My desire to be wanted was like something physically gushing out of me—need need need—and it disgusted me, this broken spigot I’d become. A man telling me he wanted to fuck me, whispering it into my ear, it was like taking the first sip of whiskey, that hit of warmth, straight to my gut. The beginning was usually better than what followed: the cotton-mouthed morning, the strange bed, sweat on the sheets.
