I lay on the large bed, watching Eliot slide seductively out of his clothes, and I knew it was another night. I just had no idea of the specific passage of time. I couldn’t have said what happened after Eliot f****d me the first time, because I genuinely couldn’t remember. I knew there’d been many other times—that night, the next night, many nights after—and they had always been as exciting. I was so frequently naked that I rarely remembered being dressed. The room was always warm, the drapes always drawn closed. There was no sound except our panting breath; no other senses except awareness of each other.
I had no further idea of where I was. Or who he was. But it never seemed to matter.
I remembered occasional intentions about making my way home. I thought that there were things I had t
