t I still know how to please a woman.”
My first instinct was to hurl and make a run for it, but the Prof was staring back at me with wet, lonely eyes. Being the bleeding heart I am, I stayed and tried not to hurt his feelings.
“Oh,” I said. “How nice of you.”
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“One way to describe it.”
“Well,” he chuckled. “You don’t think men ask you to dinner because they want to eat, do you?”
“Actually,” I told him, starting to feel peeved. “I do. And I certainly don’t expect them to ask me to become their kept woman. Why would I want that for myself?”
“You’re a starving artist,” he answered. “You stay in hostels when you travel and can’t afford expensive dinners. Stick with me and you get the Sheraton and prime rib.”
The Sheraton, I thought. What a gyp. Still, I wondered. What if all the things I’ve sacrificed to live this artsy, not-for-profit life – good wine, exotic travel destinations, clothes that don’t come off the sale rack – were suddenly provided by a sexy rich dude who just happened to be older than the hills? What if the Prof really did look like Robert Redford? What if he paid off my debt and offered up a better hotel? Would I have considered his indecent proposal?
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Anyway, the point was moot as I wasn’t sitting across from the Sundance Kid. I was sitting across from the Slobbery Grandfather taunting me with a pervy grin.