"It sounds awfully cold and heartless to me. Don't they feel used?"

"Most men f**k in a way that uses women. They spend the majority of the time getting oral sex, or taking what they want in the position that they want it. As I mentioned earlier - the reason for their sex is to get off, not for any other purpose. I don't f**k that way. I am more about the women's pleasure. Did you feel used this morning?"

His sudden question caught me off guard. Mid-chew, I quietly swallowed the hunk of tender filet I had been savoring and wiped my mouth. I sipped the glass of ice water and looked up at the gold leaf ceiling, thinking. Had I felt used? "Used" hadn't even crossed my mind. I had felt elated, relaxed, sleepy, but hadn't thought about my feelings or felt guilt. Then again, a guy going down on you was a lot different than sex, right?

"No, I didn't feel used. But I think what we did, and sex, is two different things. Sex is giving me a part of myself."

He snorted. "Says who? Every women-lit book out there? Your parents? The church? Society has this hang up with the idea that women are losing a part of themselves every time they fuck, and it is bullshit. So a man can be with 20 different women and have a normal, healthy self-esteem but a woman sleeps around and she is emotionally destroyed? Women attach feelings to sex because society tells them to. They think that they should feel for a guy before sleeping with them so they manufacture a relationship or emotions and that only screws them up later on. It provides justification that later bites them in the ass when they try to look in the mirror and come to grips with "what they've done." When, "what they've done" is nothing to be ashamed of! The act of sex is healthy, normal, God-given. It's the emotions and entitlement that everyone attaches to it that is harmful."

I looked at him, listening to his words, and tried to remind myself that he was an attorney, born and breed to convince juries, lonely housewives, and me that what came out of his mouth was fact. I felt like I was in a twister game and could no longer tell whether I was upside down, or lefty, or completely right side up. Part of what he was saying seemed completely logical. But it went against everything I had ever been taught or told. But, who was I to blindly follow what I was taught or told? It made sense that the church or that my parents would tell me to wait for sex, that I should only sleep with my husband, the person that I loved. I'm sure I would tell my future 12-year old daughter the same thing.

"If sex is only for procreation, then "yes" - only have sex with your husband, it would be wrong to create young with total strangers. That mindset thinks of sex only as a tool for reproduction. It ignores the essence of sex - the passion and enjoyment." Brad said, pouring more champagne.

"I don't think sex should be saved for marriage - that's not what I am saying. I just think that I should love the person I have sex with."

"What is love?"

"What?"

"What do you consider love to be? Not love for your family, but the love you're talking about, towards a partner. What do you consider it to be? How do you know when you're in love?"

"I don't know. I just know.”

"And have you been in love? I assume, since you've been with - what? Two people? That you were in love with both of them?"

I faltered slightly. "Well, I thought I was in love with them. In retrospect… they were wrong for me. I was probably too young to really know what love was."

"And you know now?" His voice was calm, the voice of a psychiatrist. I felt like he was reeling me in for a dramatic finish.

"I know that I need to be more careful, not put a label like love on a relationship before I know. Before, I felt like if I loved someone, then I was obligated to have sex with them. I wasn't manufacturing feelings of love to justify sex, as you seem to think women everywhere are doing. I thought I was in love, and felt like that was expected of me. Plus, I didn't want to enter into marriage without knowing if I was sexually compatible with the person."

"Who were you thinking of marrying?"

I toyed with a hunk of soft, white bread before deciding to butter it. I wanted something to keep my hands and eyes occupied, anything to avoid looking in his intense brown eyes and strong face. 100% of his attention was on me, and I felt like I was under a microscope. He was asking me things and making me look at ideas and feelings that I hadn't had a chance to examine yet, and I didn't know what or how I felt yet.

"I was engaged, to a guy named Luke. We dated for six months, I thought I was in love, and I probably was. It was just - he was just the wrong guy for me. I wanted too many things from him and he didn't have the skill set or work ethic to provide them."

"Material things?" his voice seemed a little dark.

"Eventually. I want to live my life a certain way. One that doesn't involve unpaid bills and rundown apartments. Luke was older than me, 27, and couldn't keep a job and had no aspirations to. I was looking at a future of me working constantly and nagging him all the time. I didn't like the person I was turning into, and couldn't accept the person he was. I had deep feelings for him, but I feel like if he was my true love, I wouldn't have been trying so hard to change him."

"And the other?"

"Other what?"

"The other love you had - your first."

"Oh. That guy was a jackass. He was the first guy I wanted more than he wanted me. He promised me the world and then dumped me two weeks after he took my virginity. We had been together 6 months, and had sex on my 19th birthday. I hate thinking about him. There wasn't even anything "great" about him. He was a weak, pathetic silver spoon asshole." I grinned suddenly and looked up at Brad. "Do I sound a little bitter?"

"A bit. It's okay. Early loves can be a bitch."

"Did you love your wife?"

"I met my wife in college, and yes, believed I loved her."

"And now?"

"Do I love her now?"

"No. In retrospect, do you think you were in love with her?"

"I think love is a hallmark image that society has created. I cared very deeply for her. All of the books and movies love the phrase "I loved her, I wasn't "in love" with her. I think for a marriage to work, both parties have to understand that it’s not about being "in love". Both people need to care deeply about the other person; to put the others' needs before their own, and to make a daily commitment to that person to stick it out. Hillary made that commitment to me, and probably would have stuck it out till we were old and grey and dead. I wasn't committed and dropped the ball. But, what I should have added first, is that choosing the correct person is the most important step. There's no point in putting all of the daily time, effort, and commitment into a lifelong marriage with the wrong person. Hillary and I were the wrong people."

