Tenth Blogoversary

Ten years ago today, I posted my first story to this blog.

My blog began with long emails I wrote to my friend and drinking buddy Audacia Ray, processing my experiences with sex and dating after fifteen years of monogamous marriage. My marriage with my ex-wife Lucy had been characterized primarily by abstention; for half of our twenties and all of our thirties, neither of us had much of a sex life.

Suddenly, at age thirty nine, I found myself awaking like Rip Van Winkle to a transformed world. In my years as a devoted husband, I had moved to New York, the Internet had been invented and I written a book on sexual social history. I was prepared to launch my new sex life, though certainly surprised by the surreality of it all. For years, I had felt constrained and undesired. Now, I returned to the desires of my once-slutty youth, jump-starting my long-dormant bisexuality and group sex activities, emerging into my new discoveries of kink and BDSM.

When I began One Life, Take Two, I had no real conception of blogging—still a new phenomenon—conceiving of blogs as a sort of safe deposit box to preserve one’s writing online. Sure, it would be public, I knew, but no one could really find it.

I had assumed erroneously. My blog quickly became popular, drawing media attention and, to my greater surprise, offers of dates from people who enjoyed my writing. I’d had sex with people who though I was attractive, or smart, or funny, but to have offers from people who had never met or seen me, based solely on my writing, was astonishing. Soon, I was part of a network of fellow sex bloggers, many inspired by my own blog, creating community, education and, with great joy, the uncovering of the workings of my own heart. I fell in love.

In time, as the stories below relate, my blog was discovered by my ex wife, who immediately sued for full custody of our children, using this blog as the sole basis of her motion. I took down the blog and abandoned my online persona. Two envious bloggers, including an embittered former partner, used my absence to run a smear campaign against me. Finally, over a year after it began, the custody case ended with no changes to joint custody. I returned to blogging and documented the bizarre episode as Feverish, Sad Drama.

Still, my blogging remained intermittent. During the course of the custody case, my ex wife had outed me to my family, including our children and my parents. The smear campaign had further demonstrated the hazards of a public sex life; among other actions, the attackers had also outed me with absolute impunity. By the end of that period, in mid-two thousand nine, I was deeply involved in a relationship I had little interest in exposing to such scrutiny. I enjoyed the privacy and security afforded by a relatively private life.

Outing someone is a truly shitty thing to do. However, being out is exhilarating. My ex wife and the two smear campaigners clearly sought to do harm. In the end, they did me a favor: I was no longer constrained by the need to avoid public exposure. If I chose, I could appear in photographs, video, audio and on stage. 

This freedom led me to storytelling. After time on the stages of the Moth and elsewhere, three years ago I began to curate and host Bare! True Stories ofSex, Desire and Romance, based in New York and frequently appearing in other cities. My years of blogging proved a good training ground for encouraging others to tell their own stories and now, much of my time is spent traveling the East Coast, telling and listening. 

I've been fortunate for the wonderful correspondences, friendships and loves to enter my life since I first hit "publish" on this blog.

Every year on my blogoversary, I reprint the tale that began this journey: a remarkable weekend-long first date (if you don’t count the orgy at which we met). If you enjoy, read back to find other stories.

If you miss me here, find me at my accounts on Facebook, FetLife, OKCupid and Twitter. Follow Bare!, come out to shows to say hello.

For now, meet My Celia. Enjoy!

Photograph by Adrian Buckmaster. New York, July 5, 2014.

My Celia

It’s been over a year since the break up.

For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.

Until my Celia.

I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.

Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.

Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.

As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.

I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.

I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.

"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."

"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.

"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.

I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.

As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.

The summer passed.

Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!

I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.

Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.

We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.

Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.

(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)

We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.

I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.

She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.

She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself—I am really getting bold.

"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"

"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.

Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.

Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.

I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.

I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.

We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.

I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."

She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.

She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.

As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.

I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.

"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.

I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.

We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.

I fuck her pussy.

"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)

In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.

We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."

I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.

I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.

My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.

I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.

Valentine's Day

This story is also told on the “The Sweet Hereafter” podcast of Kevin Allison’s RISK! Show.

We planned a quiet Valentine’s Day. It fell on a Thursday and early the next morning, we were getting into a car with a married lesbian couple to drive to Washington, D.C., for Dark Odyssey Winter Fire, an annual weekend-long kink event at which I’d be presenting.

Kay always joined me for these events, often acting as my “demo bottom,” meaning I’d use her body to demonstrate whatever technique was being discussed. Of course, it was also an opportunity to display her nude beauty, always a real crowd pleaser. Our easy banter and comfort with one another made us appear like a magician with his assistant—a sleight of hand in which the audience is largely unaware that only the assistant’s collaboration insures the resulting magic.

I had heard of an organization offering HIV tests as part of a study. Not only were the tests free, each participating subject was reimbursed twenty-five dollars. We were due for testing anyway, so I proposed to Kay that we each get tested and regard our combined fifty bucks as Valentine’s Day mad money; we could have our fingers pricked, get the results, enjoy an early dinner on this study and get to bed by midnight.

She laughed that this wouldn’t exactly be our most romantic Valentine’s Day. We’d set that bar pretty high four years prior when I took her to see Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, then to her first sex party and capped off the night with a pre-dawn dinner at White Castle (which, in case you don’t know, puts on a very nice Valentine’s Day).

I noted that the organization targeted gay men. I sent an email to ask if the study was available to bisexual men and women who have sex with men who have sex with men. No one had asked that before, I was told, but yes, we were both eligible. I made reservations for our Valentine’s Day date.

I was waiting in the lobby when she arrived from work. “These things always make me nervous,” she said as we took the elevator. “I mean, I’m not worried or anything, but still . . .”

“It’s anxiety provoking,” I agreed. “I’m not worried either, and you get results in about twenty minutes, but that’s a tough twenty minutes.” She knew this; we’d accompanied each other to get tested many times. We’d even taken her sister to her first testing. I took her hand. “And remember, honey: fifty bucks.” I rubbed my fingers together. “That’s a lot of White Castle.”

She shook her head. “I’ve found a cheese restaurant. Leave that to me.”

