy who liked you way more than you liked him and you needed the ego stroke. Right?”
I can’t answer. I don’t have to; he sees it all written plainly on my face.
“And you’re the one judging them,” he murmurs, effectively rendering me speechless.
The waiter arrives. He sets down my drink. “Can I get you anything else?”
Looking at me, A.J. says, “A side order of crow?”
The waiter, who by now realizes there’s something odd going on, giggles awkwardly, hesitating only a moment before saying brightly, “Well, let me know! I’ll leave you two alone.”
When he leaves, I’m left gagging on the dry, crusty rinds of my own hypocrisy.
I pretend the glass of whiskey is a crystal ball. I stare into it, hoping to divine a way to salvage my self-respect. Because A.J. is completely right; what I said was bullshit. Self-righteous bullshit, no less. I gather my courage and meet his gaze.
“You’re right about everything you just said. I owe you an apology.”
I can tell this staggers him, but he has the good grace to shrug it off with a simple nod.
“I still feel bad for prostitutes, though, no matter how much money they make. It can’t be . . . that can’t be an easy way to earn a living.”
After a long time he says, “No. It isn’t.”
I’m arrested by the unexpected melancholy in his voice. I stare at him in dawning wonder. “Oh my God.”
He looks up at me. “What?”
“You defend them! You not only defend them, you have empathy for them, too! And you think women who aren’t being paid for it should be able to sleep with whoever they want, without being slut-shamed!”
“Your point being?”
“You’re a feminis t !”
He snorts. “And you’re drunk.”
He’s right. I’m definitely feeling dizzy. Still, I’m convinced I’ve glimpsed into the soul of the sad, beautiful Viking sitting across from me, and I want more. Unfortunately, at that moment, my cell phone rings.
It’s Eric. “Babe, where the hell are you?” he yells.
Wincing, I jerk my head away from the earpiece. “I’m fine, Eric. I stopped on the way home because I just needed . . . I just needed some space. I’ll be home later.”
“Stopped? Where?” I hear the panic in his voice.
“Just this bar—”
“You’re alone at a bar?” he shouts. There’s an alarming lack of trust resounding in his voice. “Jesus, Chloe, what are you thinking? Which bar? I’ll come get you!”
“Eric, please, calm down. It’s fine, I’m not alone. I’m with . . .” I raise my eyes to find A.J. gazing steadily at me. His jaw is rock hard. “I-I’m with a friend.”
There. I said it. I’m with a friend. A prostitute-loving, bipolar friend, who just this afternoon told me he had plenty of reasons to hate me.
I’ve gone completely off my rocker.
“What friend?”
My face is flaming. I can’t look at him. For some unthinkable reason, I feel as if I might cry.
“Question three—”
“Enough. You’ve made your point.” But he isn’t done with me yet.
“Question three: Have you ever had sex with a man you weren’t in love with?”
I turn my head slowly and meet his gaze. “Does that make me a slut?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. In my opinion, a woman should be able to sleep with whoever she wants, whenever she wants, for any reason she wants, without having to explain or apologize. But your exact words were, ‘I do it in a context of caring and love.’ Which means, at the very least, every time you’ve had sex there was a real connection, real caring.”
His gaze, once again, becomes penetrating. “Which means you’ve never had a one-night stand. Or revenge sex. Or sex out of boredom, or when you’ve had too much to drink, or with a guy who liked you way more than you liked him and you needed the ego stroke. Right?”
I can’t answer. I don’t have to; he sees it all written plainly on my face.
“And you’re the one judging them,” he murmurs, effectively rendering me speechless.
The waiter arrives. He sets down my drink. “Can I get you anything else?”
Looking at me, A.J. says, “A side order of crow?”
The waiter, who by now realizes there’s something odd going on, giggles awkwardly, hesitating only a moment before saying brightly, “Well, let me know! I’ll leave you two alone.”
When he leaves, I’m left gagging on the dry, crusty rinds of my own hypocrisy.
I pretend the glass of whiskey is a crystal ball. I stare into it, hoping to divine a way to salvage my self-respect. Because A.J. is completely right; what I said was bullshit. Self-righteous bullshit, no less. I gather my courage and meet his gaze.
“You’re right about everything you just said. I owe you an apology.”
I can tell this staggers him, but he has the good grace to shrug it off with a simple nod.
“I still feel bad for prostitutes, though, no matter how much money they make. It can’t be . . . that can’t be an easy way to earn a living.”
After a long time he says, “No. It isn’t.”
I’m arrested by the unexpected melancholy in his voice. I stare at him in dawning wonder. “Oh my God.”
He looks up at me. “What?”
“You defend them! You not only defend them, you have empathy for them, too! And you think women who aren’t being paid for it should be able to sleep with whoever they want, without being slut-shamed!”
“Your point being?”
“You’re a feminis t !”
He snorts. “And you’re drunk.”
He’s right. I’m definitely feeling dizzy. Still, I’m convinced I’ve glimpsed into the soul of the sad, beautiful Viking sitting across from me, and I want more. Unfortunately, at that moment, my cell phone rings.
It’s Eric. “Babe, where the hell are you?” he yells.
Wincing, I jerk my head away from the earpiece. “I’m fine, Eric. I stopped on the way home because I just needed . . . I just needed some space. I’ll be home later.”
“Stopped? Where?” I hear the panic in his voice.
“Just this bar—”
“You’re alone at a bar?” he shouts. There’s an alarming lack of trust resounding in his voice. “Jesus, Chloe, what are you thinking? Which bar? I’ll come get you!”
“Eric, please, calm down. It’s fine, I’m not alone. I’m with . . .” I raise my eyes to find A.J. gazing steadily at me. His jaw is rock hard. “I-I’m with a friend.”
There. I said it. I’m with a friend. A prostitute-loving, bipolar friend, who just this afternoon told me he had plenty of reasons to hate me.
I’ve gone completely off my rocker.
“What friend?”
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