she pleaded with me every time. She liked it too much but had been starved of it after separating from her husband. “It’s complicated,” I would say, and had told her the real reason too. We were only friends with benefits, not committed lovers. Marriage was not a possibility between us. “Fuck off,” she would growl, “what century are you living in?” I would do her with my hand then and she would be fine but not completely satisfied. “It’s not the same thing,” she would say, and she was the best judge. But it was good enough, I guess, because she kept coming back for it. For me, there was satisfaction in holding her close. The feel of her warm, supple skin on mine soothed me. I liked the way my fingertips raised goosebumps on her thighs and the down on her back and neck. And of course, the way my tongue could tease into existence two turgid, throbbing, mutinous rocks. We met in my room every second evening unless we got back from work very late. Sometimes, she cooked for us afterwards, and then I felt a pang of guilt.
