My name is Evadne Cavell and I am a sex goddess.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

For me, sex is a compulsion. Some want chocolate, I want sex, preferably anonymous sex. I attempt to control myself by having rules. I can look and I can touch, but no names, no body fluids and no penetration. As a result, it’s been over three years since I’ve had proper, hard-banging, toe-curling sex. Then, my “fever” comes. This is when my sexual frustration gets to a point where anything I see gets me aroused, but it’s as if the word FRIGID is wrapped around my waist like a chastity belt.

As if I need one. I’ve been on enough blind dates, and placed and answered enough personal ads to realize when I’m being used as practice until something better comes along.

But let me say something else: There is a direct link between Denver’s historic movie palaces and my sex life. For example, at the age of seventeen I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Ogden Theater as a “virgin” and was sacrificed on the altar of the Sweet Transvestite.

This led to my first act of defiance against my parents when I dyed my hair red, got tattooed, and every Friday for a year, I played the role of Columbia for the movie audience. I acted shamelessly with those people and lost a few friends when I began dating some of the white boys. Not only was I playing against type, I got a reputation as a black girl “playing in the snow.”

I saw it as expanding my tastes.

Now, I’m thirty-five. The Ogden no longer shows movies, but my love for films still provides crucial access to my sexual nature.

Today, on this summer afternoon in early June, I sit in the second-floor lobby of The DeLuxe Theater waiting for the next showing of an animation festival. As usual, part of me is nervous at the thought of getting caught but this just makes another part of me wet with anticipation. I drum my fingers on the tabletop and look at my watch.

Twenty minutes to go.

I’m dressed in an outfit as liberating as it is confining that would scandalize anyone who knew me. Wearing a white linen shell with a red cashmere sweater and black ankle-strap shoes, I resemble one of those Parisian Apache dancers. My black cotton pencil-skirt is so tight and thin I suspect that I’ll be leaving a damp spot on the red vinyl seat.

Thanks to my African heritage, I have no need for spray-painted tans or silicon implants. And although I give off signals as eye candy saying Eat me, I’m a size 20 in a size zero world with my full, rounded hips, the sharp dips at my waist and the paunch of my belly.

My size isn’t the only reason why it’s been three years since my last fuck. Family and work have made things difficult too. If I could live away from them both, I would be a poor, but happy, slut having sex whenever and with whomever I liked. But I can’t turn my back on my responsibilities just to get laid. That’s not how my parents raised me.

I’m the youngest child of the Cavell family, with its close ties in artistic and civic circles. I’m also an assistant professor at Bellingham College and one of the few African-American instructors there hoping for tenure. My behavior doesn’t mesh with the College’s increasingly conservative image. Any hint of “impropriety,” to quote my boss, would not be welcomed.

It’s nobody’s business anyway. I’m just trying to get by living the life of a shy exhibitionist. I may dress plainly for the sake of my job and to cover my biker-babe-Betty Boop tattoo, but that’s during the week.

I can look at anybody and see them naked—see them having sex, writhing and grunting and coming. Most of the time, the person I’m watching is the last person I’d want to see naked, but sometimes, I’ll be spying on some man so intently that I get moist between my legs or cramp like I’ve come really hard. It’s gotten to the point where I have to wear sunglasses so people can’t see me observing them. I keep my expression bland and neutral. I am passion under ice. Except, once a week, on my day off, when I allow myself to thaw out.

I shudder despite myself. Enticing men in a theater for a bit of slap and tickle is not the way to conduct a happy, healthy sex life. But there’s something thrilling about sitting in a dark room with other people all facing the same direction with our eyes, supposedly, focused on the screen. The darkness allows fingers to fumble with buttons, zippers, and other obstacles that prevent flesh-on-flesh contact. Darkness allows nimble digits to circle around a man’s swollen pride or spread apart the vertical lips of a woman’s secret. Suddenly, the room brightens because of a scene change and, depending on level of nerve, fingers recoil to their proper, prayer-clasped position on your lap or they probe deeper, squeeze harder . . . get wetter. I never wear panties to the theater. A quick rub adds more spice to an Italian film, or makes a French movie saucier.

