During the time span of our dalliance, I enjoyed many. Some were firefly fleeting in the warm belly of a July night—a tinkling cocktail party, twinkling lights, bare shoulders, sun-warmed flesh, the moist air salt-laden, wrapping you in an embrace even before you touched. Some were quicksilver flashes on trips, metallic clanking trysts thrusting like pistons and groaning with stress. Some slipped like silver slivers in hotels, motels, inns, and pensioni, fleshy shivers in crisp sheets, kicking the martial corners asunder. Some, very few, occurred in my apartment, the unfamiliar masculine funk
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