We lay together on the smooth comforter, our hands busy with each other, our mouths as well, tasting, licking, speaking in low, soft tones. It was choreographed beautifully; it felt as if we had danced together like this many times before.

Our legs entwined, then rearranged. He at­tempted to mount me, a move I parried with little difficulty, and we continued our dance, wrestling more and more intensely. The physical friction rose and our waltz became a match—a contest of two wills—testing, tasting, delaying, his frustration grow­ing with each of my denials, my excitement exploding with each new emphasis of his frustration.

Our contest grew fiercer—pain became legal—and I felt one wrist and an ankle burn in skin friction as I twisted from his grasp.

Then the music rose in my ears, and it seemed as though it had been there all night, playing soft back­ground accompaniment to our courtship, and now the volume rose with an appropriate shift in depth.

The musical strains were memorable, monumen­tal, the arrangement was unique, it was ours, it lifted in chorus, building, building, the crescendo almost deafening, and I heard my part orchestrated, knew when it ceased to become a pas de deux and became a solo, and Fred flipped to his back. I sat astride his chest and gripped his pectoral muscles, fingers digging into his armpits, holding, holding, holding one final moment longer, and at the crash of cymbals, I saw the look on his face—the flash of questioning, the instant of knowing and the bit of regret, and I dove for the giant worm that pulsed just below his ear.

The lullaby that wove about my head as I drank was the sweetest, most innocent music I had ever heard. It told the story of peace and harmony and life and life after life. Fred quieted, and my breathing slowed. I sucked more, I was full, but he was so pure, so delicious, it was like fresh spring water on a hot day—I couldn’t bear to waste any. I wrapped my legs around his heavy limbs and hummed along with the lullaby, teasing the nipple of my nourishment with my teeth, and my hands roamed his hairy chest and massaged his facial muscles until they relaxed.

I closed my eyes and saw the torch skiers, criss­-crossing the mountain. My face softened into a smile as I thought of Fred’s expression when he talked of skiing fast, so fast he was afraid to fall, and I knew the sensation. I felt the exhilaration, saw Death flying down the mountain by my side. I knew Fred in that moment, and I loved him.