I am surprised to wake up alone. I’m not hung over this morning, for one thing, and my memories of the thick, sweaty, blue-eyed dancing machine are much more concrete than they were yesterday. I have a very specific recollection, for example, of walking up the hill holding his hand, and of ushering him into my little home away from home. One, too, of nearly ripping his shorts into grass-skirt shreds in the throes of an urgent need to have him naked next to me again. Of palming his big round butt, and nibbling his big round n*****s, and coaxing him harder and harder until he threw me across the cottage and onto the bed. I most definitely remember crouching at the edge of the bed with my shorts around my knees while he stood, still in his flip-flops against the freezing floor, and banged me
