I had this boyfriend in high school. We never had sex-- it took us months before we kissed, and months before we kissed again. He was a poor little rich kid, something deeply broken about him, and I loved every cell in his brain and body. I was his Zelda Fitzgerald-- I had spent my life in a lead-lined Old World Catholic home (no offense, anybody), and I buzzed with fear and sexual energy, a little wild animal.

After his parents and brother and sister went upstairs and turned off the lights, we would click together like magnets. Love truly was the grandest thing. It was like everything it should be. He had those rosy English cheeks like Prince William, and very small, perfect ears, and a dry wit. His first memory was his infant brother's death. I wanted to zip him up inside me.

We'd most often end up on the couch in his parents' formal sitting room, me straddling him, in a very short skirt (which my father never saw). I feel like I spent years on that chintz couch, on his lap, topless and breathless and glowing. It has merged into one infinite gold-hued moment.

You'd laugh if I told you how little we "did." We both remained virgins. We never orgasmed. I don't think he ever made it under my panties. And yet--- it was one of the most profoundly erotic relationships of my life. We hovered on the edge of the abyss of pure desire, for months on end. Every single touch and kiss and brush was electric, obliterating everything outside of our bubble.

The thing is, when you walk through my door, you enter my sensual life. I don't have my real self somewhere else. Neither do you.


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