We signed in and waited briefly in a small room filled with posters, brochures and bowls of free condoms. I stuffed my pockets with condoms, as I always do. Kay swatted my hand, as she always does.

A man emerged from an office. “Jefferson and Kay? Hello, I’m Herbierto. I’ll be your counselor and conducting your tests today. Would you care to step into my office?” We gathered our coats and followed. He offered us chairs in a small room and began to sit. “Well, this is refreshing. I have to say, we rarely get male-female couples.” He stopped mid-sit. “I’m sorry, that was presumptuous. Do you identify as male and female?”

“Yes, that’s right,” laughed my beautiful, femme, long-haired girlfriend.

“I appreciate being asked,” answered her bald, bearded boyfriend.

“Well, one can’t be too careful, right? Okay, so I’m going to ask some questions, just very standard intake before testing, and then we’ll do the tests themselves. Have you been tested before?” We had. “And do you want to get tested together?”

“Sure, we’re each here to get tested,” I replied.

“No, I think he means, do we want to get our tests done at the same time. Together,” Kay said. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, I’m sorry if that was confusing,” Herbierto said. “Some couples do, some couples don’t. If there’s any concern or preference, of course we can do it separately.”

“There’s no concern,” Kay said, looking at me. “Right?”

“Oh, no, right. I’ve just never been asked that question. Sure, we can do it together.”

“Okay, good. I’m going to make notes as we talk and you’ll sign these forms.” Herbierto’s copper bracelets jangled on his desk as he wrote. He ran through standard questions I’d heard for over twenty years, Kay for about five. We’d both been tested in the previous year. Neither of us used intravenous drugs. Neither of us had any immediate health concerns. Neither of us feared we’d put ourselves in danger if we had a bad result. We both understood the testing procedures as Herbierto described them. We volunteered that we were in an open relationship. “Oh, that’s interesting,” Herbierto noted, scribbling. “Do you have other regular partners, or many, or . . .”

“We each play with other people at parties and stuff, but honestly,” I said, looking to Kay for confirmation. “Not that much lately.” I hadn’t realized it until then, but we rarely had sex with our friends at parties. Not like we used to.

“I’m seeing one other guy, for about a month,” Kay volunteered. “We only play safe.”

“Yeah, and I guess I’m dating two other women,” I added. Only two? Was that right? 

The discussion led to our revelation that we go to orgies and that the next day, we’d be off to a kink event. Now we all let down our hair a bit; Herbierto knew about such things, and so we felt comfortable talking about them. In time, we moved to the lab for the tests.

The tests are simple. We’ve done them many times. A finger prick to each of us and we were sent to the waiting room. We had twenty minutes of anticipated undue anxiety. I held her hand as we talked about the cheese restaurant she’d discovered, keeping our minds on the night ahead. It wasn’t yet eight. We’d be there before nine.

Herbierto called us back into the lab. Kay and I sat next to one another in folding chairs. 

“Okay, so I have the results to give you. One of you is nonreactive and the other is reactive.” He looked at me. “Jefferson, your test is reactive.”

My mind numbed. “What . . . what does that mean?” Kay asked.

“It means that your test came back nonreactive to antibodies to the HIV virus, meaning HIV isn’t detected. Jefferson’s test came back reactive, meaning antibodies to HIV are detected.”

She looked at me and then to Herbierto. “Is there any chance that’s wrong?”

Herbierto shook his head. “Everyone wants to think that, but these tests are ninety-nine point eight percent accurate. ELISA tests—that’s what they’re called—are the most often used because they’re reliably accurate. So what I can do now is try the test again.”

“Yes. Do that,” Kay said. She turned to me. “Baby, what’s happening?”

I shook my head. “I just . . .” I had nothing to say.

“Jefferson?” Herbierto stepped toward me. “Are you going to be okay taking the test again?”

I nodded. “Yes, let’s do another.” Herbierto pulled on gloves, unwrapped a test and pricked my finger. Kay followed him to watch it be processed as Herbierto explained the steps and showed her how to read the results. I sat in my chair, arms resting numb in my lap.

The test results were the same: reactive.

I was then given another test. The Western Blot test required smears of my blood on a card. The card would be sent to another lab. Those results would be back in one week.

Herbierto took us down the hall to meet with the project director. The two of them explained that I would need to come back in a week to hear the confirmation result of the Western Blot test. At that time, they would begin to walk me through the steps of treating my HIV.

However, at this time, we needed to address Kay’s situation. We had had unprotected sex within the previous forty-eight hours. Therefore, she needed to immediately begin a regimen of post-exposure prophylactics, which would require prescriptions they were unable to provide. They would accompany us, now, as we walked to the emergency room at Mount Sinai, where she would be tested again and given medication.

We gathered our coats and waited as Herbierto and the director went through the steps of closing their office. We were the day’s last clients.

“Oh, nearly forgot.” Herbierto stepped behind the reception desk and made notes in a ledger. “Here,” he said, placing it on the counter. “Sign here and initial here. I need to give you each your twenty-five dollars for participating in the study.”

“This is the hardest twenty-five dollars I’ve ever earned,” I said, scribbling my signature. 

Kay and I held hands as we walked to the hospital with Herbierto and the director. It was a cold, clear night. We passed couples with flowers and red balloons.

Herbierto took us to the reception desk in the emergency room and explained our situation, adding that it was time-sensitive, as we had recently had unprotected sex. Kay filled out forms as the four of us sat waiting. Soon, Kay was called back. I was allowed to accompany her. Herbierto and the director offered to remain in the waiting room for as long as it took.

We sat with a nurse and Kay was once again interviewed about her medical history and our sexual activity. We were then brought to a bay and told to wait. Kay sat on a bed.

We were now alone for the first time since meeting for our tests. Kay began to cry. “Jefferson, I don’t understand. How is this happening?”

I sat next to her, pulling her head to my shoulder. “I don’t know, girl.” I kissed her head. “This is so hard to believe.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me? Please, tell the truth.” Her words were soft.

“No. There’s nothing.” It was true. I couldn’t recall anything that had happened since my last test that would have put me—us—at risk. “There’s no . . . I’m being truthful . . . I can’t think of anything.”