I’ve been coming to the matinee at The DeLuxe for just over three years, and ever since I’ve started these anonymous encounters, there has been an increase in the number of single men coming to the same showing. Don’t they have jobs? Where do they come from? Is it the warm weather, because in the winter, I can never get a hook up. It’s a bit disconcerting because there’s hardly a place less exotic to release my pent up sexual pressure, but at least it’s an escape from mainstream movie dreck.

The DeLuxe is the sole, surviving business in a failed strip mall. Converted from a warehouse supermarket, it houses three screens, a split-level coffee shop, and a café. The décor is faux movie palace but true movie palaces, like The Mayan in Denver, have nothing to worry about. For a suburban theater, it’s survived. But for how long? I’m too chicken to go to the porno arcade across town and terrified about running into someone I know here. What would I do if it happened at the porno theater? But I need some sense of closeness to let me know I’m still alive, if only from deep inside, and The DeLuxe makes me feel a little less cheap.

The following scenario happens almost every week with little variation—like clockwork.

Some man reads my signals in the lobby and suspects I’m looking for action, which is true, but on my terms. He follows me inside the theater and sits beside me despite the vast number of empty seats.

Mr. X will then put his arm around the back of my seat. I ignore him. His hand will rest on my knee. I keep my eyes looking forward. His fingers will push aside the material of my skirt and start exploring. Within twenty minutes of the movie starting, he knows I’m not going to resist. He tries to kiss me but I don’t let him. Sometimes he’ll whisper, asking if he can take me to a motel—or worse—he tries to mount me in my seat. I’ll shake my head and push him away. So he ends up finger-fucking me. I’ll feel an orgasm on the rise but it’s over before it starts because that’s when I realize how pathetic I am for doing this. I’ve become skilled at faking orgasms just to get things over with. But I’ll give the guy a hand job, just to be polite, and he always comes.

When the film ends, I exit as quickly as possible. I have no idea what the man looks like, whether he’s young or old, married or single and I don’t care. I never look him in the face.

This is my problem and I need to stop before I find myself raped or my disguise as an upstanding citizen is blown.

The latter nearly happened a few weeks ago just before the movie started. My “partner” for the day had just sat down beside me when someone called my name.

“Dr. Cavell?”

Ice water filled my veins and I looked up to see the smiling face of a young woman with red hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and wearing a patchwork halter top that matched her patchwork jeans.

“I thought that was you! It’s me, Meghan Cross. I was in your freshman seminar last semester.”

“Ah, yes, Meghan. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t know you came to the matinees here.” She looked around the theater. “Great, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.” I glanced at the man beside me and for the first time, I got a real look of my companion with his three-hair comb over, short-sleeved shirt and polyester, never-crease pants. He looked at us with wide, scared eyes. Considering I was dressed in a lightweight summer dress and a bra that boosted my assets, I’m surprised people didn’t mistake us for a hooker with her john. Meghan caught my glance and laughed.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’d better go anyway,” she indicated over her shoulder, “my friends are waiting for me down front.”

“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Meghan.”

“You, too, Dr .Cavell. See you on campus.”

I cringed when she said my name again and watched her trot down the aisle; the patches on the back pockets of her threadbare jeans emphasized her youthful, firm bottom.

The whole incident rattled me so much that, instead of it taking twenty minutes for the man to get his hands on me, it took thirty. It was also the day I started to think more seriously about the effects of my little compulsions. I resolved to stop. Who needs a man when you have hands and batteries? When I get the urge, I could satisfy myself.

And it worked. For two weeks, it worked.

Fast forward to today and here I am, back at the theater.
This place has become part of my life. It lets me enjoy my love for dark places and my need for anonymous fun, because in the dark, no one has to know or get hurt.

It’s just so naughty, as my friend Tony would say—if he knew—but I like hiding in plain sight. I’m addicted to it, and right now, I need a hit.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I picked the best day to get it. The lobby is empty, there’s no one hanging around downstairs and I didn’t see any stray men hanging about like I usually do. My finger drumming increases so I take in my surroundings to distract myself.

Twenty minutes to go.

