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pleasure. Jason gave me that again and again.
    I thrust my hips up to meet him, trying to match rhythms so as to achieve an almost violent crash of bodies. It’s hard to
admit this, but I wanted him to fuck me hard enough to hurt. It was one of the reasons I liked picking up strangers—they were unlikely to worry much about whether I was in pain or not. People in anonymous encounters tend to fuck with abandon. Of course, that sometimes meant that I would end up abandoned, if he came before me, or if he couldn’t keep it up. But Jason was hanging in there, giving it to me and giving it to me.
    When I’m that wet and I’ve wanted it for that long, I can fuck for a long, long time. I started to worry that he wouldn’t last, but I didn’t say anything. Just when my worrying began to distract from the pleasure, he whispered, “It’s okay. I can do it.” And he began to fuck even harder, and I lost myself.
    The orgasm was coming—but if I followed my usual pattern, I would need a tad more clitoral stimulation. I tried to slide my hand along my stomach, but bumped into his hand, as he beat me to it. He had turned his long arm partway over and slid his thumb down over the very slippery, sensitive bump at just the right moment. Instantly, I felt the ripples build and break loose. My legs shook and my heels drummed on his back as I quaked with the power of coming. I wondered if this would make him go off, too, but when I settled back into the bed, he was still lodged deep inside me, fucking me slowly and contentedly.
    Wash, rinse, repeat. After a while, he sped up, my muscles started to contract, he rubbed my clit, and—insert sound effects like Fourth of July fireworks. And again. And maybe again…I can’t do math when I’m like that. I kept thinking, Oh, this time he’ll go off, too. But he didn’t. And then I started to feel like I’d had enough and I feared that he hadn’t, and I was going to end up having to go through the ordeal of letting him fuck me when I didn’t want to anymore. It would not be fair, after all, to get what I wanted and leave him unsatisfied.

    Suddenly he pulled out, lay back next to me, and smiled.
    â€œYou didn’t come,” I said.
    â€œAre you sure?” he asked.
    â€œYes.” I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating hard. “I’m sure of it.”
    â€œYou’re right.”
    â€œDo you want me to go down on you?” I could not move at that point, as I lay there, thoroughly screwed, but I figured I’d be able to sit up in a few minutes.
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” he said, sounding sleepy, or maybe I was projecting. “You just rest.”
    We lay there in the semidarkness of the streetlight, and after a short nap, my brain began to perk up. That’s when I realized that I had never told him where I lived, nor how to get there. He had been following me all evening, by his own admission. I didn’t think I would feel so comfortable snuggling up to a psycho. Did I have a stalker?
    â€œNo,” he said, stroking my hair. “I can read your mind.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you can read my mind?” I guess I thought it was some mushy romantic thing he was trying to say. But I was wrong. He meant it in the most literal sense.
    â€œIn the bookstore, you picked up that cookbook because you thought the cover image looked phallic.”
    â€œSpring rolls and bananas.”
    â€œThen you watched that clerk, the one with the nose ring, walk by, and decided you really didn’t like the way he smelled.” His voice was soothing. “That’s the smell of patchouli, by the way.”
    â€œAnd what was I thinking about when we were in the train station?”
    â€œThe Man Who Came To Dinner.”

    â€œHoly shit.” That was the play we’d done in drama club. He really could read my mind. “So you were following me around all night,