“The one thing I cannot forgive is being tricked,” I explain. “There are no limits to what I will do if you’re honest and tell me what you want.”
        “I understand,” he says.
        “‘I want to fuck you’ is fine because I know it’s not a lie,” I continue. “‘I like you’ is bad if you just say it because you want to fuck me.”
        “I understand,” he says. “And I like you.”

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MEL looks much better than expected.
        In the photographs he never wore glasses and I like the way he tilts his head when he glances over their black frames. It makes him appear intrigued – almost interested. His amused smile confuses my well-prepared plans to make light-hearted conversation.
        We share a bottle of wine in a pub; then pizza and more wine in an Italian restaurant; then something eye-watering sharp in another pub.
        While we wait for the boy behind the bar to refill our drinks for the last time he kisses me. His tongue invades my mouth carelessly as if my lips were a dessert he forgot to finish off. When I respond to his kiss he bites me.

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The bell rings. You open the door and bring in the guests.
         Jake is tall and skinny. His clothes are badly ironed and his jeans hang down to his knees in the Hip Hop fashion not even males twenty years his junior manage to pull off.
         Cecile`s top is too tight, her skirt too short and her make-up too bright. Her hair looks as if she cuts it herself.

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He has vanilla blonde hair, chocolate cookie eyes, strawberry cream lips and a shoulder-hip ratio that makes me dizzy. He winks at me when he walks up to the bar of the Calypso Club and when he orders the cocktail de jour, a Screaming Orgasm, he raises his voice just enough that I can hear.
        I don’t mean to stare. But I do.
        I hope you don’t notice. But you do.

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