The space around me is dark save for the table where I sit that’s located under a skylight. But I can see the polished, black concession stand glowing under the neon lights and from the constant wiping of a bartender dressed in a white starched shirt. Watching him wipe a circular groove into the counter top, I sigh, mesmerized. Round and round his arm goes and his movements reflect my life. From work to theater and back again, this pattern composes the two halves of my world, and although they’re part of the same design, they never intersect.
I continue to nurse my cup of cappuccino and try to figure out if I have batteries at home. Sometimes not even hard vibrating plastic can compensate when you’re in the mood for flesh. Looks like I’m going to have settle for a date with “The Bruiser” and take him out of his box when I get home.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

My arm jolts and upsets my coffee. I see a tall man approach from out of the shadows. Then he starts to mop up my drink.

“I’m sorry I frightened you. Let me buy you another.”

“What? Another skirt?” I frown as I wipe myself. “No, that’s quite all right.”

He chuckles. “Now I would love to buy you things, but I meant another coffee.”

I couldn’t help but give a short laugh and allow a tiny smile at his comeback. Squinting my eyes against the sun, I shake my head. “There’s plenty left.”

“Yeah, but the thrill leaves once the cream’s gone.”

Turning aside to toss several used napkins onto a vacant table, when I look back, he’s sitting across from me.

“Did you want something?” I ask through clenched teeth accompanied by an insincere smile. The sun slicing through the small skylight gives me a better look at him and I try to figure out if I’ve seen him on campus.

He wears jeans and a blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His body is athletic but not muscle-bound. His face is what I would call boyish. He has a sharp, angular jaw line, full, sensuous—dare I say “feminine”—lips, a straight nose, and a long neck that, despite my annoyance, begs me to bite into it. In fact, his doesn’t look too masculine at all. I smirk. He’s probably gay . . . or bi. Just what I friggin need.

But what takes my breath away are his eyes—two glowing amethysts fringed with long dark lashes. I never believed eyes like that were possible but something beneath those irises burns making them incandescent as I look into them. Suddenly I want to bend in all sorts of bizarre positions. My skin gets hot. I think I’m blushing.

A disarming smile creates twin dimples by the corners of his mouth and he leans closer. His auburn hair, violet eyes, and the direct sunlight intensify the contrasts of his appearance with startling effect.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but I’ve been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.”

I frown. This is not part of the plan. Erotic thoughts or not, I level a gaze on him like a government employee asked to work on a holiday. But his confident manner has an edge that his smooth, easygoing voice belies, and I think I detect a Southern accent in his voice.

“No, please, don’t be angry.” He smiles and places a sketchpad before me. “I want to show you something.”

I crane my neck to look at the sketch and my guard eases. An annoying sunbeam has been blinding me as I sit here and I must’ve been looking straight at him without realizing it.

He’s caught me from the front but at a slight angle. The drawing is in a film noir style but it’s definitely me. He even put a sparkle in the pupils of my half-closed eyes and colored the brown of my skin and the blush of my mouth. The composition is divided diagonally as a result of the sunbeam making one side dark, with just a hint of my face, whereas the other side is light and contains most of the drawing. I look mysterious and coy as if poking my face out of the shadows to drink my coffee. My lips look so sensual making an “O” to blow the steam rising from my cup. Considering the atmosphere of the theatre and the main attraction, it’s very appropriate. The only other drawing I’ve seen of myself was a caricature done when I was seven years old. I’ve come a long way. I glance up at him and his smile broadens. But when I laugh, he frowns.

“Have I done you an injustice, ma’am?” His tone is icy and formal. Not that I blame him. If I found fault with his talent, all of my taste is in my mouth.

“No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” I glance up at him. “Is that how I look?”

He nods and his smile is back again. His gaze on me intensifies, pinning me to my seat.

“You are a very attractive woman. Your features are symmetrical, balanced. More people than you can imagine have something out of proportion or off-center.”

I blink. I’ve never heard myself described as “symmetrical” before. And that is a southern accent. Sort of Matthew McConaughey-ish with a slight twang, subtle but it’s there. Jared makes a sound too guttural for a sigh and my PC muscles clench.

“Your skin,” he continues, “it glows. Reminds me of a chamois . . . all pale brown and soft.”

His lips curve into a crooked smile that’s almost too smug for my tastes, and I smirk. Yeah, this man knows he’s got it going on.

“Well, that’s very nice . . . the sketch.” I push the notebook back across the table to him.

“Jared Delaney.” He extends his hand. I look at it first with suspicion, then with scrutiny. I don’t want conversation, just a hand up my skirt. His fingers are not too thick and not too thin. Three or four would fill me nicely. I smile.

