For Susan, sex with men had felt like riding a bike down a cobblestone street: she, mounted on an unwieldy and foreign object, would hang
on for dear life as her body shook from shallow, unforgiving jabbing. Now, with many years between her and
her attempts with men, she sat on her Savanna porch with her girlfriend, Melissa, and remembered the way her
substitute teacher’s face had appeared that afternoon when he forced his way
into her. She could have sworn his
skin had resembled the texture of stone: it was cracked and reddening
around the eyes and nose and when he told her to lick it, it tasted like chalk. But Mr. Chalky was only a distant memory to her, and, besides, was sex with men really that bad? After a while she had developed ways of
coping with them. Like the
Mercedes Bens that her father drove her to school in, she had built within her self an
intricate system of shocks and pulleys that absorbed even the most jagged and
ruined of men.
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