I am wet, but not so well lubricated that a fist will penetratewithout hurting. I bite my lip and brace myself for the push I feel sure is coming, but...instead the fingers begin to stimulate me. Slowly they glide up and down my moist, warm canal, while the thumb flicks over my clit. The touch is wonderful, so soft and sensuous, sending waves of sweet pleasure rippling through me. The motion intensifies, becomes quicker, more urgent. The early stages of orgasm begin to kick in.The stimulation. But such thinking is futile. I did sell the house. I did stay in Cambridge. And we did stay together, if peculiarly. My life become one of memory and fantasy. Memories of days, nights, experiences, with Julie and Anne, and other women, some of whose names I could not even remember, some of whom I was surprised to realize I had known twenty or thirty years earlier, were incomparably more vivid than Lynn’s infrequent, wraithlike presence. I masturbated to those memories considerably more than I. More

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