She sat back. “But you would tell me if you did. You’d have to.” 

I rested a hand on hers. “I would.”

She slumped forward. “What if I have it, too?”

I felt my own tears, now for the first time. “Baby, no, that would be the worst. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“For now. I have to keep getting tested.” She brushed the hair from her wet cheeks. Her words faded into tears. I held her hand to my lips. We sat quietly. 

Time passes slowly in an emergency room. Eventually, a nurse in red scrubs came to us. Once again, Kay was interviewed about her medical history and our sexual activity. Blood was drawn. We were told to wait.

It was about eleven. We agreed that there was nothing more that Herbierto and the director could do that night. We could manage. I went to the waiting room to let them know. Both offered to stay longer, but if we were sure we’d be okay, they’d go. They both hugged me and implored me to call if we needed anything.

Kay’s test came back nonreactive. She was given prescriptions and samples of her medications. She was to take them twice daily for three months, when she would be due for the first follow up tests. She swallowed two of samples and signed some forms. We gathered our things and left by midnight.

We walked past the darkened park and closed shops. We knew we should eat and, in a curious way, we were determined to have our Valentine’s date. The cheese restaurant was closed, as were most in the area. I knew of a place near St. Mark’s with nice ambience. We arrived to find that at this hour, it was a hookah bar with a limited menu. I suggested we get away from the cloying smell, but she was hungry and tired, so we stayed. Over hummus and wine, we relaxed.

“It feels weird to just be sitting here, like nothing’s happened,” she remarked.

“It does. I mean, happy Valentine’s Day.” I raised my glass. “Not our most romantic, but certainly momentous.” She laughed and clinked her glass. “Now, let’s talk about anything other than the elephant in the room.”

As we talked, we realized that we were due to meet our friends in a few hours to drive to a kink event where I would be presenting. “We can’t do that,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right and I can’t stop myself from crying every time I think about this. Not that I’ve stopped thinking about it.”

I had to agree. There was no way I could spend a weekend presenting on sex and kink having just learned that I’m HIV positive. Not only that, some of my presentations involve hands-on interaction. While I always used gloves and barriers for these, I would need to tell my demo bottoms of my new status. I wasn’t ready to do that. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone.

We returned home. I wrote to the event organizer to regretfully withdraw from the roster. I texted our friends to say we wouldn’t be able to join them; we could pay for gas as promised so that they weren’t stiffed. My excuse was an unspecified “family emergency.”

The event organizer replied the next morning that all was understood and to be well.

Our friends replied with concern. Are you and Kay all right? Are your kids okay? Don’t worry about the gas money; what’s going on?

I replied that I appreciated their concern, and thank them for it, but this is all I can say for now. They understood and offered love. They’d be with us when we needed them. I asked them to pass on word to our friends that we were sorry we’d be missing them.

Kay and I now had a three-day weekend in which to adjust to the news.

I could tell that I was numb. I didn’t feel denial—I was sure this must be true—though I didn’t understand how it could be true. I didn’t want to think about it. I knew I would have to, once I met with Herbierto again to go over treatment possibilities, but that was six days in the future. I still had this remaining time in which no one had to know my status, and I didn’t have to acknowledge it with every choice I made. 

For now, I wanted to make coffee, as I always did, and to spend days with my beloved, as I always did, and to avoid sex with her, which would be alien and saddening.

Kay responded differently. Her mind raced with questions. How did this happen? What would she tell Jed, the friend she’d just started dating? What would this mean for us? Would we now just be friends, or roommates? Would she get sick? If not, would she find someone else to be with, though she loved me, and wanted me to know that, but what if . . . ?

I listened as she worked out these questions, replying, over and again, I know, it’s hard, we’ll figure things out as we can. I’m sorry I’m not in a place right now to come up with answers to these questions, but we will. I’m sure counseling will help and that was my next step. She understood, but her mind raced.

Whereas I felt resigned to powerlessness, she couldn’t rest with that. She busied herself on websites, learning more about symptoms, treatments, options.

I felt I already knew all I wanted to know about HIV. I had ended my primary education on the virus in nineteen-ninety-two.

When Lucy and I moved to New York in nineteen-ninety, one of the things I most happily anticipated was reuniting with my high-school boyfriend, Donnie. He’d moved to the city just after graduation, and I’d visited him often over in the intervening eight years. Now, we’d be able to visit frequently.

He and his boyfriend Chris helped us to move into our new apartment, a fifth floor walk-up on York Avenue. Always thin, Donnie seemed emaciated. He nonetheless insisted on carrying our air conditioner upstairs on his own.

Not long after, I met my high-school girlfriend Debbie for coffee. As we parted, she said she was going to visit Donnie in the hospital. “Oh no, what happened?” I asked, knowing the answer, hoping her answer would be better news. Maybe he’d only been hit by a bus.

“Jefferson, Donnie has AIDS.”

I knew that. I knew that.

I joined Debbie on her visit. Donnie was sheepish when he saw me. “Honey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yet.” He threw up his hands. “Surprise!”

“Well, you sure got me this time.” I sat next to him in bed, resting my head on his shoulder.  

Over the next two years, I was one of a handful of friends who helped Donnie to die. Because I resembled him, I collected his benefits when he was hospitalized. We made his medical decisions when he was unable. We took shifts so that he was rarely alone. We helped him to walk until he was no longer able. He died with Chris by his side, as I took a cab in a vain attempt to outrace death. The last time I touched the young man I loved, who had been the boy I loved, it was through a vinyl body bag.

At age twenty-seven, I had had enough of HIV.

Now, I was the infected boyfriend of Kay, age twenty-eight.

The next day, Kay found a clinic that offered the RNA test for HIV. The test is more reliable than ELISA, the finger prick test that we’d been given, but less commonly given due to its exorbitant cost: typically, upwards of five-hundred dollars.

The clinic Kay found charged three-hundred dollars for the test. She was going to make an appointment. “Do you want me to make an appointment for you, too?” she asked. “I’ll pay for it if you can’t.”

