I line you all up against a hotel wall and let my imagination do what it does best.

The memory of the Historian’s mouth on my cock haunts me, and the night ended on a Brooklyn block transformed into the 19th century.

The getting feels better than the having — and that realization explains more about me than I’m entirely comfortable with.

I direct her from across a crowded hotel lobby, texting instructions while businessmen in khakis steal glances at what they can’t have.

The Historian sent me her journal entries from our weekend in Miami. The fucking was hot, but the feelings were hotter.

On the evolution of my fucking technique, from passive to aggressive — and the semicolons along the way.

She got a free vacation; I got her at a moment’s notice. It was a good deal for both of us.

French theorists on her reading list, no panties under her skirt, and an invitation to Miami before the jazz even started.

A farewell to a great restaurant, and the story of a memorable visit to its men’s room.