It's not as simple as desire, not just a layer, or even two. It's art.

Perhaps it was when I lifted my foot, to untie my shoe, and pants rose
just enough to show the smallest band of smooth and newly-shaven skin,
that we decided on a painting, not a sketch. I saw my secret exposed. I
saw him look. I looked up at his face, tried a small smile.

"Let me help," I thought I heard him whisper.

So: What can a band of cloth, a line of inter-weaving lacing do?

Oh that? Oh, look at that.

What does a pad here do? And there?

That. Look at that.

And if you fill one cup with this, the other one with that, and if you
dip yourself into the bra, the way the girls do; yes, you know how,
bend elbows round and reach. Yes, and what does that do?

Oh yes. Oh yes.

Sit here and let me ...

Brush my hair, why combing backwards? Because. Look at it frame your
face, you really leave it awfully long for a guy. But for today, you're
not ...

No. Let's not say it.

Close eyes instead. Let him trace lips' edges, paint. Now, a waxy slide
of color, my desert dry smoothed soft. A peek: red, not near as bold as
I am feeling, a pink that's redder than my own. Tip of tongue touches.
A smile.

Close eyes again. Almost astringent sting of -- is that lotion on my
face, making skin tighten just a little. No. It's, what do they call
it? Eyebrows: that stings. A pad swipes just below, then a touch on
eyes. Soft puff of, is that cotton, on cheekbones.

Earlobe pinched. The other. The lightest something swings as I turn my
head; brushing my neck, it tickles. A silvery feeling: earrings, yes?

Stand now. Eyes still closed? Given me your hand, step to your right.
There. Now: Deep breath. Open your eyes.

Oh my.

***

It went the way he said it would, by and large. Dressed in the disguise
he'd picked, disguise that hid and yet revealed. A dozen steps, car
door held open. Eyes linger as I tuck in my legs; I'm not looking but
somehow I see. Perhaps the skirt's a little shorter, tighter than I
thought. Between two cones of light, around the side, the door, a hand
held out, held.

Standing out in the world, heart pounding. A distant siren, blocks
away. Yellow light seeps from houses' windows, a small red neon sign
invites people to eat who are not coming. A dozen steps. A door. A
wink. A booth 'way in the back.

Heels click on tiled floor.

The heady smell of sauces simmering when you're hungry. An unexpected
favorite on the menu. Bottle of wine. The little ceremony of
inspection, consideration, tiny sip. The nod. A gurgle, splash for
wine. For me, for him. He floats his glass halfway across the table,
cocks an eyebrow. A tiny clink. What was the toast?

On the edge of a glass, a smudge of color.

Mine.

He sees my glance, sees me start. Gives me a little smile, I think it's
supposed to be reassuring, as if to say, well, that's what women do,
isn't it? No big deal. Whether with a kiss, or just a touch of lips,
you leave your mark. My mark. Mine. I'm not invisible, not tonight, not
my night. On the wineglass, a smudge of red. Mine.

Like surgeons, we cut in tiny strokes, carve this time into tiny bites.
The fork pierces, carries. A little food, a sentence. A sip of wine, a
story. Again, again. I write his biography. He writes mine. We don't
know anything. We know everything.

On a slow night, legislature out of town, weekend beckoning, nobody
minds how long this takes. The waitress dozes, busboy rubs stiff back.

It takes forever, it goes too fast. It's time to clear the plates, to
take a final sip of wine, prepare to venture back to the darkness just
beyond the window.

"Here," he says, hands me the purse I must've carried in. A purse, I
had a purse?

"Right at the top," he whispers, so no one will hear. "The compact, see
it? Take it, O.K. Open ... "

There are my painted lips, duller now. A flowerily smell rising from
the pressed powder beneath the tiny mirror.

"Stick out your tongue," he says. "Stick out your tongue, and with the
tip, trace the edges of your lips...just so."

Just so.

"The tube is there, inside the purse. I put it there," the softest
whisper. "Yes, that's it."

The lipstick's open, compact held to my face.

Somehow I know to arch my back, to slide one knee over the other, feel
the skirt slide higher still. A tiny pucker, intent stare. Mine, at the
tiny mirror. Others, maybe, at a smooth curve of thigh, the golden
tube's smooth tip extended, red. A stroke of color, another. Lips
press. A tiny smile.

"How does that feel?" he asks.

How do you think it feels?

And then, a dozen steps, past a booth, a table. Another couple.

Do I hear a mutter: faggot? Why am I shaking, why am I walking just a
little faster? Did I hear? Or did I simply fear?

Don't worry, there's the door. Heels beat a tattoo on the tile. Heart
beats another in my chest. Slow down. One foot before the other, wiggle
a little, what the hell. Who cares what they said, if they said it,
safe here, car door slammed shut.

A ride. A short ride. Five minutes, ten. Just like he said. A ride over
before you're quite ready.

We all remember high school, that moment when the ride has ended,
outside the door, wondering what the next step is -- though in that
day, it was me who would be driving. And in that day, I'd think, can I?
do I now? And she'd think, will he? Do I want?

The moment's come again, but someone else has driven. I'm thinking, can
I? Do I want?

He's watching.

He's not in high school. Nor am I. Maybe we've learned since then that
there is no hurry. Or that the path isn't always clear. Maybe we've
learned the question's really: can we, do we want?

I tug the door handle. Somehow, by the time I push it open, he's there,
hand ready to help me out.

Does he know what I don't think I do yet? He hasn't let my hand go.
Hasn't bent closer, either.

"I think," I start to say, not sure exactly what I think. "I think," I
try again. "I'd like it if you'd walk me home."

A silent question, head tilts toward the alley door.

"No," I say. "I think I'm ready. Just need the key."

A dozen steps up the alley. A lighted street. Deep breath, step. Nobody
there. A dozen steps. A car drifts by, an idle glance. A dozen steps.
The corner. An arm around my waist now as we cross. Now the palms
stand, shiver in a breeze. The pale blue light of the moon, the smoky
scent of sage, of pine? A block, another. There's the hotel. Across the
minefield of a lobby, a night desk clerk who surely must suspect.

By the brass doors of an elevator, confused by mirrors. It seems
forever for the bell to sound. We ride, in silence. Silent down the
patterned carpet. Silent to my door. His arm has slipped down from my
waist.

I turn. Take a deep breath. I need to say, but how to say...

He's laid his index finger on my lip, light as a moth might touch me.

"I know," he says. "It's time to say good night."

All I can do is nod. Not quite the moment. Almost, not quite.

"You're very ..." he starts to say.

"No," I whisper. "I'm just me." A deep breath. "I've had a lovely
time."

My face tilts up: how? why?

My lips brush his.

His, mine.