The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

styrofoam cup in both thin-fingered hands. When she bent her head to sip, enormous hoop earrings swung against her cheeks.

Despite the time and the place, Stuart didn’t think she was a professional. A pro wouldn’t have worn a thin shapeless turquoise topcoat. It concealed without protecting, which is the opposite to what a whore would choose. In any case, she was too old. She had to be about his own age, forty. Yonge Street whores range from prepubescent to old hands of twenty.

Stuart should have drunk up and left. There was a bed waiting at his hotel and it’d been a tiring night. Waiting hours for a mainframe to come up so you can keyboard your last seven entries is more fatiguing than pounding the keys all night.

He should have left, but he crooked a finger for another coffee instead. The woman looked so incredibly vulnerable. It’s hard to walk away from that. There are so many possibilities. A woman’s weakness can give a man the opportunity to be chivalrous. Or it can be exploited.

Stuart had been in Toronto for ten days, with no real human contact. He’d been sleeping through most of the mornings, watching TV in the afternoon, and starting work when the rest of the office left. His friends and family were all back in “Van”. He was hungry for some sort of emotional interaction.

A dozen gilt bangles jingled as the woman heaved a macrame bag onto the counter, fumbled out a cigarette to slot between lips that were far too red, and started fumbling again. She found a bookmatch with just one match left and struck it. It spluttered out.

That gave Stuart his chance to perform a tiny courtesy. He slid off his stool, walked the length of the counter, and flicked his lighter. She bent to the flame without looking at him and nodded her “thanks”.

Stuart went back to his stool, vaguely disappointed, vaguely resentful.

Her cup had to be empty. The kid behind the counter said something to her. She shook her head and lifted styrofoam to her lips, but Stuart was sure she was faking that there was coffee left. Her throat – her long slender throat – didn’t make any swallowing motions.

Nowhere to go? No money? Could she be a battered wife who’d finally walked out? That’d make her even more vulnerable, more in need of his chivalry, more… Stuart didn’t complete the thought. Everyone has a dark side. Most of us just don’t look into those shadows, right? Best not to know what lurks there.

She stubbed half her cigarette into a foil ashtray, faked another sip at her empty cup and groped for another smoke. Stuart decided to have a second stab at being nice.

She swivelled on her stool to meet him, took the cigarette from her mouth between two fingers, touched the back of his flame-bearing hand with her nail-tips, looked up at him, and asked, “Should I?”

“Should you?”

“Smoke another cigarette.”

The sensible answer would have been, “That’s up to you.”

Stuart told her, “Yes,” in a firm voice.

“If you say so, I will.”

She had a rusty contralto. Stuart moved his neck inside the collar of his topcoat. Her voice had been like velvet stroking his nape. The sharp points of her fingernails had left tingles in his skin.

“Would you like another coffee?”

“Should I?”

Stuart snapped his fingers and pointed to her cup instead of answering.

The kid looked at him. Stuart said, “Two”.

The woman said, “Virginia.”

Stuart said, “Stuart, with a ‘u’.”

They sipped coffee in awkward silence. When Stuart was done he cleared his throat. “It’s late.”

“Should I go home?”

“I would.” She had a home to go to? Was he glad for her, or disappointed?

“How should I get there?”

Stuart shrugged. “Is it far? Do you have a car? Do you need a cab?”

She spilled coins onto the counter. Her finger counted a dollar eighty-five.

“Do you need cab fare?”

“Should I?” again.

“I’m working at the TD Centre. Hawkins and Bradley – if you wanted to repay me sometime.” He pulled out his wallet, half-extracted a twenty, and paused. “A better idea. I’ll call a taxi and drop you off on the way to my hotel, okay?”

She huddled in the far corner of the cab and looked out of the window, silent. So – he’d been wrong. It wasn’t a pick-up. At least he’d had a few words of conversation with an attractive woman. As lonely as he was, those moments were worth the extra cab-fare and the price of a coffee.

As she got out she looked back at him, lips almost parting, but she didn’t smile and she didn’t even say goodnight. Stuart decided not to think about her again. He’d been ready to sin, so the memory would be a guilty one, but he hadn’t followed through, so there’d be no secret pleasure to savour.

The night-line on his desk rang at six-forty the next evening.

“Should I go for a walk or is it too cold?”

Something icy flopped over inside Stuart’s chest. He collected himself and said, “Do you have another coat?”

“No.”

“It’s too cold out for that one. Stay home.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What should I do at home?”

He almost snapped, “Read a book, watch tv, whatever!” but he said, “Think about tomorrow and get an early night.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Meet me for breakfast. Nine-thirty. Get a cab to the Sheraton. I’ll pick up the tab.”

“What should I wear?”

“Hold on.” Stuart laid the phone down. He needed to think. She was the most frustrating… But it was exciting too, wasn’t it? “Should I this, should I do that?” Did she have no mind of her own? And if she didn’t? What would that be like? A puppet woman, doing absolutely nothing without his permission, and perhaps doing anything that he suggested?

But that couldn’t be, could it? No one was that pliant – that blank. Then again, what if she was? How could he resist putting her to the test? What would he be missing if he just walked away? If he didn’t find out he’d never forgive himself.

He picked the phone up. “Something attractive.”

“Attractive.”

“Sexy.”

“Very well. What do you like?”

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. The bubble would burst. He’d tell her to do something, and she’d refuse, just like any normal woman. Best to pop the illusion right then.

“Do you mean to tell me that if I told you to meet me stark naked under your coat, you would?”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“Of course not. Do you have a short skirt?”

“Yes.”

“A see-through blouse?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll do then.”

“Stockings, pantihose or bare legs?”

Stuart felt an erection starting to grow. “Stockings.”

“Heels?”

“High. The highest you have.”