I was young, younger than I am now. I was twentysomething, and beautiful. Yes, I say that about myself because it is true. My skin was smooth and unlined. My body was unblemished, fit from Pilates and regular shots of liquid oxygen. I moved with certainty from my strengthened core. My hair, a natural rich brown, shined. I believed in exploration and having fun. My entire life was before me. I was young, much younger than I am now.I lived in New York. I owned a beautiful apartment. I had a book contract. I had lovers but was in between several at the time. One lived in Russia on a Fulbright. He sent postcards. Another was truly and hopelessly wrong for me. She was poor, or should I say, less well off, and she liked dogs. Big ones. And I did not like dogs. Well, I liked her dogs, but not when they scratched the wood floors of my apartment. I did not like her dogs that much. And anyway, she was wrong for me. But the sex, now the sex, was very, very good. Until that point the best I’d had.It was sex during which I had to do nothing but recline while she stroked and devoured me, licked and turned me over.