“Evadne Cavell.” Accepting the gesture and ignoring the charcoal smudges on his fingers, his hand encircles mine like a warm glove.

“Are you here for the show or have you been?” he asks.

“Both. This is my second time.”

“You’re an animation buff?”

“Yes.” I say, slightly embarrassed. “Animation is art.”

“I agree. It’s what I do, actually.”

“Really?” I grin. “Any of your work . . . ?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. His laugh is rich, velvety, with a slight huskiness to it that tells of a history of smoking—recent or past—and the sound has me curling my toes in my shoes with desire.

“I haven’t attempted film on my own, yet.” He leans back in his seat to make himself comfortable. When he crosses his legs I see cowboy boots coming from beneath faded blue jeans. Not the flashy kind you may expect a country western singer to wear, but boots that are worn and comfortable from use. “You know a bit about art, then?”

“I was an art history major—briefly—until I decided that the best way for me to keep my appreciation is from an amateur’s view.” Smiling, I reach for the sugar dispenser and sense his eyes watching my every move. “I teach at Bellingham College.”

“Ah . . . the land of the Bellingham Bucks.”

“Yes,” I sigh dramatically. Bellingham is a private college of about 2,800 students where the financial aid office is only there for students to get money out of their trust funds or from their parents in amounts too big for an ATM. Our mascot is the mule deer.

“Listen, Evadne, I can’t sit and watch you try and drink that coffee anymore. I’ll be back.”

He is heading for the concession stand before I can put down the sugar dispenser leaving me to enjoy the presentation of his ass in his jeans as he walks. He moves with a fluidity of motion that reminds me of something.

A cat. Not the domestic kind, but one of the big cats walking in long strides. He may call me symmetrical but his features are easy on the eyes too.

He returns and shifts his chair closer to mine to get out of the sun. He smiles as he presents me with my drink. He’s bought one for himself too. I’m about to blow the steam away and he’s watching me again. I have to close my eyes to drink.

When I open them, he’s still looking at me. Using a tactic I haven’t felt compelled to use in years, I lick my lips while maintaining his gaze. His eyes follow every movement as the tip of my tongue slides from right to left over my upper lip. My breathing quickens. His vibes are far from subtle, but from the way he sits straight in his chair, he is holding back. Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet mine.

“I’ve seen you here before, you know.”

I freeze for a moment, but soon recover then put down my cup. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen you—here—before. Several times.” He takes a sip of his coffee not minding that he’s just uncovered my greatest fear: the fear of discovery. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re alone.”

I look at him again, hard, my brain cycling through all the faculty, departmental, and staff meetings to try and place his face. I can’t.

“Who are you?”

He laughs but not in a derisive way and turns in his seat to face me. Once again his mouth turns up in a smile making me wonder if his lips are as soft as they look. His knee brushes against my thigh sending a spark of electricity up my spine.

“Don’t look so scared, Evadne. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And what secret would that be?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I think I do.” Even I couldn’t resist smiling as he gives me a knowing look. I twist my upper body in his direction and rest my arm on the back of my chair. As expected, Jared takes in the presentation of my cleavage but only for a moment. “I’m not used to conversation.”

“Well that’s a shame. A pretty thing like you is bound to have something to say.” He winks and turns away to take another sip of coffee. His lower lip looks full and succulent as it supports the rim of his cup. The muscles in his neck flex as he swallows. I would love to bite that neck. Mark him.

“Do you think?”

“Come on, Evadne.” Smiling, he faces me. “Don’t sell yourself short. You may try to look easy, but you’re not. You have taste. I can tell from the films you see—viewing companions not included.” He winks at me again and I get butterflies in my stomach. “You carry yourself like a queen. And girl,” he says, shaking his head, “there are some things you can’t learn off the street.”

This time it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re very observant.”

“It’s what I do, darlin’.”

This time there’s no hint of playfulness in his tone and we sit, taking each other in. For the first time I notice something else about Jared’s gaze. Although clear and open, his eyes are still dark enough as not to give everything away.

In the silence, we hear the downstairs lobby fill with patrons. He looks back over his shoulder, once again giving me a view of his neck. “The film’s letting out.” He smiles and stands. “Shall we go?”

