”Nod.“That makes you sad, doesn’t it?”“Yes.”“Your orgasms aren’t as good when you’re sad, are they?”There was a slight pause, and ...or a second I thought my sister was going to admit to being some kind of sex robot, always able to cum powerfully, no matter what else was happening in her life.Which would be, y’know, fun. But distinctly unhelpful. My sister the sex robot.“No,” she finally answered, and I smiled.“When you’re sad, your orgasms aren’t quite as satisfying, are they?”“No.”“So once. Because her father was a wife beater. Because her father was a child molester. Because she’d shot him 15 years ago. The screen door slammed shut and she jumped as if it was the shot she’d fired so long ago. It echoed in her mind and the smell of cordite burned in her nostrils. It had been his .45 that she had found hidden in the ratty folds of the his recliner and she remembered how her heart had pounded in her chest as she gingerly handled the silver gun, her dirty, bitten fingernails rubbing. More

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