It’s my first time. He’s had years of experience. I sit nervously as he describes what’s about to happen. “It’s all about learning the feel. Starting out is the hardest part, you need to take it slowly and gently. Everything after that easy.” He shows me, slowly, describing each motion as he goes. I watch quietly, trying to take it all in. It’s so new and different and foreign to me, but so natural for him. He shows me again. I rest my head on his shoulder as he explains. Finally, he asks, “Think you got it?”

I bite my lip. “Mmrnph,” I mumble.

“Ready to give it a try?” he asks. I nod, and we switch positions.

Clutch. Brake. Emergency brake. Neutral. First gear. I take my foot off the brake and glacially ease my foot off the clutch. Slowly, slowly. Nothing happens. I keep going. An eternity later, or maybe only 5 seconds, my new car lurches into forward motion. I’ve shifted into first gear.

Later, we lie in bed, our limbs tangled, skin touching. It’s late. We’re tired, stuffed with food, and covered in a lingering blanket of cigar smoke. I sniff my hair and his. It’s my hair. There’s no trace of cigar in his hair or rum on his breath. It rolls right off him, leaving him untouched. He grazes the back of my neck with his fingertips, triggering a twinge in my groin. I am overwhelmed, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and protected. I want him to bite me there. Hold me down and do things to me. Teach me skills no one else knows. I want to forget the rest of the world and everything outside my bed.