The lingering scent of rose perfume clung to my shirt, the nauseating stench of a quick, incurious fuck. It was sickening, the way the mind could eventually grow numb to the parasitic needs of the flesh. I’d made a point to meet twice a week with Loretta Gilchrist, the entomology professor, to burn off the pent-up agony of an insatiable sexual appetite. A mundane, but effective therapy, up until that evening, when I’d been put off by the woman. Not because she was ten years older than me, or that she had a tendency to fall into a coughing fit during her climax. Though our routine had gotten
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