Imagine a creamy whore in the old days of Empires. This one a lime-green Paris suit above the knee, flight attendant smile, Hermes scarf, electronic pocket organizer in an alligator bag.

"Would you like me to bathe you?"

The excitement of the question nearly enough to satisfy his lust. Ginger soap and musk, citrus and leather. The white, white eyeletted lace of her bodice.

In the bag a credit card scanner which she plugs into the phone jack while he bathes in seaweed scented soap.

Not long after she slips into the shower and presses against his buttocks, humming.

Mmmm. Mmmm.

Smell of lavender. I love you unsaid.

"It is my birthday."

"Well then," hums, "You'll have to have a special present, won't you?"

Reaches around to wash him, smoothly. Even so taking care, a professional. Glans and prepuce each fully scrubbed.

Nipples against his back just beneath his shoulderblades like cockles.

Imagine a situation in which instigation is explanation, where to ask what this twist says of totality is an analytical turn, though not a reversal or theft, you think.