He caressed me all over my back, beginning at the shoulders and slowly settling to my hips, which his hands eased forward, opening my legs slightly to let one finger touch my moist warm cave from behind. People knew me for talking about the rhythms, and asking a man for his birthdate serves as well for a conversation starter as asking what sign he is. I cried out as I went all the way down on his hook of
thick meat. He had a big cup of coffee waiting for me, and he was sipping on another one while he stood there barefoot. In that time I had a long affair with a man which ended badly, and two more that didn’t work out but weren’t really unhappy (though one was pretty stupid.) In all three cases the patterns were way off, but I had never taken the biorhythms seriously enough, steadily enough, to look before it didn’t matter.
