I had entered some other world, where the roles were switched and I was held at his mercy by this sexy punk boy. “Don’t try to make me nasty or an...thing,” he said again as he reached into his underwear. He held, lifted it and there it was, hanging like a plant watering extension to the bucket, half engorged and still thickening. He let it hang outside his pants, flexed it and it bounced wobbling like a ripple on the top a lake. I was in a spell of it is not a cliché. He was no less than 8–9. As we reached the end of the rink and began our turn, two young boys went speeding past, one of them bumping Teresa’s shoulder and knocking her off balance. I saw it happen and reached for her to steady her, holding her arm in one hand, my arm around her back to keep her from falling. ‘Are you hurt?’ I didn’t think she was, but wanted to make sure. ‘No. Just surprised. Thank you for catching me. Falling on the ice is no fun.’ I was pleased that she was all right, and then a bit surprised she. More

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