“Trust me," he said. "I know what I'm doing... or at least" -- he strolled confidently to the door -- "Felix does.”

“I had one last try."Does it bother you that I'm not a virgin?" He hesitated a moment before answering."Well, no," he said slowly, "so long as it doesna bother you that I am." He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door."Reckon one of us should know what they're doing," he said. The door closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.”

“What...what are you doing?""I won't know," he said with a grin. He took a step towards me. "But I'm pretty sure you were doing it too.”

“Can you trust me, he said. Not will you. Can you.Can I trust him?What do I have to lose?”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, instead.“All right.” Then, impulsively, I asked, “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”“Sure,” he said with a smile, and started off as if he had somewhere to be.I could have bitten off my tongue because I pushed him into a lie. Once he started lying to me, it would be harder to get him to trust me with the truth. I don’t know why it works that way, but it does—at least in my experience.”

“Every journalist who is not too stupid or full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people's vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse.”