Three years ago, when Alex was still in the middle of getting his PhD at Caltech under Christof Koch, Alex had taken dance classes in LA at a place called Millennium Dance, where he had ended up in class with a young agile instructor with a mop of crow-black hair named Jason. After some flirting Jason had invited Alex out to West Hollywood that Saturday night to this club called The Abbey, which Alex had never been to but Jason definitely had, because as soon as they were in and had done some shots (free because all the bartenders knew Jason), Jason was immediately up on the poles, up on the bar, up on basically everything, and Alex had felt like he was being carried along by the strong current of a river, the white rapids of music and bodies and exposed flesh and Jason, ahead of him always, smiling and beckoning, swaying to the rhythm as one hand reached back and dragged Alex through the crowd, and Alex, nervous, amazed, excited, seduced, following behind, at first unsure but then, later, it became all marmalade make-outs and fog-machine gropings, Jason pressing him against the wall, pinning his arms above his head. Then the rush of Jason dragging him out into the night streets to find a little spot in the shadows up against a brick wall, which Alex had been shoved against, breathing hard. And Jason had smiled at him and then kissed downward, Alex laughing out loud at what was happening, looking around furtively, thinking about how ridiculous it would be if they were caught, and then he wasn’t thinking anymore but was looking up between the buildings to the breaking black liquid expanse of the universe with its magnetic fields and neutron stars and solar nurseries all pouring like radio down on him now, his hands feeling for purchase against the pebbly surface of the brick behind him as Jason undid his belt and sucked him off as the world spun and the galaxy rotated, wheels within wheels all the way down to a tongue circling.