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Our eyes still clash. Male arrogance gets on my nerves like nothing else.
    What are you doing?! my ovaries are screaming at me. Don’t start with the feminist shit now. You can go back to that after you get preggers!
    I look down at my hands. Indeed, what am I doing? I’m supposed to be charming him to sleep with me, not repelling him.
    What are the odds he’s lying about his health?
    Guardian Angel, please help me. Give me a sign he’s not lying. I don’t wanna get sick creating my baby. Who will take care of the little one if I’d die of AIDS?
    Or I can just quit this crazy mission right now. What on earth made me think it would be this easy?
    Yeah, well…
    Noooooo! my ovaries wail.
    “I understand. After all, you’re gonna run the same risk with me,” I reply, praying that at some point into the night, I’d see a sign.
    He nods, his face, serious. “True.”
    Silence.
    This time, it’s awkward. The danger of what I’m doing suddenly dawns on me. He’s a total stranger. What on earth am I doing?
    He leans forward, extending his arm. “Here.”
    He’s holding something and he’s giving it to me. I reach out and open my hand. He drops it onto my palm.
    I stare at it.
    I wanna burst into tears.
    Oh Guardian Angel. You’re so good to me!
    I give him my sweetest smile, relief fairly bursting from my heart. He just showed me his Red Cross donor key chain.
    “You’re an exception to my rule, Ella,” he states softly.
    In that moment, I think he’s able to get past my walls a little.
    Just a little, I swear. Nothing more. I’m not promiscuous. I’ve never taken sex for granted. I’d need that little feeling to spend the whole week having sex with him.
    He’s looking at me with searing intensity now. I don’t feel awkward anymore. He’s stripping me with his eyes and I want to crawl over to him and ravish him. Dammit, how long would dinner take?
    “The food will be ready in a few minutes. Do you like exotic dishes?”
    Okay, I’m starting to get convinced the man is really psychic. I hope he doesn’t know he’s turning me into a nymphomaniac. “How exotic?”
    He winks. “The kind you’ll get addicted to.”
    Oh god.

    I’ve never been for long foreplays. They aren’t needed when I’m squaring it off in the sack with fast women. They want speed and rough play. They even demand I inflict a little pain at times.
    Slow is not in my usual sexual repertoire. I really didn’t care much for what the romantics call quality sex. Quality is just a state of mind. At least, in my limited experience. I haven’t had a relationship with a woman yet, the kind that involves more than my muscle man down there.
    So far, sex has always been with my dick, not with any other part of me. But I’ve wondered about sex with other parts of me. It’s the artist in me, for sure. I was born to wonder, to seek higher understanding of my nature, of my psyche.
    Most artists I know fall in love like an avalanche on a regular basis. They have to have muses and all that Shakespeare blah to be able to create. I’m not that type of artist.
    My passion does not center on a single muse. It has always come from nature. The wind. The sun. The sea. The mountains. The rivers. The women.
    Never a particular woman.
    But now, I feel the urge to pick up my hammer and chisel and start chipping away. I want to make her presence here in this island monumental.
    A first in my history.
    Phenomenal, this woman.
    Later, after I’ve had my fill of her, I’d do that. She’d look majestic standing on the cliff in Punto Fiamma, naked, gazing at the ocean, her hair dancing in the wind.
    Slow.
    I’m discovering its great merits.
    “My god, tell me what this is already!” she asks me again as she dives enthusiastically into her food with her fingers. I’m teaching her how to eat with her hands alone. We’re sharing a huge tray lined with banana leaves and filled with my Thai chef’s specialties.
    I maintain my position. “After we finish