"But you said on our first date that you wouldn't get married again."

"All of my beliefs about what makes a marriage work are based on my work experience and marriages I've seen that do work. A woman who can meet my needs sexually wouldn't fall into the same criteria that I would want in a wife. It's a catch 22." He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head at me. "I like being a bachelor. I don't need or want a wife, and I'm happy alone. I get plenty of enjoyment out of life." He raised his almost empty glass to his lips and shot a side look at me. "Like now." He drained the glass and set it down, staring at me with hungry eyes. "You look breathtaking."

I laughed and leaned forward, shaking my finger at him. "Ah ah ah, you are not going all Rico Suave on me. We haven't finished this conversation."

"Fine. What else do you want to pick my enormous brain about?"

"God, you are cocky. Okay, last question."

"Shoot."

"How many women have you slept with?"

"What?"

"You heard me! If I'm even going to think about sleeping with you, I need to know what number I'm going to be."

His hand was back on my knee. The unexpected touch caused my breath to hitch. I swatted his hand away again, but slower this time. "So you are thinking about being with me?"

I looked at him through lowered lashes. "Kind of. You are very persuasive, though I don't want to know how many times you've given that "Sex is Society's Blessing" opening statement." He laughed and removed his hand, but lingered as he did so, grazing my inner thigh with his fingers. I waited for his response expectantly.

He rolled his eyes and laughed. "God, Julia - I don't really know."

"What? Of course you do! Don't guys notch it into their bedposts or something?"

"Not gentlemen."

"Oh please, don't pull that. Okay, rough estimate if you're too "gentlemanly" to give me an exact."

He thought for a while, pulling on his ear, his eyes getting hazy. He finally shrugged. "If I had to guess, probably in the 150 to 180 range."

I think my eyebrows hit a new high on my forehead. I had been expecting something high, but this took the cake. "Bullshit."

"I have no reason to brag to you. If I calculate about two a month, there were probably ten before I got married, I've been divorced five or six years… it's got to be in that range."

"You pig!" I sputtered.

"Why? Because I love sex and enjoy having it with beautiful women?"

"I don't know - it just seems wrong. Haven't you had any relationships in the last six years?"

"Of course I have, but they weren't monogamist, on either side."

"Then that's not a relationship."

He waved a hand at me, dismissing the subject. "I don't want to get into that with you now."

I stared at him in stony silence. That was way too many women. I didn't have any good reason why. The same reason I didn't have any good response to his argument that women should have carefree, emotion-free sex. He had bended my thinking on that, but I'd be damned if I was going to let him know that. I finally sighed and relaxed my angry shoulders. "I'm still hungry. Are we ordering dessert?"

He laughed and leaned forward, cupping my chin in his hand and kissing me. "Yes, we are, but not here." He waved a hand to our waiter, who had been waiting for a lull in our conversation. The waiter presented the check, which Brad quickly signed. "Come on, let's go." He stood up and held out a hand to me. I grabbed my purse and stood, smoothing down my dress. My hand clasped firmly in his, I followed him through the restaurant, past George Clooney (oh my god!) and outside, onto the balcony.

The balcony, where I had watched my first fountain show, now had several small round tables set up with tablecloths, silver, and candles. A tuxedoed man held out my chair, gold with red velvet cushions, and I smiled at him and sat down. Brad took the seat across from me, and nodded to our waiter, a new gentleman, older and short, with a thick white mustache.

"Monsieur? Madame?" the man greeted both of us and poured Voss water into both of our chilled glasses. While pouring, he described their dessert selections, a long lengthy speech that Brad cut off while he was still on the first dessert.

"How many choices do you have tonight?"

"Four sir."

"We'll have one of each."

"Yes sir."

"And a bottle of Dom, 1996."

"Certainly sir." The man left, and I leaned forward and whispered to Brad. "You shouldn't have ordered champagne. I'm going to be drunk if I have any more."

He leaned forward also, our faces now only inches away, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "What is drunk Julia like?"

"Very horny and also very sleepy. It is a very narrow window."

"Are you horny right now?"

I wet my lips, our faces still very close. "No." YES!

"Then you should drink some more."

"What, don't think you can close the deal without me being inebriated?"

"Touché, Ms. Campbell." He waved, and the miniature tuxedo was instantly at his side.

"Yes, Mr. De Luca?"

"I think we will hold off of the champagne please."

"Certainly sir. I will let the wine room know immediately." He rushed off in a blur of coat tails.

Faint notes began, drifting across the water, and I turned to watch the now-still lake. Brad watched me, smiling at my rapt attention.

I rose and walked to the balcony's edge, leaning on the rail and staring. The notes were louder now, and the initial, delicate, fountains of water were beginning to grow, shooting higher into the sky. I wanted to stay here forever, in this spot. In this gorgeous gown, my skin glowing, a gentle breeze on my shoulders, watching lights and water dance on a lake to a man singing opera. I felt Brad's presence behind me and he leaned forward, resting his hands on the railing on either side of me, his face next to mine, watching the show. We stayed there, silent, spooned together against the railing, until the last note traveled across the water and the lake went dark.

"It's heartbreaking isn't it? Heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time."

"What is that song?"

"It's Andrea Bocelli. Time to say Goodnight."

"It is wonderful. Achingly beautiful."

"That is a good way to put it." He moved his hands from the railing to my arms, and grasped them. Pulling on one and pushing with the other, he spun my body until my back was on the railing, my face tilted up to his. I stared into his eyes, pools of so many complex things I didn't understand. I only knew one thing. I wanted him. So badly it hurt, ached inbetween my legs. I knew it wasn't right, I knew I was one of hundreds, but I didn't care. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and kissed him with everything I had.