He was re-creating something seen. Suddenly I didn’t want it and I didn’t want him in my bed. What did I want? The imperfection of the real. There were more practiced movements of fingers and tongue. I felt that he was watching himself as his own enraptured audience. I could not peak. I wanted to, if only to make it all less of a colossal waste of time, and then I realized it would be his victory if I did. They do care about pleasing you, but only so they can say, “Wow, look what I did.” An act of self-praise more than an act of giving. A few dramatic moans, I decided, and then I would ask him
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