It wasn’t planned. I swear. I was out with friends, drinking more than I should have, wearing that little black dress I always say I won’t wear again because I know how I get in it. I flirted with one guy at the bar — tall, smug, way too confident — and gave him my number before I even finished my drink. He texted me an hour later. Said he was nearby. Asked if I wanted to “just talk.” I said sure. I didn’t mean it. We made out in the stairwell of his building, and within minutes I was on my knees, dress pulled down, lips wrapped around his cock while he held my hair and whispered how fucking good I looked like that. He came on my face. I wiped it off, laughed, kissed his cheek, and left without even fixing my mascara. But I wasn’t done. I ran into another guy I knew — one I’d been teasing online for weeks. I texted him one line: Still up? Ten minutes later, I was back on my knees, sucking him off in the front seat of his car. I didn’t even take my heels off. He finished on my tongue and asked, “Rough night?” I just smiled and swallowed.