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smooth and detailed and inviting a touch. She seemed calculated to create a brawl between the primitive and civilized urges in every man.
    If I was one of my roommates, and I was trying to be even minimal y respectful of Emmeline, my eyes would be sliding al over trying not to stare at any particular one piece of her anatomy. It was dizzying. You couldn’t just stare at her eyes, because you were supposed to be casual and indifferent. And when Emmeline’s head was turned and you could look—
    where would you look? Look at one place, you miss the other places. It was torture.
    “We definitely need to do more research into this,” she said. “That was amazing, too. I think your friends are total y gross (sorry), but it was a power trip to fuck with them. It was a turn-on to see them trying not to stare.”
    “I wouldn’t cal them friends,” I said. “People respect friends.”
    “If you real y don’t mind, I might try hanging out in my underwear when I’m here. Just make it a normal thing.”
    She real y knew how to punch my buttons. “Come over here, Emmy.”
    She wavered, seeing that my cock was hard again.
    “No, let’s cut the jeans up. The guys want to take us out. Free drinks!”

    Not wanting to rush things too fast, I gave Emmeline every opportunity to limit or even back out of the jeans-cutting project. I even let her take control of the scissors, tel ing her I was inexperienced with cutting clothes—this was a huge concession on my part. Here I had the beautiful woman of my dreams almost fighting me to enact one of my long-standing fantasies, and I was turning into a nice-guy. Every time I had fantasized about this scene, I was the one with the scissors, making judicious cuts to the jeans with a male’s close attention to style. In my fantasies, I was the one making the jeans as showy and attention grabbing as possible, while the girl flinched with every cut I made, but eventual y decided she couldn’t wait to wear them.
    In reality, Emmeline was more radical than my wildest dreams.
    “Let’s start with the left cheek,” she said. Her jeans were already a little worn, so we could see where they hung on her ass. She slid the scissors into the frayed fabric, and made a cut five inches long. “Is that enough?”
    I whistled. “Thaaat’s pretty showy.”
    We couldn’t screw this up, since we only had one pair of jeans. The pair she had worn to my apartment would be the pair she would wear out to the bars, and then home to Queens.
    She said, “Most of the thrashed butt-pants I’ve seen have a hole for each cheek.”
    She made another big cut on the other side.
    “That’s going to be… wow…”
    “I want it like that woman we fol owed today,” she said.
    “Her pants were open al the way across,” I said. Why am I still talking? I was having a deep conflict, warring between wanting to stop her from destroying her jeans, and wanting to see what she thought was appropriate to flaunt at a bar.
    “Are you sure you remember her ass clearly?” she asked. “Never mind. Look who I’m talking to.”
    “She didn’t look slutty or desperate, just sexy and grungy.”
    “I want to be the same.”
    “Hold on a second,” I said. “Let’s see how this looks first.”
    She gave me a pitying look. “Trapper, you can be such a little girl sometimes.”
    She completed the opening, cutting across the seam. Her jeans now had a 12-inch gash right above her butt cheeks.
    “That doesn’t look right,” she said, turning her head back and forth. “What did I do wrong?”
    “The other woman’s jeans weren’t cut. Her ass was total y ripped out. She was open from her pockets down to the top of her thighs. It was like a big window right into her crotch.”
    “That’s right! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Do you think she usual y wears her boyfriend’s boxers, but today just decided to go without, because she was in a hurry and only doing a little shopping? And then one errand stretched