Then it hit me like an eighteen-wheeler barreling down a road: She was a stripper and a virgin. How messed up was that, that we lived the kind of life where she was rubbing her tits in men’s faces and straddling their laps when she hadn’t even had sex. Something about that was downright tragic. Monroe James wasn’t at all what I had thought she was—what anyone thought she was. And she was so much better than I deserved.