“It depends,” I say while taking a napkin to wipe the corner of my mouth. I raise my head to look up at him and give a playful smile. “What do you think of my viewing companion now?”

In response I am treated to a flash of his white, even teeth in a grin that would melt the resolve of the coldest virgin.

“I also said you had taste.”

And with that, he pulls my chair out, places his hand on the small of my back and escorts me downstairs. Maybe it’s a measure of my excitement, but his touch burns through my sweater and beads of sweat form on my skin beneath his touch.

Inside the theater I estimate about thirty other people have decided to catch this matinee. We take our seats in the center section, four rows from the back. A few minutes later, the lights go out.

During the film I try to concentrate but can’t help glancing at my watch. It’s been nearly an hour and he hasn’t tried anything. Apart from pushing up the armrest to remove any barrier between us, he hasn’t touched me. We’re just two people enjoying a movie together. But watching a movie with a man who’s not feeling me up is a new experience for me and I can’t help stealing side-glances at him.

He’s different from other men, that’s for damn sure. He had the balls to come up and start a real conversation, and what a pick-up too. I’ll give him an A+ for that. My palms are sweating and, between my legs, I feel hot and empty—and wet.

He turns his head and catches me spying. He grins like I just sprang his trap. I turn away. His right arm goes around the back of my seat and he leans over to whisper.

“Evadne, it’s OK if you look.”

When I turn in his direction, his face is so close to mine I can feel it when he exhales. The scent of his cologne mixing with the coffee he just drank makes my mouth water. I close the distance. Our kiss is gentle, unhurried and tastes of chocolate and coffee. He gently takes hold of my chin to deepen our kiss.

“I knew those lips had to be delicious,” he says when we part to take a breath. His hand goes up the back of my neck and into my hair. I lean into the caress, exposing my throat, letting his lips linger on my neck. His tongue tickles along the surging throb of my pulse. I sigh and my hand falls to the side split of my skirt. Pushing the thin material over, I slide my fingers up between my legs.

His long eyelashes flutter against my throat as he opens his eyes to see what I’m doing. Then I feel his hand, warm and soft, reach over to cup under my knee. He crooks my leg over his and I moan softly when he places his hand on mine. What sounds like my voice growls “yes” loud enough for him to take his cue and gently press our fingers inside me.

My head lolls back against his arm as my private entrance admits us, hand in hand, with my small forefinger next to his long, thick, middle and forefingers. We work together to build a rhythm and his thumb gently rubs the top of my clitoris. My hips jerk up and I gasp. He increases his hold on me while clamping his mouth onto my neck, just like the big cats do to restrain their prey.

His lips open to suck in the flesh of my neck into his mouth before biting down. His teeth dig in and hold before releasing and repeating the process. He’s found my weak spot. I have a thing for necks and, although they may look trashy, I love hickies, malignant bruises that serve as the calling cards of heavy petting. I love giving and receiving them. But despite his amorous assault on my neck, I get caught up with the feel of his two, three—four—fingers pumping inside me. Aww—fuck! He’s about to get a real orgasm out of me! It’s evident by the moist, sucking sounds coming from me. I’m almost there.

“God damn, Evadne, you’re so wet,” he says with such awe it only thrills me more and this time my groan is louder than expected.

My eyelids pop open and I remember we are not alone. Focusing my eyes, I count less than six people sitting in the rows behind us but they’re on the opposite side of the theater. From what I can tell, they’re all watching the screen. Then I see one man sitting in the row directly behind us but several seats to the left.

He wears a white T-shirt and stares directly at us, unashamed. Hearing a muted, squelching sound, I glance down and see his lightweight jacket lying across his lap, bobbing up and down.

Catching my breath, I don’t know whether to stop Jared and bring the man to his attention. But he’s about to rip a climax from me and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sacrifice it. I open my mouth slightly in expectation, so does Jerk-Off Man who mouths the words I love you as his hand pumps harder and faster.

Instead of moaning, I scowl at our voyeur and his face crumbles as he shoots his wad. I make sure he sees me take Jared’s earlobe into my mouth to nibble on it and I think, Yeah, buddy you wish you could have some of this. Jared moans and licks at my throat in return.