“No, thanks, baby. I’ll get my confirmation this week. No sense wasting the money. Besides, I don’t think I can take hearing the news again.” I understood Kay’s desire for more information. My diagnosis gave me more information than I wanted. Hearing more about it was soon to become the focus of my life.

Kay’s appointment was scheduled for the following day. We spent that day as we normally would—minus sex—regularly commenting on how odd our normality felt. I fielded texts from friends at the kink event. All expressed concern for our “family emergency.” On most weekends, no one would notice if we simply laid low. On this weekend, I had been booked to make a public appearance and our absence was observed by many.

On Saturday morning, we picked up our CSA, dropped it at home, and walked to get Kay’s third HIV test in as many days. I waited at a Dunkin Donuts as she went into the clinic. She soon returned with the results.  She was negative, confirming the nonreactive result of the ELISA test. We hugged outside the doughnut shop, relieved at this more definitive return. 

We decided that we should go ahead to fill the prescriptions, as that had been the treatment when Kay first tested negative. We could discuss this with Herbierto when I went in for my result.  

This result was good news, of course, if perplexing: I was HIV positive and my partner of five years was negative. Did this mean Kay might have been exposed much more recently than my most recent negative result? If so, did that close the window even more on the activity that caused my exposure? I didn’t want to raise this with her, but I racked my brain for possibilities and found none.

We didn’t want to discuss this with anyone until we’d had time to process it ourselves. Kay didn’t have a pending date with her new boyfriend Jed, so she didn’t need to bring it up yet. I’d planned to be at the kink event and had no dates planned, either. At one point, I questioned how I would raise this with my kids.

“What if you didn’t?” Kay asked.

Her reply seemed to be formed in a language I didn’t comprehend. Of course I would tell my kids, and all my family. I’d be obliged to tell my sex partners, present and future, if ever I had a new sex partner, which I preferred not to think about.

I never really considered withholding this from my kids. But the thought that it was possible—that doing so could spare them worry—reminded me how much treatment had changed since Donnie died two decades ago. His diagnosis had been a death sentence. Now, treatment had advanced so that people have lived with HIV in good health for several decades. I was forty-nine. If HIV causes my death in three or four decades, well, then that’s how I’ll die. I would’ve lived a full life.  

Having tested negative allayed Kay’s fears, yet nothing seemed fully resolved. She’d keep taking the prophylactics, keep getting tested, for months. She remained anxious. “I know, I shouldn’t think this,” she said. “But you’re older. You already have kids. I want that, too. I want kids, but if I’m sick . . .” I had no answer to that. My greatest fear was that I’d infected the woman I loved, denying her the life she might’ve lived.

But for our overriding fixation on HIV, the weekend progressed as any other. We watched movies. We putzed around the apartment. We went out to a nice dinner at our favorite local restaurant, enjoying the romance we had been denied on Valentine’s Day. On Monday, Kay returned to work, leaving me alone for the first time since the diagnosis. It was a relief, in some ways. “I’m sorry, you‘re spending so much time comforting me,” Kay had said. “I should be comforting you!” I replied, truthfully, that taking care of her helped me. I felt better and, through her feelings, more connected to our new reality. Now, I was alone with my own feelings. 

I kept drifting back to Donnie. I remembered how often he apologized for putting us out with all the time and effort his care required. We told him to stop being foolish, we loved him and this is what love does. Yet it did envelop our lives and psyches. My time was divided between Donnie, school, work and my girlfriend Lucy. There were times I had to participate in major medical decisions—Donnie’s need for pain relief, his dread of becoming addicted to morphine, his apparent lack of understanding that any possibility of addiction would be dealt with by his imminent death. There were times I had to ask my boss for long lunches so I could race to feed Donnie’s cat, not facing my own lack of understanding that Donnie was never coming home. It was possible that I would be putting those who love me through similar demands, extraordinary and mundane, echoing Donnie’s lament of helpless apologies.

It was too soon to reveal my diagnosis. It was possible to keep it secret, to a point. I could spare my family some anguish. But my life has been too public for anything to remain fully discreet. If I told one person about my HIV, I might as well have told everyone. Gossip travels fast. The secret would be out.

Pondering my work as a sex educator—particularly in the immediate light of having canceled my presentations at a kink event—I felt it would be wrong to keep my status private. If my goal has been to be open and talk honestly, then I would be cheating myself by denying the truth to others. Perhaps my future, then, would be in educating myself and others that HIV doesn’t have to mean the end of one’s sex life.

I regretted facing the inevitable decriers, those who say that bisexual men are the highest risk in transmitting HIV between homosexuals and heterosexuals. That argument has been around since the beginnings of the AIDS crisis. It’s pernicious denigration, no worse for being untrue, and sex-positive advocates work hard to correct such stereotypes and misperceptions. And yet here I was, the very embodiment of that idea. I had publicized my bisexuality and hypersexual behavior, and now, I had HIV. I was living proof that my life and writing are unsafe examples. In this, my work may have done more harm than good.  

Weekday routines focused us somewhat on getting through the days. We did our work, ate our meals, slept wrapped in one another. There were times we stared unproductively at blank screens, felt uninspired to cook, lay awake, talking.

Kay wept. I remained numb. We were waiting for the next step: the confirmation of my status.

Herbierto contacted me to confirm an appointment. It was a time Kay couldn’t join me. We would’ve preferred otherwise, but Herbierto said this was all they had and the appointment would take time. Kay and I would meet when she was off from work.

When I arrived, Herbierto ushered me into the lab and offered me a seat. He leaned against a counter.

“I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen and I’ve never seen this. Jefferson, your Western Blot came back negative. You do not have HIV.”

I was stunned. Of the swirl of questions taking form in my mind, the first I asked was, “You’ve been doing this since you were thirteen?”

Herbierto laughed. “Yes, I was a young activist and went into medicine to help people with HIV. Did you hear the rest of what I said?”

“Yes. But is it possible it’s a mistake?”

“No, it’s not. It’s even more definitive than ELISA . . .”

“And that was, what? Ninety-nine point eight percent accurate?”

