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fabric whispered under my palm. She leaned back and her head bonked on the door.
“Ouch!” I said. “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m fine. Don’t stop. Kiss me some more.” Then she shook her head. “No,
don’t kiss me. Do my lips again. Lick me. I like that.”
I did. She sighed and slipped her fingers under my belt at the small of my back. Then around to
the front, where the buckle was.
2
I wanted to go fast, every part of me was yelling for speed, telling me to plunge deep, wanting that
perfect gripping sensation that is the essence of the act, but I went slow. At least at first. Then she said,
“Don’t make me wait, I’ve had enough of that,” and so I kissed the sweaty hollow of her temple and
moved my hips forward. As if we were doing a horizontal version of the Madison. She gasped,
retreated a little, then raised her own hips to meet me.
“Sadie? All right?”
“Ohmygodyes,” she said, and I laughed. She opened her eyes and looked up at me with curiosity
and hopefulness. “Is it over, or is there more?”
“A little more,” I said. “I don’t know how much. I haven’t been with a woman in a long time.”
It turned out there was quite a bit more. Only a few minutes in real time, but sometimes time is
different—as no one knew better than I. At the end she began to gasp. “Oh dear, oh my dear, oh my
dear dear God, oh sugar!”
It was the sound of greedy discovery in her voice that put me over the edge, so it wasn’t quite
simultaneous, but a few seconds later she lifted her head and buried her face in the hollow of my
shoulder. A small fisted hand beat on my shoulder blade once, twice . . . then opened like a flower and
lay still. She dropped back onto the pillows. She was staring at me with a stunned, wide-eyed
expression that was a little scary.
“I came,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“My mother told me it didn’t happen for women, only for men. She said orgasms for women were a
myth.” She laughed shakily. “Oh my God, what she was missing.”
She got up on one elbow, then took one of my hands and put it on her breast. Beneath it, her heart
was pounding and pounding. “Tell me, Mr. Amberson—how soon before we can do it again?”
3
As the reddening sun sank into the everlasting gas-and oil-smog to the west, Sadie and I sat in her
tiny backyard under a nice old pecan tree, eating chicken salad sandwiches and drinking iced tea. No
poundcake, of course. The poundcake was a total loss.
“Is it bad for you, having to wear those . . . you know, those drugstore things?”
“It’s fine,” I said. It really wasn’t, and never had been. There would be improvements in a great
many American products between 1961 and 2011, but take it from Jake, rubbers stay pretty much the
same. They may have fancier names and even a taste-component (for those with peculiar tastes), but
they remain essentially a girdle you snap on over your dick.
“I used to have a diaphragm,” she said. There was no picnic table, so she had spread a blanket on