The nice one

George is sixty-two and he calls me sweetheart like he's doing me a favor. I let him. The age is the point. I like his hands on a twenty-one-year-old stomach. I like that he still asks, every time, if I'm sure. I like saying yes in the baby voice so he has to hear how sure.

Tonight he wanted me over the back of the couch, which is his idea of adventurous. I told him he could piss on me first if he said what I was. He said I was a hole he rented. I laughed, bright, and got on my knees on the cushion. He pissed down my back and into my hair, careful, sorry and not sorry. I reached under and rubbed my clit in it. More, I said, tiny. Please use your sweetheart.

He fucked me after, slow, talking about how young I felt. I didn't correct him into a speech. I said thank you while I dripped, and I came when he called me a rented thing again. I like the money. I like the mess. I like performing the girl who can't believe her luck.

My luck is fine. I designed it. I kissed his cheek at the door in the little voice and then I stood in the kitchen as myself, twenty-one, counting the transfer, grinning like a woman who just closed.