“It’s a good test. But what it does is test for antibodies to the virus. Western Blot tests for the virus itself. A false positive with ELISA is very rare, though it does happen. Usually the subject’s immune system is in flux, like maybe they had a flu shot or they’re pregnant.”

“I haven’t had a flu shot,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not pregnant.”

“Sometimes, very rarely, it just happens.” He sat next to me. “This must be very confusing.”

I shook my head, disbelieving. “I had HIV for a week. But you’re telling me I don’t have it anymore.”

“That must’ve been a rough week. Yes, now we know you don’t. Now, just to be thorough, we’re going to run an RNA test . . .”

“Kay did that last weekend. It came up negative.”

“Good, I’m so glad. I hope it gave her some peace. We don’t usually run it here, because it’s expensive, but you’re a special case.”

“I look forward to an end to being special.” Herbierto ran the test. It confirmed my status: negative. We went to talk with the project director, to go over all the results and discuss how I felt on hearing them. I was urged to call if I had any questions or needed anything else.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Herbierto said as I prepared to go. “You get another twenty-five dollars for participating in the study.”

“This is the happiest twenty-five dollars I’ve ever earned,” I smiled, signing the ledger.

Outside, I called Kay. “I have good news and good news,” I said. “I’m negative. And they gave me another twenty-five dollars.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed.

“I know, right? We made a combined seventy-five dollars.”

“Jefferson, I can’t believe this. This is such good news. So unbelievable! Are they sure?”

“They are so sure. They ran Western Blot and RNA and just kept telling me. I’m negative.”

“Where are you? I’m leaving work. I’m so happy! I love you! God!”

That night, Kay and I had a second Valentine’s Day dinner. I thanked her for the roughest week of our lives. “I can’t believe how well you handled this,” I said, holding her hand.

“Yeah, by crying all the time,” she laughed.

“Sure, that’s natural. But honey, we went through all this, and none of it made sense. Yet you believed I was confused and not holding back information . . .”

“Well, I did doubt you. I mean, how is it possible?”

“Understandable, but . . . you let there be trust. When it was impossible.”

She squeezed my hand. “Because I love you.”

“And you never once, in all that, said we were finished.” I kissed her hand. “I have never, never felt this safe with someone. I love you.”

That night, we finally made love.

Finally, I cried. 

Independence

I moved out on Independence Day.

Eight years ago today, I left the suburban home my wife and I had purchased three years earlier. She had not spoken to me since April, when I departed for a business trip she strenuously opposed. I had been offered an opportunity to write two related stories—one for a magazine to which I frequently contributed, the second for The New York Times—requiring a stay in Dubai.

I regarded these assignments as steps forward in my career. She regarded my consideration of them as idiocy. The invasion of Iraq was then underway, she argued; it was a dangerous time for Americans to travel anywhere in the world, much less to the Persian Gulf. I argued that I wouldn’t be remotely in harm’s way. She countered that I would be a “big dumb blond walking target” for “them,” all of whom “hate us.” If I went on the trip, she threatened, we were “finished.”

I had heard that threat before. By and large, I ceded to her preferences on day-to-day matters. I had learned that it was simpler to give way than to argue over the picayune. Yet now and then, I had strong opinions on matters, particularly those affecting my career. When I was accepted to graduate school, which she felt we could not afford, I was told that we were “finished.” When I took a job that paid more and demanded more time, she asserted we were “finished.” We had been “finished” so many times already, I felt I could write these articles and deal with the fallout later.

The trip was uneventful. The articles went over well and I was assigned more. My wife stopped speaking to me. She refused to acknowledge my presence. She constantly muttered to herself about the “asshole” she had married, never minding the listening ears of our three children. Her rage had surpassed concerns for putting forward any fronts. She fucking hated that “asshole” and made sure everyone knew it.

Her father came forward with a solution that he hoped would placate Lucy’s rage. He owned an apartment in the city that had gone unused since Lucy and I lived there with the children some years earlier. He urged me to move there, at least temporarily, until Lucy’s anger blew over. If Lucy has a problem with me, I said, perhaps she should move there. I saw no reason to leave my home. “She’ll never do that,” he said. “It’s up to you to create some peace in that house. Give her some time to get over this; she can’t be angry forever.”

When the school year ended, Lucy took the children on a trip. It was agreed that I would pack up some things and move to the apartment. I packed my car with the clothes I would need for work, a box of files and the iMac I used to write my articles, and drove off. I saw no reason to take more; Lucy’s rage would burn itself out, as it invariably did.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, as Lucy fumed, I confided in very few friends that I feared my marriage was ending. Dacia expressed sympathy, yet wondered if it might be for the best. Despite my efforts to keep my family intact, I was, she knew, exhausted by arguments and bitter silences. My long-time friend Marcus, himself recently divorced, encouraged me to look at the positive aspects of creating a new life. He still had conflicts with his ex-wife, he acknowledged, particularly over their children, but he was personally happier than he had been in years. “And then there’s the sex,” Marcus added. “Let me ask you a personal question: are you satisfied with your sex life with Lucy?”

“There’s no such animal.” It felt sad to acknowledge this out loud, as if confessing my shame at our utter lack of intimacy. “We’ve been through therapy and all, but she’s just not that interested in sex.”

“Are you?”

“From what I recall of it, yes.”

“Lucy’s giving you a gift,” Marcus said. “If she’s insisting on a separation, if she’s asking for divorce, she’s giving you freedom. Use it. Go get laid. See what freedom tastes like.”

I unpacked my car at the apartment I had once shared with my young family. I hung my shirts in a closet and set the rest of my clothes in half an empty drawer. My work files rested on a stack of boxes storing the remains of my father-in-law’s former office. I reset the clock radio next to the bed in which Lucy and I had conceived each of our three children. Dust covered its dark duvet.

I poured a bourbon and sat on the couch. Dusk settled. Two bourbons later, I picked up the iMac and put it on the dining table. I plugged the cord into an outlet, detached a nearby phone and ran the line to the computer. Before long, the modem’s familiar whines and belches echoed in the near empty room. I had mail. Ignoring that, I followed Marcus’s road map to chat rooms. ("It takes time to meet women," he had told me, "but hooking up with guys is easy.") It took a drink or two and several failed attempts, but I finally got into a chat entitled “M4MNYC.” Instant messages littered my screen with nonsensical terms:

sup

Pics?

