The Coquette

I know what men want.

I always have.

It's what I do.

I understand and am fluent in those most subtle signals, and fleeting moments between men and women. Body language. Tone of voice. Movement of the eyes. Little pieces of an intricate puzzle that all add up to what you want, and what you will do to get it.

I hear women complaining about men- their dominance, the objectification of women. And I feel for them. I feel truly sorry for them.

They don't know what power they have.

In my life I have never paid a speeding ticket, bought myself dinner, carried my own bags at the airport, or felt sexually frustrated.

Not once.

I know my power well.

And I use it.

And right now- I want him.

That well mannered, educated, timid professor type in the corner at this little soiree.

And I will have him. Tonight.

I drift away from my friends and their politics over canapes. I linger in the corner opposite. Alone, and doing my best to be shy and retiring. I look up demurely at him, catch his eye, smile with a hint of embarrassment, turn my head.

When I look back, he's gone- I see his back as he enters the bathroom. His empty wine glass sitting on the hall table. Predictable as men are, I move into the kitchen and begin to pour myself another glass.

When I hear footsteps behind me, I pretend to startle, spilling some wine on my crimson cocktail dress, just below the fashionably low cut neckline.

"Oh! You surprised me!" I lie.

"Here, here, let me get that." He dabs first at my dress, then turning a shade to match it's hue hurriedly turns to clean up the counter. "I'm so sorry." He stammers out.

His awkward ministrations are endearing. And like clockwork. I feel the stirrings of anticipation at his hands fumbling at my chest.

"No, No it's quite alright." I blush on command, and extend my hand, "Cassie. Nice to, er, meet you" Awkward laugh. I am sure he thinks me as embarrassed as himself. I appraise his strong shoulders, dark hair, height, and striking eyes. He is muscular beneath that jacket, and in his mid thirties. I want those hands on me again. I want my nipple in his mouth.

Another glass of wine ought to do the trick. "Thanks for your help. Here- let me pour you some more merlot-"

He rushes to cut me off and sweeps the bottle away from my outstretched hand. "No, no, allow me. One stain on that dress is enough."

My giggle is sweet as it is submissive. He pours another glass, first for me and them for himself. His name, I soon find out is Steven, a professor of history at the local college, divorced, and ridiculously into the Inca archaeological sites. The talk comes around to me. I select my story carefully. Tonight I am a literature grad student from a neighboring university , in town for a lecture at the campus library on Faulkner. I am passionate in my tone as I turn the conversation from Faulkner to Williams, and then to the passion and repressed sexuality of American literature in the 1900s.

I lean over, conspiratorially, giving him quite the view of my ample cleavage in so doing. I touch his knee and speak soulfully about how love and sexuality when repressed give rose and blossom to such touching and (here I am sure to blush) stirring prose.

I look down, withdraw my hand, and ask him to excuse my fervor, the wine is lowering my sense of propriety. I look up with innocent, open eyes, and ask if he has seen the rest of our host's home. They have some lovely art pieces on the second floor. I stretch out my hand and draw him towards the stairs.

The hallway outside the guestroom that I have claimed as my own does have some spectacular works. Outside of my door I stand reflecting on a particular piece, as he expounds on it's symbolism. I see his eyes subtly drift down to my chest once more.

"I have a book you might like. Come, let me get it for you." I turn my shoulders away from him, blocking his view, and forcing his eyes to meet mine. They are coquettishly looking into his from over my shoulder. He, of course, follows as I enter my room.

From my overnight bag I withdraw a small book on art, purchased for this occasion from a used bookstore. My hand brushes his as he takes it from me. I catch his stare, hold it. I don't breathe for a moment. I tilt my chin up, and his lips are on mine. He tastes of wine. He drops the book and wraps him arms around me.