Despite the heat I was feeling from behind, a cooling February breeze was blowing in off the blue water below, sweeping across the condo balcony and entering through the open sliding-glass doors, disturbing, no doubt, the veil-like curtains flanking them. I looked mostly at the pillow below, its satiny case a kind of silver in color. Silver-grey. With each thrust I moaned, involuntarily, while beginning to wonder, as the pleasurable minutes ticked away, if my lover was growing tired of the endless vocalizing. Some guys, in my experience, the dominant type in particular, didn't like it. "Shut up!" "Yes. Yessir." My new friend said nothing, however. He just fucked away, his tempo fast, relentless, though not overly forceful. He seemed to stop just shy of pounding into me each time—pounding me into the headboard—for which I was grateful. It made it more like love-making than a mere, desperate fuck. It was artful, his technique. We'd met on the beach what seem
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