Then looked at Sophia, all curled up with Crash. He looked at Jess again, looked at the bed, looked at the space he had just been lying in. And turned...toward the dufflebag he had brought with him. He pulled out a teeshirt and a pair of sweatpants and the Dostoevsky book he was in the middle of. He pulled on the clothes, glanced back at the three people still in bed, and walked out of the bedroom. He went into the kitchen, brewed some coffee, poured himself a cup, and headed out to the front. They were wrong, it was all wrong. I rode him, this stranger, with those large hands digging into me, unapologetic. My hands were in his hair now, my arms around his head like shackles and he was inside of me and outside of me and all around me and everywhere at once. The room melted around us. Every man I had ever fucked there was with us. There was the athletic Maxwell, my most recent, there was the schoolteacher whose name I had forgotten, there was the boy on his eighteenth birthday, there. More

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