Loc?

a/s/l?

Stats? Into?

I watched messages pile up in the main chat. I finally typed in one of my own.

My marriage ended today. I was exiled to an empty apartment. How does this begin?

An answer swiftly came. Wow, that’s hard. I’m sorry to hear about that.

Me too, I thought. Me too. What’s your name? I’m Jefferson.

Jim. Nice to meet you. Do you want company?

I twirled my glass and took a sip. Yes, please. Thirty minutes later, he was at my door. Jim was handsome, resembling Matthew Broderick. I offered him a drink.

“Can I have a kiss instead?”

I nodded and he came forward. Jim’s kiss was so warm, so inviting and so necessary. I had not felt desired in years. He tugged at my clothes. I tugged at his. “Where’s your bed?” he murmured into my mouth. I walked backwards, not daring to take my lips from his. We fell backward on the bed, sending up clouds of dust.

Sex, as it turned out, was much easier outside my marriage than it had been within. I knew that Lucy would eventually come around and I’d be invited back home. We would work it out and sustain a truce until the next time we were “finished.” There would remain this void in our marriage—one month, two, four—that we would refrain from discussing. She had given me this freedom, as Marcus pointed out, however temporarily. I had not been the one to put the brakes on our monogamy, but I intended to make the most of my freedom before being called back.

I was stunned when the divorce papers arrived.

The divorce was nasty and unnecessarily protracted. Not long after it was finalized, Lucy—stoned and drunk—proposed we get back together. By then, it was too late. Independence had taken hold. I had already begun to write about it here.

Years later, Lucy would discover my blog and sue for custody of our children. She shared my blog with her family, who read, in as much detail as they pleased, of my experience of Lucy’s mental illness, her problems with intimacy, and the impulsivity with which she ended our fifteen-year relationship. Lucy described the contents of my blog to our children, telling them that their father was bisexual and a bad man. A few months ago, Lucy took it onto herself to out me to my birth family.

If I enjoyed a new sex life, partly led in public, Lucy ensured that my public would include those I had chosen not to tell. It was a fitting punishment for my happiness without her, for abandoning her when she pushed me out the door.

But her rash behavior, as ever, backfired. No one really seems to care that I have a pretty great sex life. No one seems to care that the husband who loved her went on to love others. Her loneliness and rage weren’t mitigated by her destruction of my privacy. If anything, her outings only cleared my path to greater freedom. After all, who does she have left to tell?

Eight years ago today, Lucy sent me out the edge of the Earth, hoping I’d fall over. Instead, I found freedoms beyond her reach.

Prunes

I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She was sitting on my stoop when I returned home. She smiled and stood as I approached. I leaned to kiss her cheek. “Been waiting long?” I asked.

“No, just ten minutes or so.” She smiled again, laughing slightly. Nervously.

She was about my height. I stood on a step to look down at her. “You’re pretty,” I observed, taking keys from my pocket. “Good. Come in, let’s see what I can do with you.” I opened the door and let her pass. I noticed that despite the sweltering heat, she wore jeans and long sleeves. I can leave marks, I thought.

Kay and I had waited months to meet. She anticipated an internship in New York and contacted me to propose a summer fling. Her photos showed an attractive brown-eyed girl with long hair, cutting up in silly ways. Her notes were bright and engaging. Though summer was half a year away, we agreed to a fling. It would pass the months of her internship and end with her return to school in the autumn.

Anticipation made us impatient. An event would have me in her town in February, so we became excited about meeting in advance of our fling. When my plans fell through, she suggested meeting in April when she would be in the city visiting family. Those plans also fell through. By the time June finally arrived, we’d had months of aroused correspondence, fueled by our thwarted desires.

I held open the door to my apartment. She stepped quickly, as if to avoid inconveniencing me for long. Inside, she put down her bag and looked around. “I just realized, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring bourbon.”

I shifted my weight. “You forgot? We went over this, and it’s not like I don’t have a blog that makes it clear. You are to bring bourbon to dates.”

I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know of a liquor store in the neighborhood. Should I go get some?”

I stepped out of my shoes. “No, you’re here now and I have a bottle. Just, please, don’t make me repeat things you’ll only forget.” I turned to the kitchen.

“I really don’t mind . . . “ she began.

“On the rocks or neat?” I replied.

“Um, ice. Lots of ice. Maybe some water.” She stood in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t really drink bourbon, so . . . not too strong.”

Pretty. Long sleeves. Forgetful. Weak bourbon. Kay was probably nervous about my first impressions of her.

I led her into the living room and placed her drink on a table. I sat and looked at her. “Kay, take off your clothes.”

She looked at me blankly as the words registered. She laughed and began to unbutton her shirt. “Well, this is the fastest I’ve undressed on a date.”

“I regret waiting this long,” I smiled. I sipped my bourbon. She took off her shirt and paused to sip her drink before resuming.

She had soft round shoulders. As she lowered her jeans, I took note of the fluidity of her gestures. There was a kind of grace about her movements. “You chose not to wear matching underwear?” I asked.

She stood slightly, still holding the leg she was undressing. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t think of it.”

“You must’ve assumed you’d be undressing, Kay.” I sipped my bourbon, looking away.

She laughed, a nervous tic, I gathered. “You don’t like my underwear?”

“No matter. You’ll be rid of them soon enough. Please resume undressing, pretty girl.”

Kay pulled off her jeans and took another sip of her drink. She took a breath, as if resolving to carry on, before removing her bra with an affected casualness. Her breasts were small with faint pink areolas. My eyes moved down as she lowered her panties. “You know, I see more and more girls your age with pubic hair,” I observed. “Must be a trend.”

She added her panties to the pile of clothes by the door. “I didn’t know if I should shave or not.”

“You don’t seem to have given much thought to your appearance, really.” I cocked my head. “Kay, turn around so I can get a look at you.”

She raised herself on her toes and turned, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her arms. “Do you like?” A nervous laugh.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely.” I put down my drink and patted my lap. “Come here, pretty girl. Sit.”

