We need a drink.  Come on.  I guess he would prefer I had the 'house' but we're still at the impressing stage.

'This is the best part of the evening,' he says.

'What's that?' I ask.

'Choosing the wine.'

He calls the waiter back.  'Chianti Classico please.'

I've had it before, it's the kind that makes my nose itch, but of course I don't say so.

There's one thing that we're together on though, and we know it.  He wants sex and so do I, but we go through with this strange preamble.  It's perfectly plain...his eyes are wide open, ranging from chest to mouth and back again.  I leave my lips open, enticingly, half a centimetre, no more.  This is well practiced. 

He gets a glimpse of my hot interior while I devour him whole.  This is not our first meeting.  But, I have a rule, never on the first night - for all the difference it makes.

Here we go!

He says: 'I've been having X-rated dreams about you.' 

As if that might turn me on a little faster...  What's the rush - am I that desirable?  His words disgust me, I'm not sure why.  No...wait a minute, that's not so honest, disgust and excite more like...he knows the vital mix. What does he do with my body I want to know?  He's not saved himself for me, that's for sure, he's spent his currency too soon - alone.  I can't compete with a good imagination!

The Chianti tastes thick and spicy.  I smile a little now.  He thinks I want his taste, as good as nectar.  He thinks he has a never-ending supply. 

I laugh at his imagination, so short of the mark.  I don't dream of him, his limbs are wrong...not long enough.  That's not all.  I need a competent man, no femininity please.  I'm an old fashioned type, I need an animal inside me, to make me scream.  Who am I kidding? 

He's speaking now.  I've missed the gist.  The best stories are written in our heads, not told, not for sharing.  His x-rated dreams cannot be elucidated.  Not here, not now - the noise from the banquette is too great.  Will his dream ignite me?  I can't tell yet.

I don't have to go on with this, no one's forcing.  Even I know that.  But I'm compelled.  I feel...unworthy of a better man, so I stay.  I take another glass, no, let's get this straight, he pours me one - he's not that bad.  We're in for some kind of session, tonight.  We both know that.  He tries hard to interest me, head bobbing, mouth moving.  He talks of literature, but I don't read the stuff.