Free The Seducer by Claudia Moscovici

hell he pleased, hooking up with whoever caught his eye. But after awhile, even absolute freedom began to bore him. There was nobody to fool, nobody to cheat on, nobody to manipulate. It was kind of like pushing hard against something that offered no resistance.
    That evening had been particularly unproductive. After a mind-blowingly tedious conversation with a stuck-up blond, Michael returned home empty­handed. That’s how he’d been rewarded for his patience! He had listened to Janet, Janice or whatever the hell her name was talk about her divorced parents. She also told him that she focused all her energies on her studies and had no time for commitment. Which would have been fine with him had she stopped the conversation right then and there. But she went on and on. Michael listened to her drivel, hating to quit, hoping to score. He didn’t even roll his eyes when she bragged about her near-genius IQ, which wasn’t in evidence that evening. He graciously indulged her in a dialogue about her business major. He even nodded approvingly when she told him that she wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps and go “like, into advertising,” minus the late hours, working on weekends and extramarital affairs. For Michael, the most challenging part of the conversation was focusing on her face as opposed to the low cut, V-neck sweater, which exposed a fine pair of boobs. He had trouble coping with his impatient erection, which seemed to be humming the Elvis song which called for “a little less conversation, a little more action please.” To move things along, he inquired with strategic vagueness: “Wanna go somewhere else?”
    â€œSure.” Her response led him to believe that he’d finally be rewarded for his patience. As they headed towards the parking lot, Michael took it a step further by inquiring where she had left her car, to narrow the field of possible “somewheres” from everywhere to his place, her place or her car. She pointed towards a red BMW convertible parked a few feet away. They proceeded to squeeze into it. Everything seemed to go as planned, except for the irksome fact that every time Michael attempted to make a bolder move and see if he could entice the girl into a quickie, Jennie launched into a plaintive monologue about her life which couldn’t be interrupted by the trivial exigencies of his bodily needs.
    After about an hour of what he perceived as a free one-way therapy session rather than a mutually satisfactory score, Michael randomly let out, as one might emit an unexpected burp, one of his least judicious pick-up lines at a most inopportune moment. Just when Jennie was complaining about how her parents’ screwed up relationship had traumatized for her life, he inquired: “If your left leg was Thanksgiving and your right leg was Christmas, how about we meet between the holidays?” Michael thought the worst he’d have to endure for this irreverent remark was a response to the effect, “No thanks, I’m Jewish,” in which case he’d be more than happy to substitute Christmas with Hanukah. The sharp slap landing on his left cheek took him by surprise. Before he could react to it, Jenny leaned over and threw open the car door, so he could let himself out. Clearly, Michael thought, I have to find a different venue for my needs. Although it had some obvious advantages, prostitution was out of the question, since it cost more than the bars, where he usually went Dutch.
    As he was contemplating this sad state of affairs, Michael had an illuminating flashback. He recalled that in one of his French graduate seminars he had met a woman who complained about being a sex addict. She had mentioned something about participating in an organization called Sexoholics Anonymous , but it seemed to Michael that she was far from cured. As a matter of fact, she had thoroughly enjoyed stripping in the middle of a quiet spot of a