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“Yeah,” she says, and waits for me to continue. “Oh, that was your point.”
I scoff. “Okay,” I tell her and start to sit up. “I get it.”
“No, no, no,” she says, with a bit of a chortle as she pushes me back down. “We don’t know that much about each other. I guess I just figured that maybe we could start on that today. Do you have to work?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Later, though. I don’t have to be in until noon.”
“That’s right,” she says, patting my chest. “You’re a chef.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
I’m trying to estimate how bad the fallout is going to be if I tell her that I have no idea what she does for a living, but she catches on before I’ve got any hard figures.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “I mostly work with kids and teenagers.”
“Yeah? That’s got to be pretty rewarding.”
“It is,” she says. “It’s one of those few things in my life where I really feel like I’m making a difference for someone, you know? It’s not all Polaroids and hugs, though. I deal with a lot of bad shit on a day-to-day basis.”
“I bet.”
“That said,” she continues, “every once in a while, I’ll come across someone who’s just in that receptive place, and you wouldn’t believe how even a child can turn things around when they want to.”
“You know—maybe this is going to sound rude, but—”
“That’s not what you expected?” she asks. “It’s not what a lot of people expect, but it’s what I do. I love it.”
“Yeah, but you’re—I don’t know how to say this without being a dick,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s all right. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard a lot worse.”
“You’re into some pretty kinky shit.”
She lets out a gut laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound, and it paints her as a completely different person than the nymphomaniac that I’ve been fucking for the past month or so. The laugh softens her.
“I am,” she says, “but I don’t take that to work with me.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t know, aren’t you ever nervous that you’re going to be doing it in one of the paddle boats in Central Park and have one of the kids you work with see you?”
“That’s why I don’t go to Central Park,” she says.
“Yeah, but what about the top of the building?” I ask. “We’ve been up there a few times now, and except for last night, every time, we’ve had an audience.”
“Parents keep their kids away from the windows in the city,” she says, “especially in this neighborhood. You never know what you’re going to see or who’s going to catch you looking at them.”
“You’ve really put a lot of thought into all this, haven’t you?”
She laughs again, and my trepidation starts to thaw.
“I guess you could say that. Look,” she continues, “there’s a way for me to get all the, in your words, kinky shit out of my system without putting my job or any young eyes in jeopardy. Sometimes it takes a bit of creativity, like last night at the stadium. It actually made me pretty nervous being out in the middle of everything like that, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Did you ever bother noticing how I was making sure that you were covered at all times from an outside viewpoint? I mean, sure, someone might have walked up and saw my head in your lap, but I’m sure you would’ve noticed before they saw too much of anything.”
“You know, I was kind of worried about this,” I laugh, “but I think this just might be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
