Dating

Véronique picks up where she left off — the cold air, the car, the Liberty Hotel with its green neon and painted ceiling.

Véronique tells you about our first date, in her own words.

A much-hyped first date, a black polka-dot minidress, and a request made over drinks.

The second time with Jen, I didn’t make the same mistake. I was in perfect control.

From the strip club to the hotel room, I directed your orgasms by text — and then joined you for the rest.

She tells it better than I could.

I directed you through the crowd, watching your ass, before we ended up in a champagne room with whipped cream and a dancer named Dee who couldn’t stop talking about your tits.

Snap judgments, Birkenstocks, and ostrich burgers: a date that was over before it started.

Socializing at a poly event plays to exactly none of my strengths.

I call myself a slut, but the truth is more complicated — and more Groucho Marx than easy lay.