She turned and crossed the room. “I don’t want to crush you . . .” she began.

“I don’t ask for things I can’t handle. Sit.”

Kay lowered herself into my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I pulled her legs to drape over my own. She lowered her head to nuzzle. I took a breast in my hand. “Look at this,” I said. “Your breasts are perfectly sized to my palm.”

“You do have big hands,” she said, her voice softer now.

“Hmmm.” I assented. She sighed quietly as I traced my fingers down her side. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”

Kay moved one leg aside. I felt her inner thigh, slowly moving up from her knee. I could feel her head moving against mine as my fingers caressed her labia. “Are you wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded into my shoulder. She gasped as a finger entered her. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You did bring me a nice wet hole to fuck.” She moaned more loudly. I took the back of her neck with my other hand. “Kiss me, Kay.” She lifted her head and brought her mouth to mine, her eyes closed. My tongue flitted against her lips, which parted for our first kiss. Two fingers now pulsed inside her as my tongue entered her mouth.

She groaned as I took my fingers from her. I pulled away from our kiss and raised my wet fingers to her lips. She nodded and took my fingers into her mouth. I rubbed them softly against her tongue, gently, and then, abruptly deep to her throat. She gagged, her eyes opening in alarm. I held my fingers in place, keeping her steady with the hand on her neck. “Do you suck dick well, pretty girl?” She sputtered and nodded as well as she could with her head pinned in my hands. “Oh, is that a ‘yes?’” She gagged and nodded again. “Well, pretty girl, that’s good, as I require an awful lot of cocksucking. If you aren’t good now, you soon will be. Can I count on you to suck my dick as I want, whenever I tell you?” She gagged and nodded again, her eyes welling as I kept talking, filling the time as my fingers filled her. “Good.” I took my fingers from her mouth and released her neck. She slumped, gasping for air.

“Stand up,” I instructed. She swung her legs around and, steadying herself with the hand on my shoulder, rose. I stood beside her. “Now, on your knees.” She knelt, her eyes gravitating to my hands unfastening my shorts. They fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and pulled off my shirt, giving her a look at my body. “You really are a pretty girl,” I said, stepping closer. I took her hair in my hand and pulled back her head. “Boys must hit on you all the time, huh?”

“Sure . . .” she began.

I put a finger to her mouth. “You’re not here because you’re pretty, pretty girl.” She opened her mouth to my finger, which moved slowly in her. “I don’t care about your looks. You’re not here because you’re pretty, or because you’re smart, or because you’re kind to small animals. You’re here to do what I say, when I say you should do it.” I added another finger to her mouth. “What you’re going to do now is suck my dick. You’ll do your best?” She blinked and nodded. “Good.” I released her hair and sat. I took my drink in hand and looked at her. She stared back at me. “Well? Was I unclear? Suck my dick.”

She crawled forward on her knees. She took my dick in one hand, moving her hair over her shoulder with the other. Practiced, I thought. She lowered her head to take my dick in her mouth. “Good girl,” I commended. “Show me what you’ve got.” I relaxed into my seat. My free hand rested on my lap. I wasn’t going to move or touch her. This blowjob was entirely hers to perform. I looked at the clock, planning to see how she did for a half hour.

She slurped back the saliva as her mouth moved up and down the end of my cock, her hand working its base in tandem to her sucking. She quickly settled into a comfortable, slow rhythm. I watched her, enjoying my drink. I withheld any feedback—no words, no instructions or guidance, no evidence of pleasure or reaction. After twenty minutes, she began to tire.

“I was afraid of this.” I put down my drink and took her chin in hand. She drew a sharp breath as I pulled up on her face, ending the blowjob. She hurried to wipe the saliva from her lips. “Kay, you suck dick like a pretty girl. It’s not your fault; I rarely meet pretty girls who are already impressive cocksuckers. You don’t have to put anything into your blowjob. Most guys can’t believe they’ve got a pretty girl sucking their dicks. I suppose they get one look at this pretty, pretty face bobbing on their dicks and they just blow.” I nodded at the clock. “You just sucked my dick for twenty minutes. I'll wager that's the longest blowjob you've ever given."

She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know, I think . . .”

I turned her face back to look at me. “Listen to me, pretty girl. Some people work very hard to be good cocksuckers. They aren't just pretty girls. I’ve had my dick sucked by gay men. I’ve had my dick sucked by some very homely women.” I leaned forward. “I’ve had my dick sucked by women from New Jersey,” I whispered. “Do you know what that means? Do you know how well New Jersey women suck dick?” I opened her mouth and moved my cock to her lips. “This summer, you are going to learn how to really suck dick. You’re going to forget how pretty you are. You’re going to suck my dick like the ugliest faggot in a New Jersey prison.”

I took the hand from her chin, grabbed her hair and rammed my cock into her mouth. She coughed in surprise. I pushed my cock into her throat and her in place. “Feel that, pretty girl? That’s where my cock goes.” Holding tightly to her hand, I pulled her head back and forth on my cock, standing still as I pumped myself with her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good, let’s see you cry, cocksucker.” She looked up at me, her cheeks sunken as she struggled to keep from drooling. “God damn it, cocksucker, open your mouth.” She struggled with my cock, confused by my instruction. “Open your mouth,” I repeated. “Part your lips. You don’t need to actually suck. Give me a big wet hole to fuck.” She parted her lips, releasing a reserved of saliva. She groaned. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just what I want.” I adjust my stance, pushed forward my hips, and fucked her mouth roughly. Before, she had full control over her blowjob. Now, she had none. “Twenty minutes,” I instructed. Panic swept over her face. I ignored it.

Twenty minutes later, precisely, I released her hair and stepped back. She fell forward, gasping, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Good girl,” I commended. I offered a hand. “Here, let me help you up.” She looked up, still catching her breath. She put her hand in mine and stood. “So lovely, so pretty,” I smiled. I kissed her, taking both her hands in my left hand as my right played across her torso. I trailed a finger to toy with her pubic hair, her labia and, teasing, slowly into her.

She exhaled into my mouth, inhaling my warmth. Still woozy from her exertions, she was reduced to shallow breaths as we kissed.

