Fucking

They waited, wordlessly.  The line moved slowly, but finally, finally, they were next.  She looked up at him, as if to say, “Are we really going to do this?” He looked down at her, as if to say, “You bet…

I know you do, because you’ve told me so. You’ve sent me texts, you’ve sent me emails. Pictures, audio files. You’ve erected a digital shrine to your desire to be fucked by me. But you’ve read these words. You know…

You know how this story ends (or at least, how this part of this story ends).  I’ve summarized it all here, here, and here. Thus far in our story, as much as I’ve cheated, stolen, lied; as many women as…

The Historian e-mailed me what she called “marginalia” – her contemporaneous journal entries from the weekend in question (almost two years ago now).  I recall everything she writes vividly, but still, it’s jarring to read it in her words –…

Writing about, reading about, fucking I did almost two years ago, I’m reminded of how passive I was when fucking, how far I’ve traveled since then.  (The Historian has just sent me her contemporaneous notes from the time referenced in this…