Nineteen My bedroom is stifling. Dylan races around and opens the windows. He shuts off the overhead light and turns on a small antique lamp on the dresser that gives off a yellow glow. He also shoos Bert out of the bedroom and closes the door. I hear a click as he locks it. I stand by the side of the bed, excited and feeling silly at the same time. Dylan strides toward me, pulling off his T-shirt in one fast move. He’s walking and removing his jeans at the same time. I’m impressed with his cheetah-like reflexes and watch him as if it’s a private show for me. In seconds he stands before me in his briefs and begins removing my dress, which happens in the blink of an eye. Then we are there, together in the darkened room, with romantic lighting, sheer curtains billowing in the light warm breeze and the two of us stripped down to our underwear. Dylan towers over me, solid, thick muscles, making him look like he has been created to resemble the perfect Romanesque sculpture. He puts his hands on either side of my arms and waits for me.
