::fragments::

J. and I were on a yellow bedspread, on a bed, in what looked to be a motel room, poorly lit. We were having sex in as many positions as possible. I remember the taste of the condom in my mouth, and thinking of how long it's been since I've had to deal with condoms. Each act felt like a particular type of calisthenics. All of it was devoid of passion or affection. He told me he wanted to try a new position, called "the afghan wig" and it was actually something I'd never done before--at least, it had never worked before--and it did now.