“Touch me,” he begs from against my neck and his strained voice startles me. I reach between his legs and encounter a sharp rise in his jeans. He moves back and I unzip his pants and fumble for the opening. Once inside, I give his swollen cock a squeeze and he sighs as if I’ve done him a great favor.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers and rests his forehead against my temple.

A slight tug gets his whole length out. His cock is getting thicker as blood rushes to swell it, making the skin tight. My God, it feels lovely, like a thick pipe wrapped in warm suede. Then, as to be expected, a scene change lights up the room, allowing me a better look.

During my theater adventures, I have encountered a lot of men of different races and have concluded that there is no accurate way to guess a man’s penis size by looks alone. You have to experience him, literally, first hand.

And my chest heaves at the thought of getting fucked senseless by his cock. It’s long and thick and the tip of its swollen head is moist. I lick my lips, wishing for a taste—but that goes against my rules.

His thumb presses my clitoris once again and I have to bury my face in the curve of his neck to keep from crying out. I grab his wrist and start guiding him, pumping his hand, making him fist fuck me harder, faster, and when he touches my clit again, I come, for the first time in ages, all over his creative, talented fingers.

The world falls out from under me and I’m on a roller coaster going down a bottomless pit. My orgasm goes on and on, overflowing and spilling onto the seat.

“Ah, lovely,” he sighs. “That’s it, sugar. Oh, yes, darlin’ . . . give it to me.”

And I do. I want to. But I’m not going to be alone in this. I pump my fist tighter and faster along his cock until his essence drips onto my hand providing me with just enough to lubricate my strokes. Jared thrusts, ever so slightly and I apply more pressure to increase the friction.

He turns my face to his and stabs his tongue far into my mouth, leaning into me, and I push back until I’m nearly climbing on top of him instead. He gives a moan of surprise against my mouth, driving his tongue deeper and I thrust my hips so his fingers can delve farther.

This man, whom I’ve met just over an hour ago, has gotten me more aroused than I have been in my life. But I’m not the only one excited. The skin of his penis is tight. He’s going to explode.

“Mmm, that’s right, baby.” I smile against his lips before they crush mine again, taking my tongue deep inside his mouth. Sparks of purple, yellow, and green flash behind my eyelids. Suddenly, he thrusts his hips and thick, warm jet streams of cream erupt against my skirt and seeps through to my thighs. He shudders against me and releases his pent-up breath in a low, guttural moan and relaxes. My loins weep against his hand for being left out, but—after all—we’ve just met.

He collapses back into his seat, and holding his gaze, I remove his hand from my crotch. The wet, sucking sound lets us both know that he’s plowed me deep and it was well received. I wipe his hand on the exposed flesh of my cleavage and daintily kiss the tip of each of his fingers to say thank you, tasting my spice on them.

“Good God,” he rasps out, his eyes wide with surprise as he playfully twists his pinkie inside my mouth before I let it slip from my lips.

Grinning, I gently place his cock back inside his trousers. When I look up at the screen, the cartoon selection from Poland is ending. There’s only one more film clip remaining. My heart is racing. I cross my legs and sit back in my seat, trembling, still feeling the sensation of Jared’s fingers deep inside me along with the wake of my orgasm. That was not petting—that was sex. The best sex I’ve ever had. I look at him. He’s leaning back, his face toward the ceiling, looking like he’s either asleep or in desperate need of a cigarette.

By the time the house lights come on ten minutes later, we are composed and with our clothes in order. I’ve tied my sweater around my waist to hide the wet stain on my skirt.

Although the lights aren’t harsh, they’re strong enough to shatter the bubble we created around ourselves and I feel exposed. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I rush into the aisle. Jared doesn’t touch my back like before. I’m not sure if he’s even behind me.

Entering the lobby, I walk on shaky legs out the front doors. Standing on the sidewalk, I see that rush hour has started and the road in front of the strip mall is thick with traffic.

Leaving the dark, air-conditioned surroundings of The DeLuxe only to be slapped in the face by smog and dry heat is too much. My stomach churns and my head starts to throb. I start to walk away.

“Hey! Hold up!”

I turn and see Jared approaching with a smile on his lips. We can now finish our assessments of each other without the hindrance of shadow. I estimate him to stand about six-feet-four because I’m five-feet-ten. But in my 3” heels, I’m almost eye level with him. His thick, dark, chestnut hair curls up as it touches his collar and stylishly frames his face. I can easily imagine how he’d look with his hair all wet after taking a shower or plastered with sweat after an afternoon of passionate sex.

