July 2—Eli.
“You’re thinking about Seth again, aren’t you?” my life coach, Eli Shmelt, asked, naked and dripping wet on my apartment’s living room floor. A dull blue Martha Stewart towel hung from his right hand. The man was thirty-eight, five years younger than me, and quite chiseled from his four-days-a-week workouts at Lawd’s Gym. Droplets of fresh shower water skied down and over his plane of freshly shaved chest, which was reddish-pink in places because of the Mach3 razor he used in the shower. A puddle formed on the walnut floor around his feet. His n*****s were hard and his five inches of uncut part was limp between his legs. I still couldn’t believe how much he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal: blue-eyed, heavy scruff on cheeks and chin, boyish lips, and onyx-colored widow’s peak. The
