LAID & BETRAYED (Getting wrong with Mr. Wright) Read Online Free PDF Page A

flat cap and the tone of his voice. ' Fiver a bunch, ' he was shouting. ' Come on, only a fiver. Buy ' em for the lady. '
    Nahume bought a bouquet of pink roses , and I wondered if perhaps I had been mistaken, that he hadn ' t taken me for a working girl, just a lonely girl in a red dress looking for some fun . I wanted to explain, but was carried along by the race of the traffic, the heat of the night , the relentless logic of metamorphosis. I had objectified myself in the red dress and heels, the makeup, the trouble I had taken with my hair, the gold chain at my throat, the drop earrings.
    By the care she lavishes on her toilet, by the concern she has for her beauty set off by her adornment, a woman regards herself as an object always trying to at tract men's attention.
    I had planned to spend the evening with a girl from university . Why had I turned myself into an object of desire ? A nd why had Camilla suggested we meet in Dick's , where those precious objects are for sale?
    A taxi stopped. It was my last chance. I had to tell him. Tell him it was all a mistake. Apologize. Go home. Take off your makeup and finish reading A Spy in the House of Love.
    He opened the door.
    'I…'
    'Please, after you.'
    And I got in. The taxi drove for about three minutes across Knightsbridge and a man in a grey top hat and tails opened the door for me when we stopped at the hotel. My heels tapped like castanets as I clipped up the steps to the foyer with its thick carpets and minions rushing about with trolleys and bags. Nahume asked for his key, and the girl behind the high desk gave me a condescending look as she handed it to him. I wanted to say, hey, I ' m not that sort of girl…
    But perhaps Bataille is right, given the circumstances, every girl is that sort of girl, that of all pleasure the greatest pleasure lies in falling from grace, in doing what you know is wrong and doing it because you know it is wrong .
    We rose in the lift to the ninth floor. My heart was beating so fast it made my breasts swell out of the dress. There was still time to explain, go back down in the lift, but I bit my lips, followed him into a suite and listened as the door locked behind me. I could smell Jo Malone Amber and Patchouli rise from my cleavage and told myself I was t here in an intellectual capacity. Just as rich students go to dig wells in Africa to understand the lives of poor people, I had left Dick's with this dark stranger disguised as a hooker to appreciate the feminine temptation to yield. Under my tutor's guiding hand I had learned that e rotica is a psychological quest independent of the natural goals , and what could be more erotic than standing there blushing in heels in a tight little red dress with the first hour of night lying heavy as a blanket across the room
    He took the flowers and placed them on the table. He then stood back and flicked his hand in a gesture that was obvious. This was the moment of truth, the moment when the woman transforms into an object . I bit my lips. I hesitated, and he m ust have taken th is for a professional tactic, because he immediately reached for his wallet . I watched as he counted out five £ 2 50 on to the table and what went through my mind was a picture of me buying rounds of drinks for my friends in the little bar on the beach at Cabo de Gata .
    I looked back into his eyes.
    ' You need something ? ' he asked.
    ' No, ' I said.
    My fingers were already at work . I lowered the zip at the back of the dress and stepped out of the material. I unhooked my bra, ran my knickers down my legs and stood there in front of him frightened and excited, the same excitement that had struck me a year ago to the day when I took off my clothes for Charlie Wright . Sex with boys i s fun. I love it. But there i s something so marvelously immoral meeting a man like this and stripping stark naked for him . Bataille was right, in every woman i s the desire to reveal her charms in exchange for a gift. T he world is a