Ooh, how I wanted to be the one to work up that sweat! But I can’t. I’ve been “naughty” enough for one day. My fever has passed and now I must control myself until next week.

But what I assumed earlier about his not being masculine is wrong. His skin is slightly sun-tanned and, boyish face aside, Jared is all man. By the way he walks, with those long, smooth strides, he’s more than sure of himself.

And those eyes.

Perhaps those eyes are still adjusting to the sunlight because his pupils are big despite our being outside. Could he be on drugs? Maybe. He is an artist after all. But I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. He simply likes what he sees and I probably look like a prostitute from the 1950s with my tousled hair and smeared lipstick. All that’s missing is a Lucky Strike hanging from my mouth as I wait for him to press a $20 bill in my palm.

“Care to join me for dinner?”

My jaw drops open and, in a momentary lapse of cool, I must resemble a bug-eyed fish out of water. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten an invitation like this. Darkness makes it easy. I can usually change their mind with a withering stare, but this time, I’m truly speechless.

I go to the movies to abandon myself, content to leave my fantasies inside the building. The fantasy is not supposed to ask me to dinner. That’s against the rules. My rules.

OK, so I’ve been selective with the rules today—but this isn’t supposed to happen! I have reduced my appreciation for men into faceless gadgets requiring batteries, or faceless men in a dark theater.

Faceless. Why couldn’t he just remain faceless, sit next to me in the dark, and leave without introducing himself? I could’ve beaten a quick retreat without remorse. We both could have. But Jared is all flesh and waits for my answer. He also knows my name . . . and where I work.

Shit.

If ever I needed a reason to stop doing this, I have found it.

I’m about to reply when Jerk-Off Man comes out of the theater. He sees me and walks in our direction. I frown but he keeps walking with a half smirk, half grimace on his face as he passes.

“Is something wrong?” Jared asks.

“What? Oh! No, I’m fine.” I get my keys out of my purse and head towards my car.

“Well?” he asks again, his long strides easily matching mine.

“Sorry?” I’m playing for time. I really have no contingency for such a development. I’ve even lost my ability in telling a man to fuck off. We reach my car. I’m about to put my key in the lock when he grabs my arm.

“Are you free for dinner?”

I drop my keys. He immediately crouches down and picks the spiked jumble off my foot. His gaze burns through the sheer material of my skirt and seems to focus on the damp apex between my legs. I shiver.

Standing upright again, he places the keys in my hand and we touch. My body heat activates the lingering scent of the orgasm I used to perfume my chest and when he inhales deep and takes a step closer, my breath catches in my throat. I need to slow the man down.

“No,” I lie. “Ahh—my cat got spayed today. I have to go pick her up.”

I can only describe his look as stunned disbelief. A flicker of disappointment, or is that resentment, crosses his face. He purses his lips into a thin line, and, with a sweep of his hand in a gesture I suspect he’s done since childhood, he combs back the hair that’s falling over into his eyes and huffs through his nostrils.

“I see.”

Suddenly it occurs to me that few people—or specifically, few women—have ever denied him anything. Then again, he’s never met me. And I’m in no condition to follow up what we just did with casual conversation.

“Seriously, Jared I do have to go.”

“Well then tell me, Evadne, do you plan on coming here next week?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in doubt, but there’s a touch of eagerness in his voice.

“Listen.” I look around the parking lot to see if there’s anyone watching. “Let me give you my number. Call me later.”

I reach into my purse and find a pen and a piece of paper. For a split second I thought about giving him a fake number, but when I look up to see him watching me so intently with those damn eyes—I give him the real digits. He’d make an excellent lie detector with eyes like that. Besides, if I was good at denying myself what I want, I wouldn’t be coming to this place to get my kicks . . . I’d probably be a size zero too.

“Borrow your pen?” he asks and takes my pen in such a way that he grasps my hand with moist, sticky fingers and leaves a smudge of charcoal on my flesh. He writes his number on the back of the sketch.

“Well, Jared.” I smile, trying to act casual as I open my car door. “Hope to hear from you soon.” Perhaps I sound trite, because his reply isn’t convincing.

“Yeah. Sure.”