“What if I don’t let you fuck me any more?” she asked one morning.

“I suppose we won’t have sex,” I said, still half asleep.

“Would you like that?  We could just make out like teenagers.”

“I think teenagers fuck now.”

“Well we could make out like teenagers who don’t fuck.  We could kiss for hours, and you could get excited about taking off my bra again. We could run our fingers along the elastic of our underwear as if we’re afraid the other might say no.  I could rub you through your jeans and you could struggle with how to ask me to do more. It would be cute.”

“Could I touch you?”

“Maybe after an hour or two.  Once we’ve kissed long enough, and you’ve pressed your knee between my legs until I’m soaking wet.  Maybe once we finally take off both our shirts and we get to feel our skin touch for the first time.”

“Then I can slide my hand beneath your skirt?”

“Just for a moment.  Just long enough to see what it feels like and then you can taste me.  I’ll pretend to look away and you can taste me on your fingers and wonder if I’ll ever let you go down on me.”

“I think it would drive me crazy.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

—Guy New York