L.’s summer house on Cape Cod: we choose a little square room—the only bedroom that has heat. Midmorning, early spring. The heater produces a tropical climate. L. kneels on the bed and I stand behind him. Veins run beneath the skin of his white-gold limbs like the web in insect wings. I draw his bony jaw over his shoulder and we kiss, then I withdraw except where we are joined. His own humility excites him. The motion of his ass makes me simple. Its hunger seems ageless. I raise my fingers in amazement. I’m entirely awake, all systems go. My skin intensifies as though the front of my body whirls. Incredibly, he whispers “Hold me,” and I caress his chest and belly as he comes.

Later he drives me to Logan Airport. Wipers have left semicircles of dirt on the windshield of his Rabbit. We are speeding—late for my plane—but our sex has made us horny and I want to squeeze orgasms out of him. We pull off the highway and park, wriggle through a wire fence, and trek into a young forest of birch and pine. The woods look oddly beat up, broken branches strew the ground. We stop in a clearing that seems more pressured.

“Well . . .” He cocks his head in mild amusement. His features are a landscape that invites keenness of sight in that each element—cloud, lake, tree—tips towards me. He’s the perfection of my type: a waif who dominates. We hear the harsh cheet-cheet of a crossbill. It’s an honor to unbutton his pants. A page of porn lies at our feet—a faded torso, her thighs akimbo in the dirt. In all the miles of highway and forest we chose a chosen spot. I’m so drunk with love that coincidence rings with purpose. When L. blows me, wind in the treetops links it to fate. Then we kiss while he jacks us off; I expose my tongue and cock to the cool air.

We are extremely late but rigid beneath thin red skin. My orgasm is a small surprise, like stepping on a stick till it cracks. I come as easily as I blush. Inconsequential drops fall on the soft earth. L. bends over, pumping the log between his legs, eyebrows raised and jaw thrust forward as though he’s riding a bike. I want his orgasm: he comes long ropy strings. I want to throw my head into the branches in repulsion and gratitude. I want to surround him but hold back, subsiding, feeling a little seedy.

•

I reach across distance—when I see L.’s handwriting my senses jump. His script resembles mine (that’s a good sign); it has more velocity, more space between words.

Dear Bob,