manual, it soon became obvious that owners’ manuals were the only reading material he was familiar with. He thought books were for propping up stereo speakers, couldn’t tell Dante from Dentyne, and I soon said goodbye to him and his shoe admiration.
When I had a date with Jackson, I didn’t try to bring up the topic. But after several dates I got the feeling that my shoes would be appreciated, that keeping the shoes on would go over more than all right. We had a date set for Friday night; I began on Thursday to prepare myself.
Long ago, I differentiated between women who get fucked and women who allow themselves to get fucked. Initially, I thought I belonged to the latter. But as I reflected further, I realised that there was a third choice: that there are women who get fucked, women who allow themselves to get fucked, and women who arrange to be fucked. There is no violation for someone who is willingly violated. As I was in that last category, all my preparations were directed towards that end. Everything had, as its goal, my getting fucked. This had always been the case; I’d always assumed that the ultimate goal was to inspire lust, to make a man interested, to keep him in my thrall; but, if I were being honest, I’d have to refine that thought. I put the prep time in, not merely to attract a man and drive him mad with longing, but because, if I did it well, I’d be supremely well fucked. And I wanted that to happen.
‘Tell me how you prepared your pussy for me,’ Victor used to rasp. I’d tell him, and the preparations would start far earlier and be far more extensive than he’d have realised.
‘I wear makeup to make my eyes look dark and inviting,’ I’d say. ‘I make sure that my underwear is lacy or silky, that it teases and torments my nipples and my clit, keeping them aroused and waiting for your touch. I get Brazilian waxes, baring myself entirely to the scrutiny of a woman whose eyes I can barely meet, enduring embarrassment and discomfort so that, when I am with you, you can see everything, so that there is no barrier, not even that provided by hair, to our bodies’ coming together.’ I’d tell him that even as I lay on a tissue-paper-covered table, my fingers holding my lips open, I’d imagine it was his cock rather than hot wax that I’d feel at that invitation. I’d tell him about the rest of the hair removal, shaving my legs so they’d be soft and silky to his touch, about choosing clothes for the amount of flesh they’d reveal and conceal, about keeping an eye on how easily they could be removed. I’d tell him about choosing shoes to arouse him, and knowing that while some girls got fucked because
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