← Back
I told her exactly what I wanted. In detail. In order. I’d been rehearsing it in the shower and it came out like a project brief: her on her knees, then the bed, then from behind, then the bath, no condom because I’d had a test last month, and could she do that thing I’d seen in a film where…
Vivienne held up one hand. I stopped.
“Graham,” she said, quite gently. “That was very thorough. Most of it I’m happy to do. Some of it I’m not. Condoms aren’t negotiable. Ever. Not for you, not for anyone, not for a test certificate. I’m sure you’re very healthy. That’s not the point.”
My face went the colour of the wallpaper. “God. Sorry. Of course.”
“It’s fine. You’re nervous and you planned it like a meeting. I’ve seen worse.” She tilted her head. “But I’m going to need you to stop treating me like a shopping list and start treating me like a woman in your room. Can you do that?”
There was a pause. In that pause, a small stupid part of my brain, the part that negotiates software contracts for a living, noticed that she’d quoted a rate for two hours on the website and that I had, technically, only got one and three quarters of the menu.
I could apologise and start again. Or I could be an idiot.