He turned and smiled at me and I was surprised enough to
smile back. This was not a children's candy store, mind
you—this was the kind of place you went to buy expensive
imported chocolate truffles for your boss's wife because you
felt guilty for having sex with him when you were both at a
conference in Milwaukee.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
I've been hit on plenty of times, mostly by men with little
finesse who thought what was between their legs made up for
what they lacked between their ears.
Sometimes I went home with them anyway, just because it felt
good to want and be wanted, even if it was mostly fake.
The problem with wanting is that it's like pouring water
into a vase full of stones. It fills you up before you know
it, leaving no room for anything else. I don't apologize for
who I am or what I've done in—or out—of bed.
I have my job, my house and my life, and for a long time I
haven't wanted anything else.