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Outside his apartment door, he’d invited me in. Once inside, he’d offered me a drink. Each question provided an opportunity for me to turn back, but something inside compelled me to say, “Yes, yes, and yes.” His apartment was sparsely decorated in a stark, minimalist style. The walls were painted cloudy sky gray and were bare but for a giant psychedelic poster of Buddha. The kitchen was open to the living room, separated by a full island bar, bachelor-pad style. I couldn’t help comparing his kitchen to my ex, Amy’s. When we’d first met, I’d felt right at home at her place, scattered with tea lights, plants, and incense sticks, her cat Kiki roaming around. In comparison, the lawyer’s place might as well have been Mars.
    I sat myself down on a bar stool and watched him pour two drinks. I giggled, giddy from rebelling against my customarily prudish disposition, my lesbian identity, and my brother.

    â€œWhat’s funny?” he asked, wielding the cocktail shaker like a pro.
    â€œHow long have you lived here ?” I asked, swiveling around on the stool and changing the subject. I felt like a teenager again, like we were stealing gin from his parents’ liquor cabinet for a party we shouldn’t be having.
    â€œA few years,” he answered, leading me into the living room. It was the dawn of fall, during a week that felt more like winter, so he threw a couple of logs on some kindling. We had a fire going in no time.
    He grabbed my foot again and picked up where we’d left off at the party. Then he leaned over to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved toward him. His face felt scratchy, like an old frayed toothbrush. I realized I’d been spoiled by women’s silken flesh. Even so, there turned out to be an abundant amount of chemistry between us as we made out in front of the fireplace. It was hot. When he went to touch my boob, I stopped abruptly and sat up.
    â€œI want to take it slow because it’s been years,” I said. “I haven’t been with a man in many years. But I haven’t been alone either. I’ve been with women, and I’m not sure I’ll remember what to do.” And before he had a chance to respond, I tackled him. I jumped right up on top of him and slid his shirt over his head in one swift motion, impressing myself. We made our way up to his room, and as he pulled my shirt up, I tried to get out of my skinny jeans, twisting and turning to peel them off.
When I went to lie down on the bed, he stopped me and placed a condom in the palm of my hand. I hadn’t practiced that part with Megan. I tossed it back at him.
    â€œI want to watch you put it on.” I fell onto the bed in what I hoped was a flirtatious fashion.
    And then we were having sex. And it felt good, and it was fun, and it was true what Megan had said: It was just like riding a bike. But his bike didn’t feel all that different from those of the women I’d been with—combine the right material with the right rhythm, and a dildo does the trick just as well. Sorry boys. We navigated each other like any two strangers would, trying this way and that, standing up, lying down, sitting up, spin me round. Sex is sex is sex. What was different from being with a woman was how he acted afterward. He pulled back the covers and we crawled underneath. Starry eyed, I shifted over to his side of the bed and flung my arm across his chest. He grunted, moved my hair out of the way, and rolled over to face the opposite wall. Me Man. Man No Cuddle.
    The next morning he woke me very early for a Saturday. He had to leave for work and offered to buy me brunch beforehand.
    â€œWe can take my scooter,” he said, beaming with pride. We headed outside into the brisk, bright morning. He was still cute in the glare of sober daylight. Phew.
    â€œWait here,” he said, jogging around the corner of the
building. I heard the sound of a motor revving. He returned