My First Time as a Paid Whore: The Garden Behind the Yews
The buzz in my bag yanks me from Matisse’s ‘The Dream.’ Heart slams. SMS: ‘Meet me at the garden’s end, right behind the yews.’ Electric jolt straight to my core. Paris to Nice. His texts started before I left. Packing list: flowy dresses, sheer lace panties, toys he’d shipped. TGV toilet: off with bra and…