Tomorrow night I’ll come home from work with a shopping bag, most likely with a new dress inside. I’ll shower, wash my hair, and shave my legs. I’ll dry myself off, put on deodorant, and comb out my hair. I’ll put on my underwear and then apply my makeup, and there’s a chance I’ll pause to clean up my brows. Then I’ll blow out my hair.  I’ll finish my makeup. Finish my hair. Tweak my makeup. Tweak my hair. Dab perfume at the base of my throat, between my breasts, and at the pulse points of my wrists. Then I’ll get dressed and slip into my heels. By this point, I’m usually late. I’ll try not to be.

My cell phone will buzz and I’ll know he’s downstairs. I’ll spend a few minutes searching for my bag, I’ll curse like a sailor, and then I’ll find it. I’ll toss in my phone, some lipstick, a toothbrush, a couple of condoms, a powder compact, a couple of twenties and an ATM card, my keys, some Sominex, some Vivarin, mascara. And then I’ll remember the stories. I’ll text him a message that says I’ll be right down, and then I’ll run to my computer and wait for it to print. I’ll grab the print-out, fold it up, and tuck it into my purse. Then I’ll grab a light sweater.

He has a driver. We’ll chat and I’ll actively avoid certain subjects because I’m still not comfortable talking openly around drivers. We’ll be deposited at the front door of an expensive but uninteresting restaurant full of finance types like himself and we’ll chat about work – his work, mostly. The food will be good. And then we’ll leave, and we’ll get into the car, and the driver will take us to his place.

When we get there, I’ll kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and tell him about the tampon in my cunt to preempt a fingerbang, and then I’ll slump into the sofa and fight a wave of existential angst.

And then he’ll ask me to pull out the stories. And I will. The tightly folded square will unfold in my hands and I’ll hold it between my fingers and read it aloud. He might masturbate. Or he might touch me. I’ll try not to be too critical of myself, and I’ll try not to edit my own language as I read it. I’ll want him to come on my tits.