"No," she says and slips out of her robe. Then she goes to the open closet and hangs the robe on a padded hanger.

But I can't hardly see.

"Don't be so selfish," she says. Naked now, she takes my hand and presses it around one of her wrists. Then she slips her arm behind her back, turning to press her bare back to me. My dog's nosing higher and higher, and her warm slick butt crack's gum­ming me, and she says, "I need you to be a faceless attacker."

I tell her its too embarrassing to buy a pair of pantyhose. A guy buying pantyhose is either a criminal or a pervert; either way the cashier will hardly take your money.

"Jeez, quit whining," she says. "Every rapist I've ever been with has brought his own pantyhose."

Plus I tell her, when you're looking at the pantyhose rack, they have all those colors and sizes. Nude, charcoal, beige, tan, black, cobalt, and none of them come in just "head-sized."

She twists her face away and groans. "Can I tell you some­thing? Can I tell you just one thing?"

I say, what?

And she says, "Your breath is really bad."

Back in the bookstore coffee shop, while we were still script­ing, she said, "Make sure and put the knife in a freezer before­hand. I need it to be really really cold."

I asked if maybe we could just use a rubber knife.

And she said, "The knife is very important to my total experience."

She said, "It's best if you put the edge of the knife to my throat before it gets to room temperature."

She said, "But be careful, because if you cut me by acci­dent"—she leaned toward me over the table, jabbing her chin at me—"if you even scratch me, I swear I'll have you in jail before you can get your pants back on."

She sipped her herbal chai and set the cup back in its saucer and said, "My sinuses would appreciate it if you didn't wear any kind of cologne or aftershave or deodorant with a strong scent, because I'm very sensitive."

These horny sexaholic chicks, they have such a high toler­ance. They just can't not get banged. They just can't stop, no mat­ter how degrading things get.

God, how I love being codependent.

In the coffee shop, Gwen lifts her purse into her lap and digs around inside it. "Here," she says and unfolds a photocopied list of the details she wants to include. At the top of the list it says:

Rape is about power. It is not romantic. Do not fall in love with me. Do not kiss me on the mouth. Do not expect to linger after the act. Do not ask to use my bathroom.

That Monday night in her bedroom, pressed into me naked, she says, "I want you to hit me." She says, "But not too hard and not too soft. Just hit me hard enough so I come."

One of my hands is holding her arm behind her back. She's grinding her butt against me, and she's got a kick-ass tanned little bod except her face is pale and waxy with too much moisturizer. In the mirrored closet door, I can see her front with my face peeking over her shoulder. Her hair and sweat pools in the crack where my chest and her back press together. Her skin has that hot-plastic tanning-bed smell. My other hand is holding the knife, so I ask, does she want me to hit her with the knife?

"No," she says. "That would be stabbing. Hitting someone with a knife is stabbing." She says, "Put the knife down and use your open hand."

So I go to toss the knife.

And Gwen says, "Not on the bed."

So I toss the knife on the dresser, and I raise my hand to slap. From behind her, this is really awkward.

And she says, "But not in the face."

So I move my hand a little lower.

And she says, "And do not hit my breasts unless you want to give me lumps."

See also: Cystic mastitis.

She says, "How about if you just slap my ass."

And I say, how about if she just shuts up and lets me rape her my way.

And Gwen says, "If that's how you feel, you can just take your little penis and run along home now."

Since she's just out of the shower, her bush is soft and full, not matted down the way it is when you first take off a woman's un­derwear. My free hand creeps around to between her legs, and she feels fake, rubbery and plastic. Too smooth. A little greasy.

I say, "What's with your vagina?"

Gwen looks down at herself and says, "What?" She says, "Oh, that. It's a Femidom, a female condom. The edges stick out like that. I don't want you giving me any diseases."

Is it just me, I say, but I thought rape was supposed to be more spontaneous, you know, a crime of passion.

"That shows you don't know shit about how to rape any­body," she says. "A good rapist will plan his crime meticulously. He ritualizes every little detail. This should be almost like a reli­gious ceremony."

What happens here, Gwen says, is sacred.

In the bookstore coffee shop, she'd passed me the photo­copied sheet and said, "Can you agree to all these terms?"

The sheet said, Do not ask where I work.

Do not ask if you're hurting me.

Do not smoke in my house.

Do not expect to stay the night.

The sheet says, The safe word is POODLE.

I ask what she means by a safe word.

"If the scene gets too heavy or if it isn't working for one of us," she says, "you just say 'poodle' and the action stops."

I ask if I get to shoot my wad.

"If it's all that important to you," she says.

Then I say, okay, where do I sign?

These pathetic sexaholic chicks. They're so damn dick-hungry.

Without her clothes, she looks a little bony. Her skin feels hot and damp as if you could squeeze out warm soapy water. Her legs are so thin they don't touch until her ass. Her little flat breasts seem to cling to her rib cage. Still holding her arm behind her back, watching ourselves in the mirrored closet door, she has the long neck and sloped shoulders of a wine bottle.

"Stop, please," she says. "You're hurting me. Please, I'll give you money."

I ask, how much?

"Stop, please," she says. "Or I'll scream."

So I drop her arm and step away. "Don't scream," I say. "Just do not scream."

Gwen sighs and then hauls off and punches me in the chest. "You moron!" she says. "I didn't say 'poodle.'"

It's the sexual equivalent of Simon Sez.

She twists back into my grip. Then she walks us over to the towel and says, "Wait." She goes to the dresser and comes back with a pink plastic vibrator.

"Hey," I say, "you're not using that on me."

Gwen shudders and says, "Of course not. This is mine."

And I say, "So what about me?"

And she says, "Sorry, next time bring your own vibrator."

"No," I say, "what about my penis?'

And she says, "What about your penis?"

And I ask, "How does it fit into all this?"

Settling herself on the towel, Gwen shakes her head and says, "Why do I do this? Why do I always pick the guy who just wants to be nice and conventional? The next thing you'll want to do is marry me." She says, "Just one time, I'd like to have an abusive relationship. Just once!"