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seats hit my thighs.
    “You okay?” Jason looked at me with concern.
    “Yeah, I’m cold.”
    “I’ll turn the heater on when the engine’s warm.”
    “Thanks.”
    We set off, me very conscious of every bump and ridge in the road, which seemed to address my clitoris with a blatant reminder of what I was about to do. As we neared the all-night drugstore in town, Jason slowed.
    “Do you, ah, have, ah, you know, should I…” He looked uncertain. After all, from his point of view I hadn’t exactly spelled out what I wanted him to do. Maybe he thought he was giving the radio station’s eccentric squealing masturbator a ride home after which we’d say good-night to each other and he’d drive off with a merry toot of his horn.
    I’d be tooting his horn for sure.
    “No, it’s fine, I have, uh, you know,” I replied fluently. Unless he wanted to buy himself a toothbrush? I think I had a spare somewhere. “Thanks for asking,” I added.
    We arrived at my house before the truck had reached anywhere near normal temperature, and I eased myself from the seat, relieved that my skin did not separate from the vinyl with a loud, rude sound. Once again the shock of frigid air hit my crotch and I scuttled for the front door, with Jason behind me.
    He stood very close to me as I inserted the key into the lock, not touching me, but close, and it would have been damned sexy if he hadn’t been wearing a down jacket. There might actually have been some contact. But I got the door open and lunged for the lights and the thermostat.
    Brady appeared, mewed and collapsed on his side in front of Jason.
    “Is your cat okay? He just fell over.”
    “Yes, he does that to people he likes.”
    “Cool.” Jason bent down to pet him.
    “Let me take your jacket,” I said, the perfect hostess, and relieved Jason of his jacket—he put his gloves carefully in the pockets, which I thought was rather sweet. He hung his messenger bag on the rack next to his jacket, removing his cell phone.
    “I have to…”
    “Oh, sure.” I left him to make his call, wondering who it was to. Not a girlfriend, I hoped. Or his mother, which would be even worse. I went into the kitchen to feed Brady, who transferred his affection from our guest to me, weaving around my legs as I tipped kibble into his bowl.
    Jason came into the kitchen. He didn’t offer an explanation for his call, which was none of my business anyway, and looked around. “Nice place.”
    “Thanks.” The perfect asexual inner hostess kicked in at this point and I asked him if he’d like something to eat—I swear the words just popped out of my mouth—while in the back of my head the slutty hostess shouted, Get him upstairs! Remind him you’re not wearing panties! Unzip him!
    “Uh, no, I’m fine.”
    I found myself gazing at the banana in my fruit bowl on the kitchen table—Freud would have had a field day with me—and reminded myself sternly to think about the matter at hand. While I attempted to figure out my next move, I picked up the container of cat food to replace it in the cabinet.
    And then, proving that one of us had some sense, he came up close behind me—I could feel his warmth, and the nudge of his erection against my butt. His hands slid up my sides. “You are so hot,” he whispered.
    I grabbed the edge of the counter, weak-kneed as his mouth moved over my neck, warm and tickling. I turned my head to kiss him, whimpering a little as his hands cupped my breasts. His mouth was nice, gentle and sweet.
    I turned in his arms. “Let’s go upstairs.” The slutty hostess had won the fight.
    I led him upstairs, enjoying the swish of the taffeta skirt and the assertive clip of the high-heeled shoes on the wooden stairs, and into my room.
    He was right behind me, breathing fast. I wondered if he could see up the skirt and decided that as soon as I could I’d bend over in front of him, or part my legs accidentally.
    “Okay, Jason.” I turned and he almost bumped into me.