“You heard me.” “That’s a little forward, don’t you think?” my voice had gotten high. He shrugged. “Maybe. Answer the question. I want t... be able to tell Matt you were a good girl on the ride over,” he said. I was torn between feeling humiliated and feeling thrilled. That my 17-year-old lover wanted to hear I was a ‘good girl’ seemed ironic at best. We sat in silence until I finally said, “I like doggie style.” He smiled and drove on. Finally he asked, “Why?” “Why do I like–?” “You heard me.. The previous night starts filling my memory. A concert in a bar. Hot and sweaty. Hard rock. Dancing and bouncing around. Kissing you while the band played a ballad. A drunk passing out in the tiny mosh pit. Lighters and arms in the air. Shots of whiskey. Cold beers. Holding you in front of me, my desire for you pressing into you, and you pressing back into my desire. The memory is remarkably similar to what I'm experiencing now. I decide this is a far more pleasant feeling than the hangover and. More

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