One sunny Tuesday at 3 pm, I met, for the second time, a handsome man at a cafe in Gramercy. We had first met there the week before when he came up to me, made a reference to the Greek muses and was (he intimated later) charmed that I could hold my own in elevated conversation. He was an intellectual by profession and a contemporary artist of excellent repute. What a shame, I thought, it would be more thrilling to have an artist of ILL-repute in my dah.
Nonetheless, I was intrigued that he was South American and impressed by his strong opinion on which red wine should be enjoyed in the afternoon. I called him “Professor,” a moniker he accepted begrudgingly until he started “assigning” me “book reports” on Houellebecq with pedagogic delight. We left the cafe, and I let him lead me on a wolfish jaunt through the bustling neighborhood, during which he kissed me, long, hard and for half an hour, up against the wrought iron fence of Gramercy Park. Between deep breaths and our lips touching, I demurred when he whispered he knew a hotel near by. (WTF?!) He left me on the street corner crazed, red-cheeked, mortified, aroused.
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