She tells me it’s like fucking her father. She tells me after she held me down and moved her hips with the exhausting rhythm of a machine gun. I pause and carefully ask if her father did that to her. Did he? She calls me silly and says no, “It’s only the anger and I’m still looking for his acceptance, I guess.”

I don’t know if I want to tangle with this. I look at her body, softly twisted; lying naked on top of the sheets and perhaps I do. She places my hands on her chest and rubs them across her nipples, moves them around.

“Why do you think he disapproves of you?” I ask.

“Huh?” she says. “I’m listening.” There no one else in the room, no music playing and the television is off. I start to feel the same way I did when I was ten years old, when I was left home alone for the first time.

“What does that mean?”

“Shhhhh… OK. He says that you’re an alright guy.”

“That’s good,” I say bolting up to reach across her for my clothes. She slides her hand down my shorts and strokes me three times quickly.

“I’d like to meet him,” I say as she crawls toward me. Her eyes twinkle like a frozen pond on a sunny winter day. The switch is flipped and I'm on her.