It was clinical, really. Not like I'd imagined. He said he'd done it many times before and I trusted him and so there were preparations and the gathering of towels. His calm voice told me what to do.
Move your legs . . . good.
Tilt a little.
There, you ok?
Don't be afraid, you're doing great.
This might a hurt a little, don't worry.
And the black-hair waterfall over forehead and neck and the glow-in-the-dark green eyes and the twinge and the bruised blood and the towels buried in the trash and the feeling blindly for panties in the dark and the smoothing of hair and finally the wink and the snatching of sunglasses and the slamming of the car door.
Go home and get some sleep. You look like shit.
I didn't do it again for a long time after.