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“Will you send me that legal contact of yours before you go?” I said, rolling my stockings back on, sense-checking
where we stood on our bargain.

You glazed over and patted your pockets for your keys/wallet/phones, your mind elsewhere. You’d just fucked me,
bareback, in every hole, for free, at a time that suited you. Now you were standing in front of me looking vaguely
hassled by my presence.

“Oh yeah, that. If I forget about it, then chase me for it next week.”

I’d lost my side of the bargain and left that hotel room expecting never to see you again.

I’d become a free hooker. I dwelled on it all week but then something bizarre happened and it subverted into a
perverse joy. I started to really get off on how dumb I’d been to get duped, even after all these years.

At this point all reason would have said to walk away. But I began to text you instead. Compulsively, every day,
multiple times a day. I developed a festering little crush on you as the wholesome upstanding citizen I could only
hope to be.