again, I went back into the bathroom and shut the door. My mind was wild, running through possibilities of who I could call before my late night date, if there were any chance of picking up some stranger. All potential consequences were obliterated in the face of such wetness. A friend once described her insatiable appetite for sex as not being sated by her appointments, as some of her peers found, but only inflamed by it. The sex she had with clients wasn’t her sex, it wasn’t what she wanted, and it highlighted the lack of what she wants. “It’s like having my face rubbed in it,” she said.
continued here
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