I realize that I brought all of this upon myself. I had to open my big mouth at dinner. I had only said what I said to tease her. I wasn't really serious. And I certainly didn't want her to think I was a prude or close-minded. I was just speaking from experience, that's all.

It happened like this.

It was Monday. We were at our favorite restaurant, the place she took me when I first visited San Francisco. The place with the Tuscan village-scape and the waitresses in tuxedo shirts. We leaned our elbows on the table because we were drinking wine, and wine always makes us flirty.

"Oh, come on!" she said in disbelief. "You've never owned one?"

"No, never," I said.

"Well, have you ever used one?" she said.

"Once," I said. "It wasn't mine, and I didn't like it very much."

"You didn't like it?" she said.

"No, not really," I said.

She leaned back in her chair, with her arms crossed, with a look of exasperation on her face.

"I just can't believe it," she said.

"Why not?" I said. "What's so hard to believe?"

Then she leaned forward again. She leaned real close.

"Well," she started quietly, "because you like it so much."

"Like what so much?" I said.

"You know," she said. She looked around the room. Then she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "Clit stuff."

"Clit stuff?" I said, mocking her hushed voice.

"Yeah," she said. "You really like it. So, naturally, I thought you'd like a vibrator, too."

"Hmm," I said. "Sorry to disappoint you. I guess you shouldn't jump to conclusions."

I took another drink of wine.

"Alright," she said. She raised her hands in the air. She was surrendering. Only, not just yet.

"Well, what didn't you like about it?" she said.

"Ummm," I sighed. "It was too impersonal I guess. It was too intense and too impersonal. The other person felt very far away, you know. I was overwhelmed. I don't know. I was overwhelmed."

I felt my cheeks flush.

"It's definitely intense," she said. "And overwhelming. I'll give you that much."

"Anyway," I said. "I like the way I have sex. I like organic sex."

"Organic sex?" she said with raised eyebrows. I hate how she sometimes calls me out.

"Oui," I said. "I like two bodies and warmth and closeness. No accessories. Maybe it's boring, but I like it the old-fashioned way."

She looked at me with an amused smile, like I was on the outside of her inside joke.

She made me nervous and I rambled on.

"I don't think there is much that science or technology can add to sex," I said. "It's already good. I mean, what's that phrase? If it's not broken, why fix it?"

"I see," she said after a moment.

Then she repeated herself, "I see."

That's how I knew she had something up her sleeve.

But she changed the subject and didn't bring it up again for the rest of the night, or for the rest of the week. In fact, I had almost forgotten about it. Except that, at night, when I kissed the back of her neck, she didn't roll into me like she normally does. And in the morning, when I pinched her naked thigh, she didn't giggle or moan or coo. She just went on getting ready for her day.

I was getting the silent treatment. I had said something wrong. Or, so I thought.

Then, on Friday night, I got the note.

It was left on the kitchen table. It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the room. It was handwritten in Cosima's angular script.

Mon Cherie,

I want to make crazy science with you. Let's conduct a little experiment. I left something for you on the bed. Put it on. Get dressed. Meet me at 1015 Folsom at 10 PM. Don't try to find me. I'll find you.

Your Geek Monkey

I swallowed hard and wondered what I had gotten myself into.

But like I said, I brought this all upon myself.