Her short skirts made me curious just like tight pants did. There is nothing but tension between a pretty face and a crotch. I remember that feeling better than the details of our first meeting. I liked her right away. It wasn't long before I couldn't stand being away from her. Before I was desperate for her. There was no resistance, no hesitation, none of that queasy sense of the other's fear that boys generate when I get too close. She was willing. We talked like neurotics in therapy and fucked like machines. This is what it means to talk like neurotics: we told everything, every desire, every fear, every judgment, sparing each other nothing. This is what it means to fuck like machines: one body has W protuberances and X orifices, while the other body has Y protuberances and Z orifices. Only so many permutations: a function of WXYZ. Discoveries. Artificial apertures and rods. Zeros and ones. This killed us. We used up everything – quickly. There was no sex left, no desire, no mystery, no affection, no love. We were dead. The only way to recuperate possibility was to add more bodies – this is the infinity maker, the trouble maker.