Almost a decade ago, another lifetime entirely.

When we met he asked if I was old enough to drink. I responded by sucking a mouthful of well whiskey through the tiny straw, spitting it in his face, and then licking it off.

I wasn’t old enough to drink.

We both kept the same late night hours. I’d just moved to southern California for the first time, drifting without my social group. He’d pick me up in his car and we’d drive all over Hollywood and the Valley in the middle of the night, talking about absolutely everything. I bluntly flirted and got the slightest hint of interest in return: much discussion about the impropriety he’d exhibit if he were to become physical with me.

One night we drove all the way to San Diego. I think I’d said something about still being unsure the Pacific ocean actually existed. Why he took me that far to stick my feet in it I don’t know. But he did, and I waded in as the sun came up. It smelled very different from the Atlantic and was much colder.

We got coffee after, and he insisted on paying. In the car on the way back to LA I then insisted on blowing him. Finally one of us had checkmated the other.

A week later we stopped the car in what looked like an empty field, or whatever barren space of sand and dirt served for an empty field in Burbank. I crawled over him, into the drivers’ seat. Flipped my body upside down, firmly clasped my legs around his neck to press my cunt into his face, and swallowed as much of his cock as I could. 

When we were done I dismounted. Rolled back to the passenger side. And spotted a cyclist. 

We’d parked smack in the middle of a bike track and dawn had come while we were distracted. A veritable marathon of 30+ people were cycling around the car. He hurriedly zipped up while I maniacally giggled. 

We ran, metaphorically. But we were safely ensconced in the vehicle and the car was fast enough to escape before someone reported us for public lewdness.

The head of his dick was pierced. Still is, as far as I know. Although I wouldn’t be in much of a position toknow as I haven’t seen it in years. 

I’ve seen him lots since. Slept next to him in his bed, been analyzed by him in ways I wouldn’t take from most friends, much less a stranger—regardless of whatever psych degrees they might have. 

Almost irritatingly, he’s always right.

During the period of our lives that we were fucking he had special condoms with a baggy tip. When people ask if I’ve ever had sex with someone with a ring through their cock, and then ask what it’s like, I hedge my response with the preamble that I’ve only had one such partner.


It’s like all the rolling internal stimulation of being fingered by an expert with all the entwined bodies and pelvic bone-to-clit sensation of being fucked by someone with a penis. 

We were once friends with benefits. Now we’re friends, without benefits and also without the “just.”




(This piece was adapted and illustrated by Dean Haspiel for Heavy Metal Magazine’s 2016 SEX issue as “One Such Partner” and appears in my forthcoming book “Philosophy, Pussycats, & Porn” through Not A Cult Media.)