You’re the one she calls for break-up sex. If you knew who it was she keeps breaking up with, you’d buy him a drink, shake his hand, and say thank you. Whatever it is he’s doing means you get some of the angriest, most satisfying sex you’ve ever experienced. Maybe ever will experience. That’s worth a drink and a handshake.

Whatever bar you’re in, lingering over an after-work drink, she finds you. Summons you. You still don’t know her name. You just go.

The first time? You were catching that after-work drink. Something to smooth the way for the train ride home. That first time, she marched into the bar, didn’t bother taking off her coat. She looked familiar, despite the dim lights, like you knew her from somewhere. Maybe the bar here, though you had a twitchy feeling you’d seen her a number of times, but somewhere else. She didn’t bother asking if the stool next to you was taken. She yanked it out, wedged in close to the bar and pulled the stool under her. She took a moment to order. Like she wanted something nasty, so she didn’t lose the anger she felt. A single malt. Something burnt and smoky. The smokiest you got, she said. Bartender poured it up. Double it, she said. She took it, sniffed at it, then knocked it back. Given how pricey a drink like that is, you had to look over at her.

Scheisse, das ist gut, she said. Not like she spoke German, but like she’d learned that one phrase all by itself to pull out and use in places like this.

Then she turned to you. Do you fuck, she asked.

Only if money doesn’t work, you said. It’s all you could think to say. No one’s ever asked you that before.

What are you drinking, she asked. You were about to say gin in case she was going to buy you a round and turn this into a hookup. You didn’t want to deflate your pecker with anything too strong.

But she didn’t wait for you to say. She knocked back the rest of your drink, pulled two twenties from her wallet as she crunched the last of the ice, and set the empty glass on it. She gestured to the bartender so he noticed the cash, then said to you, come on.

She slid off the stool and headed for the door. She didn’t look back to see if you followed. Of course you followed. Do you fuck? Of course you do.

That first time, you walked behind her all the way to her apartment. She wouldn’t slow down enough to walk side-by-side. She would speed up if she felt you getting close. She made no small talk beyond telling you when to cross the street, where to watch your step for the broken concrete in the sidewalk, then to wait at the bottom of the steps up to the brownstone of her apartment—you guessed—while she unlocked the front door, then to come on, like you were dawdling. Which you did, like she was a schoolteacher and you were late handing in your homework. You didn’t want to seem overly anxious, like a kid looking forward to his first taste of pussy, or act too smug like you were some big shit lover—in case the alcohol or the nerves soft-boiled your hard-on. Which grew in your pants, of course, watching her power walking ahead of you the whole long way, knowing all that determination was for you.

Inside her apartment, you had no time to look around, check for any sign of a roommate. Or a boyfriend. Or a husband. Or whatever. She shucked her coat and dumped it on the floor just inside the doorway and headed for the living room, leaving you to close the door and put on the deadbolt. You left your own coat hanging on a doorknob. She was pulling off her top as she went, stopping just long enough to kick off her heels and step out of her skirt. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose or stockings. Just a black lace thong and a pale blue bra.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. While it powered up, she unhooked her bra and flung it at an easy chair where it landed cups upward. The thong followed, missing the chair and landing on the floor. If she planned to stream a little porn to get you going, you didn’t need it.

She punched the buttons on the remote, hard, and the channel changed to a couple of guys slugging and kicking and dancing around a ring. Ultimate fighting, it looked like. She stood a moment, as if making sure she was on the right channel.

You were confused. You didn’t think you’d been brought here to watch television. Nor were you invited to remove your own clothes. So you stood, waiting. Then she put down the remote and came to you. Again, no small talk, no foreplay, unless you counted her fumbling, furious fingers yanking at your belt and fly, stripping your clothes off, barely waiting for you to get your feet free of your trousers, then your underwear, before she was throwing them aside.

You were glad your pecker was at the ready. Not fully gorged but showing a keen interest in the proceedings. You hoped she took it as a compliment.

She placed one hand on your shoulder and with the other she grabbed your cock. She began tugging and twisting, like she knew a secret trick for unlocking your penis to get its whole length pulled free from your body. Which, kind of, she did, because now you were fully filled out, stiff, stretched. Her hands on you, a stranger’s hands, sent electric thrills down the shaft, the sizzle branching off down both legs all the way to your ankles.

She dragged a straight-backed chair from the dining table in the little alcove into the center of the room and spun it around so it faced away from the television. She moved you to the chair, leading you, almost like dancing as she watched your feet, guiding you sideways then pushing you back onto the chair.

She got down on her knees, and you knew she wouldn’t be down there long, since she didn’t have anything soft to save her kneecaps on that hard wood floor.

You had a pretty good idea what she would do next but you kept still, knees together, letting her know she was in charge. And you were right. She forced your knees apart with her elbows, all business, no ceremony, and began taking you deep, tonguing you, working up a mouthful of spit so the thick wetness of her saliva ran down to your balls. You gripped the chair seat under you and leaned back. The head of your cock was so sensitive you could feel the uvula at the back of her throat. Professional safecrackers work a lifetime for fingertips as sensitive. She slid down, wagging her head, like she had to work past her own gag reflex. Then on the last deep plunge you were convinced you’d reached her lungs and could feel her heart beating against the tip of your cock. Her esophagus constricted on you, and you knew for sure this is what it would feel like to be swallowed by a python, dick first.

She sat back on her heels, looked at your cock, then worked up a bit more spit and leaned over you, drizzling it on the tip of your pecker, a Sundae topping.

She got to her feet, straddled you, and guided you inside until she settled her butt onto the tops of your thighs. She leaned in, wrapping one arm around your shoulders, her head next to yours, in what you thought was a hug. You tilted your head slightly, touching ear-to-ear, and she jerked her head aside. She got back to working herself down on your pecker, like it didn’t fit right, so you put your hands on her hips, but she knocked your hands away, grunting something like, unh-unh. She went back to hugging you around the shoulders. She started again working it up and down, doing her best to keep your pecker inside her, without letting her ass touch the tops of your thighs. Her long legs helped. She was fierce, like she was trying to saw your pecker off, or pinch it off if she could squeeze hard enough. You realized she didn’t want her ass touching your thighs. You are the cock. You are the rescuer, saving her from drowning. She’s holding tight as you make for the shore. Your dick is not part of you. It’s a flotation device. It lives, and maybe she imagines it ripped from your body, like she would rip it from the body of the guy who made her so angry, but she can’t because there are laws against it, so she takes you, a stranger, and imagines it severed from your body.