When I stumbled drunkenly from that boat, smelling of our joined sweat and perfumes, I found my world much altered. Later, I would lie with men, for reasons that are my own, but not many, and each encounter further showed me that I am not made for men. Their tongues are too thick in their heads, and their smell is like something from a barn. Worse, that buffoon between their legs demands too much attention, and for as much as it can grant pleasure, it does so in a way that feels anonymous. To be loved by a man is to be issued a decree he has written in advance, and has presented to others; to
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