I'm at dinner with a man. We're into a second bottle of 1982 Chateau Latour. Maybe it's our third date, maybe our tenth. It doesn't matter. Because, eventually, it always comes up. The Inevitable. "Errrrrr," he begins.
"Yes?" I ask, leaning forward. He rests his hand on my thigh. Perhaps he's going to "pop the question." It's not likely, but then again, what is?
He begins again. "Have you ever …" "Yes?"
"Have you ever. . wanted to. ." "What?"
"Have you ever wanted to. . have sex with another woman?" he asks, triumphant.
I'm still smiling. But there it is, sitting on the table like a puddle of vomit. I already know what's coming next.
"With me, of course," he says. "You know, a threesome." Then comes the kicker: "We could maybe get one of your friends."
"Why would I want to do that?" I ask. I don't even bother mquiring why he thinks one of my friends might be interested.
"Well, I would like it," he says. "And besides, you might like it, too."
I don't think so.