In which The Barmaid proves that you do learn useful things as an English major:

When he joins me, I strip him down and do for him what he’s done for me. He’s a little hard to read sometimes, but that’s true of a lot of men – it’s tough for them to ask for what they want, they think it makes them look weak or picky or something. But my ex Peter once told me that when it comes to going down on guys, effort and enthusiasm go a long way even when technique and preferences might be a question-mark. And the way I’ve been treated tonight, I’ve got enthusiasm to spare. He doesn’t last long – not even as long as I did.

We’re lying there a few minutes later, curled up together, my head on his shoulder, when I feel his arm twitch a little and sense a change in his breathing. “No you don’t,” I say, shaking him. “There’s a condom in the pocket of my jeans, and we’re not breaking Chekhov’s Law tonight.”

He laughs. “What?”

“Chekhov’s Law of economy in narrative. If there’s a gun on stage in the first act, it has to be fired by the end of the third act.”

“Fucking English major,” he says, shaking his head.

“That’s right, I’m a fucking English major, and you’re a fucking executive, so don’t fall asleep on me!”

He rolls over on top of me and starts making out with me, and by about ten minutes later, he’s ready to go, and we do.