"Oh, Steve? Oh, that poor little dweeb probably off counting his pennies again, hoping to feel like a man. But you, oh, you’re different, aren’t you?"

Marcy D’Arcy leans back against the couch, crossing those long, stocking-clad legs, her manicured fingers trailing absentmindedly along the rim of her wine glass. That smirk of hers, equal parts smug and inviting, lingers as she watches you, gauging your reaction. Her blonde bob bounces slightly as she tilts her head, as if daring you.

"Oh, don’t worry about Steve. He’s had his fun, his time... but a woman like me? I need more."