After you finish your drinks, he will ask you to dance. You will lace your fingers between his before realizing that you’re smiling and nodding. You’ll like that he asks your permission. Lead him to the crowded dance floor and sway a bit when he twirls you into him effortlessly. Your hips will know what to do. His fingers will rest on them for a song, then they’ll begin to creep up past your belt, making contact with your bare stomach. They will feel like those menacing hands from Saturday night. Your throat constricts. Your heart lurches forward. You will need air. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls of air.

Did I mention that Melanie had kicked me out of her wedding party only weeks before the affair? So no longer a bridesmaid, my new duty at the wedding was social pariah meets convalescent meets object of pity.

Write half a story while drinking IPAs. Go to sleep. Wake up next day and study scrawled words on page. Realize you have no clue what the hell it means.

I was lying in bed, and the muffled tones of my parents voices drifted through the heat register.

“What about them?” I heard Dad say.

“Oh, Dirk. You know that this isn’t about them. Don’t drag them into it.”

I didn’t mean to be out there in the dark, drunk, pasting up giant sheets of the apple-titted lady out of order. I told this story to the girl in the passenger seat of my Honda. She wasn’t impressed. She seemed more interested in the content of the billboard, and not interested in me at all.

When Mark was ten, one of his gifts under the tree was the outrageously hyped and highly anticipated video game sequel he and his best friend Spencer had been begging, pleading, whining, and angling for since Halloween. Dutifully, and not without pleasure, he ripped open his remaining gifts and watched as his sister and parents opened theirs, but as soon as the first acceptable moment presented itself, he ran to his room, shut the door, eased the new game into the mouth of his Nintendo, and didn’t reappear until his mother’s fifth and “final” call for lunch.

After the haircut—and largely due to a sexual drought that was a result of it—I began a strict regimen of masturbation. But I added a twist. In order to make the act feel more realistic, I started picking out imaginary girlfriends and trying to remain faithful to them. This involved thinking exclusively about one girl while flogging it. Sometimes when the thought of another woman would slip into my mind, a sense of guilt, dishonor and melancholy would follow my orgasm. I didn’t want to be the type of guy with a terrible haircut who cheats on his imaginary girlfriends. 

Claude and I used to work together back on the resort. Boy, we had some crazy times there. Lots of wild nights, partying with the tourists. I know he met you during one such night. 

You know what I love most about swimming?  How perky my breasts get.  All round and full and buoyant.  Gorgeous, really!  And floating right up there where they should be.

So first of all I wanted to express my condolences, and stop me at any time if there’s too much grief for you to listen. Charitably, I mean. I’d like you to listen charitably, because in light of, uh, recent events, I’m gonna need to come clean.