“I’m very sorry,” he says. “I can’t do this, usually I’m hard right away.” “Okay don’t feel bad, it’s okay,” I say. I put my arm around his shoulders. I pull him closer to me. He nuzzles my neck then rolls off of me onto his back. We lie there beside each other like two beached fish at Coney Island. I wonder if this has happened because we are strangers or because we don’t love each other. I wonder if the disaster has rendered him impotent or if it was the three beers he drank as he sat with me at the bar. I wonder if it’s my old nemesis, tried and true, the luck of the draw.

I glance over at him. His eyes are closed, the wing tattoos on his chest start just above his sternum. It looks as if he is wearing a dainty scarf, a mantilla of blue lace. His large nipples are bubble-gum pink. I want to touch them, chew them, suck all the sugar out. First I lean over and kiss him briefly, sweetly on the lips. I stroke his limp cock, cradle it in my hands for a while. I learn the shape of it, stretching it in my hands, then I tuck it between his legs. He starts to mumble something, perhaps a protest, but I shut him up by putting my mouth right over his. I push my tongue deep inside then I pull it out. I push in again, fucking him with it. Then I take his wonderful nipples between my fingers and I tug at them until the tip of each nipple pops out and hardens like a little clit. Finally I put my mouth on his clit-nipple. The surrounding skin is soft and smooth like the skin inside my pussy. Hook must like what I’m doing because he is moving his body beneath me, rocking from side to side. I move my hands down below his hips, squeezing his legs shut tight. He is pinned under me now, pinned with my mouth at his breast, pinned by my two hands below his hips. I take my hands off the sides of his legs and put them together in a V. I press down on his new vulva. I rub it, press it, caress it just the way I like to have my crotch rubbed before I spread my legs wide. Hook is moving under me with such frenetic force that he throws me off, but I’m not angry, I have moved into my dreams. He is my hermaphrodite, and he puts a hand out and touches my face. I kiss his wrist, his palm, the tops of his fingers, and then he opens his legs. There it is, in all its splendor, pointing straight up to the skies, white, solid as marble.