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and knew how horny I was the whole time?”
    â€œYes.”
    I propped myself up on an elbow and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s for making me wait so long.” Then I kissed him, long and deep, until we were both breathless.
    He started to get up and I thought, Aha, now he’ll want to come. But he made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he returned, began to get dressed.
    I asked him if he wanted to come and he smiled that sweet smile at me. “Yes, very much. But I’m going to wait.”
    I wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Why?”
    â€œYou wanted me to experience the exquisite pain you had gone through. I figured I’d try it.” He leaned over and kissed me on the lips, then again on the forehead. It struck me then that I couldn’t just let him walk away, like any other anonymous encounter. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
    â€œIf you want me to.”
    â€œYou have to.” I told him I wouldn’t feel complete until he came, too.
    And he said: “I know.”

NINE SEVEN ZERO
    Marianna Cherry
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    YOU GET TOO MUCH FROM SEX FOR IT TO BE truly casual: Beauty. Self-esteem. Pain. Great email material. But I think Marvin Gaye got closest to it.
    I was standing at the window of my Victorian room in Cole Valley. Outside, the neighbors were at it with their little shovels and knee pads, weeding between cactus and bright clusters of medicinal plants. Usually it cheered me to look down at the crush of flowers, but not today. Behind me, Trevor lay on the bed. He’d just ended it—giving me an earful about his “need for independence,” his “need for focus.” He had a new job and debts to clear, and he was, at thirty-three, having the revelation that he couldn’t work and make love to a woman at the same time. “I won’t have time to go to the
movies for six months,” he declared. “I have to clear myself, you know?”
    But whatever—it was a fling; I just thought it’d be nice to stretch it out another week.
    He lounged naked on my bed after what is cynically dubbed “breakup sex,” as if you can taxonomize these things. Bass-player arms, junkie-lean chest, unshaven around the mouth and jaw, darkening the pale. God, he was fine—sort of anonymously fine, like a snapshot of someone’s lowrider dad found lying on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, I was in a state, so pent up with words that when I opened my mouth to speak I wound up sucking air.
    â€œYou can’t freak me out,” Trev said. His voice drifted around my back like a shawl. “And I won’t bolt. I don’t know why you feel the need to tell me, but I’ll listen.”
    What a voice he had. Like paper—scratchy, strong, a tear in it. Higher than most men’s, and with more noise to it than melody, like wind stirring up alley trash, or the slap of an oar on water. I’d stop myself from coming just to hear him talk more, hear him beg me on.
    It was over lunch a few hours earlier that he’d ended it, and we kissed in parting intimacy, but soon we were kissing for real, and then feeding each other leftover chicken koorma and orange slices by hand, our fingers rammed in each other’s mouths.
    â€œAre you sure?” he asked with chutney on his breath, “because I really mean this,” and I said I was sure, and let him take me down, my skirt inching up, just my delicate nothing shoving up against his moist jeans, and then my red T-shirt off.
    â€œOw!”
    â€œSorry.”
    Readjustments.
    Teeth.

    Chests pressed against each other in heat, his mouth chewing up my neck like a summer corncob, and I clenched my eyes against the infliction, then opened them to behold the refreshed beauty of my ceiling as viewed from the perspective of ravishment: the cracks, the light fixtures, a single thread of cobweb catching the sun in pinks.
    â€œLet