I remember Luna — her pretty face, her perfect breasts, her hunger for attention. What I wouldn’t give.

I line you all up against a hotel wall and let my imagination do what it does best.

The happy circle of attention and compliance, and the women who break it.

Consent, legalized.

Luna may or may not suck my cock again, but she did send me something nice.

Luna wants me to tell her she’s the prettiest. I’d rather show her.

Luna is difficult, entitled, and spectacular — and on this particular evening, she was lying face-down on the bed, as instructed, her magnificent ass writhing in anticipation.

She’s late, and I cycle through annoyance, gratitude, and want before she even arrives — from the wrong direction, dressed exactly as I asked.

On Tinder, I lead with something vaguely suggestive and slightly funny — and I mean every formulaic word of it.

A set of instructions for an evening.