A hand moved in mine. She wanted to touch me. She tugged slightly and realized, only now, that her wrists were bound in my fingers. I pulled down on her arms, intensifying our kiss.

A second finger entered her, followed by a third. I pulled my lips from hers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. Her pussy was cupped in my hand. I squeezed the fingers inside toward my palm. I lifted. “Unh, oh, that’s so . . . you can’t pick me up that way!”

“On your toes, pretty girl.” I took a step back. “Come with me.” I walked slowly backwards, keeping pressure on her pussy to keep her own her toes, staggering a bit as she followed in tow. “Easy girl, easy . . .” I backed us into my bedroom, I pulled her to me, kissing her as I turned our bodies. “Now,” I said, releasing my grip and easing my fingers from her. “Let’s give your mouth a rest and move in to another hole.” I pushed against her sternum with the fingers wet from her body. She stumbled back onto the bed.

I took a condom from a nightstand and tore open the package. I kept my eyes on her as she watched it roll over my cock.

She laughed, her nervous tic. “Geez, don’t you ever take a break?”

“I only have you for three months,” I said, opening the package. “No time for breaks, pretty girl. Now spread your legs.”

Her body was hot under mine, and slick with sweat. I fucked her slowly, getting a feel for her responses. Her eyes were closed, so I studied the face I had so brutally used. She was pretty, as I kept reminding her, and now, I acknowledged to myself that my disinterest in that was mere pretense: her beauty really did affect me. Her dark hair spread over my pillows, her long lashes resting under large lids, her aquiline nose over unpainted lips . . . she really was a vision. I raided my memory for comparisons to paintings, resolving to keep quiet about that. If I compared her to art, that would really be the end. I’d fall for her. Beauty has that effect.

I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She breathed and sighed and still, I fucked her. I fucked her harder, then softer, always in the same position, always watching her face, flushed with arousal. I noticed the darkening of the sheets around her; we were soaking the bed with perspiration. I kissed her mouth, her beautiful, beautiful mouth, her exquisite mouth, her Botticellian mouth, her Davidesque mouth.

I was as close to her body as one can be—I was inside her body—and still it didn’t feel close enough.

I pulled back to look at her again. The sheets were now darkened in a wider halo around her body.

“Come for me,” I whispered. “Come for me.”

She nodded, Without opening her eyes, she moved a her right hand to touch herself. Her left hand played with a nipple. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered. I lowered my lips to her untouched nipple, sipping the sweat that accumulated at her breasts. “Oh God . . .” she moaned, bucking her hips.

“So good . . .” I murmured.

“Keep doing . . . oh God, oh man, I’m coming . . .”

“That's right come for God and man,” I whispered. Her breath stopped and then, suddenly, she moaned, convulsing under me.

She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “Oh my God, that was intense.” She breathed deeply, gulping air. Then she laughed. “’Come for God and man?’”

I laughed. “My head was in a divine place. I’ll say no more than that. Hey, look at this.” I held up a hand. “We’ve been sweating so much, my fingers are wrinkled like prunes.”

She looked at her hands. “Me too. Wow, I’ve never done that.”

“It’s a first for me as well. Take it easy: I’ll bring us some water.” In the kitchen, I poured two glasses with iced water and quickly drained one. I refilled it and returned to the bedroom with both. I handed her a glass and watched her gulp it down.

I took an ice cube from my glass in my fingers. “Here, let’s cool you off,” I offered. I placed the ice between her breasts.

“Agh, that’s so cold!” she winced.

“And you are an oven.” I traced the ice around her breasts, touching her nipples, and in swirls around her torso to her labia. It was still a substantial chunk when I put the ice inside her.

“Ah-ta-ah-ta!” she stammered. “Jesus, that’s cold!”

I lowered my face to her pussy. “Melt it for me,” I said, licking her. The ice was long gone when she came again.

I refreshed our drinks and poured a bath. We sat in the tub to cool off, our only light being the remains of dusk through the window. I smiled at her. “We met at two, right?” “Yeah.” She paused. “Wow, that was—what? Six hours ago?”

I raised my glass. “To time well spent.” She laughed and raised her glass to mine. We drank and talked, getting to know one another after an afternoon and evening of sex. “So, I’m glad you’re here this summer and we get to be together,” I said, taking care that the bourbon not do all the talking. “But . . . no, not but. And. And here’s the thing. We’re going to have lots of sex.”

“Mmmm.”

“And sometimes, when we have sex, it’s going to feel a lot like making love. Like we’re in love. I think that’s just how we are, how you and I are when we have sex.”

She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“I’m not sure I do either, but it’s what it feels like. To me, anyway. Some of that was pretty intense.”

“Yeah, we do have some pretty intense sex,” she agreed.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That we do.”

“I like it. I like being so . . . submissive with you.” She splashed the water absentmindedly. “I’m going to do my best to suck your dick the way you want. Any way you want.”

I smiled. “Yeah, and about that . . .” I started to stand.

“Oh no, we just had so much sex . . .” she laughed.

“Three months,” I said, putting my cock into Botticelli’s mouth. “There’s much to be done.”

A year and a half later, Kay and I were in bed talking after sex.

“Do you remember when we were in the tub, on our first date?”

“I remember everything about our first date.” I touched her hand. “Pretty girl.”

She chuckled softly. “Do you remember that thing you said about how sex with me felt like making love?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You know, at the time, I thought that was just a line, something you must’ve said a million times. But now, I’m thinking it wasn’t. You meant it.”

I raised myself on an elbow. “That was no line. I meant it. That was really something, what I was feeling that day.”

“I’m not sure what I was feeling that day,” she mused. “I’m not sure it was as, I don’t know, intense as what you described, or that I felt as intensely as you, but yeah, there was something going on.”

“Something, indeed.” I kissed her Renoir breast.

“Baby,” she sighed. “And look at us now.” She fell quiet, stroking my hair as I kissed her. Suddenly, she laughed at a thought. “That thing about sucking dick like an ugly New Jersey prisoner?”

I looked up and smiled. “Oh, now that was a line.”

Happy birthday, beloved.