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The seventh hole is short, a par 3; the tee is secluded, past a wooded area which shields it from the sixth green and the rest of the course. As we bump along the forest path to the tee, you lean over and kiss my cheek. I check the path ahead, then quickly turn my…

When she arrived at the apartment, the door was slightly ajar; from inside she could hear him clattering in the kitchen. He had dialed up his Hot Tuna playlist, “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning” competing with the chopping and sizzling noises. She knocked and pushed the door open without waiting. “Hello, darling.” He was…

His fingers moved and danced across her bare back, dark even in the moonlight: her brown skin, and the contrast with his pale hands. He touched her shoulders, let his fingers follow the arc of her arm down and then back up; and down her back again, finding the curve of her hips, tenderly touching…

The tattoo, he hadn’t noticed before: it had been cooler, then.  Today was finally warm enough to forego a sweater, and her shirt — white, with a button-down collar, from the boys’ department — was open enough that he could glimpse the ink along her collarbone.  Some of it, anyway. “What is that?” he wanted…

[click here for audio version] “Turn the other one,” he said. His tone was calm, even, unhurried; but to her it was a command: that was all she could hear. His casual demeanor was a façade. She thought, momentarily, about noncompliance; but she knew it was no use. It was the voice, not the words,…

[click here for audio version] They headed out of the city, exiting the ring road where the highway started west, driving into the night with the metropolitan luminescence behind them. Ninety minutes later, up in the hills — there were no mountains here — they pulled over to properly regard the night sky. They left…

The writer sends her butterflies. The man makes the gooseflesh rise on her arms. The writer arouses her with his words. The man’s glance in her direction makes her wet. The writer’s stories fuel her fantasies. The man takes her hand and lives them with her. The writer spreads open her mind. The man spreads…

“Again, please?” She looked up at him, pleading, wanting to start all over again even knowing that he needed some time. He smiled. “Patience, pet.” She sighed and tried to collect her thoughts, which seemed to buzz and fly about inside her head like a thin and slow swarm of butterflies; each time she thought…

When Amanda woke with a start, she thought at first the dream was real. Of course she did; everyone does. She took deep breaths: “It was only a dream,” she told herself. But so vivid, it scared her. She thought about waking David, for the company and to just talk it out. But, “That’s silly.…

She was thinking about the infinte possibilities for pleasure: it wasn’t, she realized, about the infinite small details that spring to mind in most people: what goes where, whose head is up and whose down, facing, bestride, top, bottom, back, front. Nor was it about specific acts, or actions — as pleasurable as they all…