One morning around then I walked into the kitchen. He was reading the paper; Laurene was looking through the mail. When I stepped into the room, he lowered the paper and looked at me. “Lis?” “Yes?” “Do you masturbate?” The question hung in the air. The answer was that I didn’t. I’d never tried it. I knew what the word meant, but wasn’t sure how to do it myself. Once in dance class years before in the middle of a series of moves, a gust or wind of pleasure had overtaken me, unbidden, and I ran out of the dance studio into the changing room, flushed and confused. I didn’t say anything and stood
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