¿Eres tu, Señora
Robinson?
(Mrs. Robinson, is that you?)
New York. Now.
We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do, okay?” Emilio says to me in the car on the way to the bar. It’s our first date. An hour and a half later, mellowed by sangria, emboldened by shots of brandy in between, and fortified by the empanadas we fed each other while grinning like a couple of high school kids sneaking off to fool around, I know exactly what I want to do. I want Emilio to rip my clothes off and f**k my brains out. In the car or at a hotel, it doesn’t matter where, as long as he f***s me hard. He can even f**k me right on the Brooklyn Bridge for all I care. Just not in this bar.
“That little boy is staring at us,” I murmur into Emilio’s ear, as his lips brush against my neck.
“Yeah? So wh
