Well, he's interested.

As expected, my admirer comes right over, his jacket draped over his right arm as he clenches a fresh glass in the same hand. I'm not stopping the act there. I lurch forward slightly as if in surprise, increasing my the size of my smile and the depth of my blush before I "compose" myself and return both my drink and my legs.

"Hi," I say softly.

"Hello," he says. "I'm David."

"Chloe." That's what the regulars and staff around here know me as. "Sorry again about squashing your hand."

"Think nothing of it. I should have offered to help. May I join you?"

"Sure."

Oh, he's definitely in a rough marriage. There are two chairs around the table, and yet he's sitting down on the couch with me. It may be on opposite ends, but all it takes is a little leaning until we're close enough for kissing, groping, and oral. He wants intimacy, but he doesn't want to seem overbearing. He is totally mine, and totally worth it.

"David, that suit looks incredible on you. There are so few people left in this world who know how to make a waistcoat work."

"Thank you. I always have to look my best at work."

"Oh? What do you do?"

"I'm what's called a public relations festooner."

"A what?"

"A public relations festooner," he repeats. "It's a fancy way of saying I give presentations that embellish our company's record in order to convince employees, business partners, the general public, and any company we wish to merge with that our board of directors is managing a successful, safe, and eco-friendly company even if its failing, hazardous, and environmentally irresponsible. And tonight it's brought me to this part of the country."

Here are some quick etiquette lessons for the aspiring hooker. First, always listen, especially if you're playing the "he'll tell his friends he scored with a babe" angle. That's the only way to figure out if you landed a creep, the best way to figure out if you want to roll him, and in this case the only way to not shatter the illusion. So, take this opportunity to go back and actually read that load of shit instead of skipping past it to get to the sex. If you want to hook but can't accept this watered down version of his speech that I made for CHYOA, stick to the thinly veiled ads and leave the plausibly deniable situations to the professionals. As for the rest of you, remember: you're here to experience my life. I sit through much worse. Surely you can handle a little contemplation.

Yeah, contemplation. "Public relations festooner"? I seriously doubt any company would call this role that, nor do I think it would be his sole work. But it's certainly too fake to be something the police would come up with. So I'm left with two options. Either he knows the game and is playing along covertly, or he has the worst employer ever. The polar opposites complicate things, so I fall back on the golden rule: always bring it back to sex.

"Wow," I say as I cross my legs again, this time left over right. It lets me twist to face him and lean over slightly, bringing us closer and our eyes together. Or at least it would if I hadn't also given him a look down my dress. I lower my voice to a sultry whisper and continue with a smile, "Sounds like you could talk me into anything."

Slightly more subtle than I intended, but honestly, that job title threw me for a loop. So it was that, or just announce I'm a horny hooker and take a serious price cut. But hey, I'm not arguing with it and neither will you. After all, it worked.

The implications are definitely running through his head. His breathing has gotten deeper and louder, and his eyes are glowing with lust. Now the test.

"Nah, I do enough of that at work. Away from the office, I'm much happier when my companions are happy."

"Does that include me, David?"

"Yes, it does."

"Well, do you know what would make me really happy?"

"What?"

I beckon him closer with a finger, drawing him in until my lips are practically touching his left ear. I whisper ever so softly, "I want to see how fucking hot you look when you wake up in the morning."

I pull back and greet David's wide gaze unfazed. His twitching jaw and tenting pants are all I need to know he, at very least, wants it. I just hope he takes it. I'm getting tired. If he turns me down, I might need to start throwing myself at people.

He finally gets some words out. "I...uh...you..."

"Please?" I make sure to pout my lips slightly. Anything to evoke some courtesy and regret to **** his decision. "Most guys can produce 1000 reasons to grant that request. Surely you have at least 800."

Hopefully that made it clear as day. It has for everyone else I've landed with that line. And for those of you who aren't from the United States, go produce a rough estimate of what those dollar amounts mean to you and come back.