The first time we had sex it wasn’t like it was in books and movies. Nothing choreographed, nothing seamless. We’d gone back to my apartment after spending the afternoon at the museum and a quick dinner of sushi and wine. He couldn’t open my bra strap and I had to reach back myself and unhook it while his lips kissed a line across my collarbone, and he moaned like he was already inside of me. He didn’t shove his dick in my mouth and tell me to take it while I gagged and pretended to like choking on a cock. He touched my body reverently, like it was made of something breakable—glass. It was like he’d never seen breasts as beautiful as mine, a stomach as beautiful as mine. My legs were one of the Seven Wonders of the World to David Lisey. I watched him experience me and I was both fascinated and wary. His face a mixture of pain and anger that I didn’t understand until l asked him about it later.

“I was angry that other men had touched you before me. I was trying not to lose my shit.”

Was I angry that he’d been touched by other women? No. I wasn’t the type to care about the past. I knew that most women were jealous of ex-lovers and past relationships, but that wasn’t me. My friend Ann, upon hearing my life story, told me I’d never been in love. But she was wrong. I’d been in love more times than I could count. At the time, I’d argued that I’d fallen hard for all the men I’d been with, I was just the type of woman who knew when it was time to move on.

“That’s the thing, Yara,” she’d said to me. “There is no moving on when you’re truly in love. You try and you keep trying, but that love is a stain on your life. It’s just not that easy.”

Sex with David had been different. There was a sincerity in the way he touched me, an honesty and openness. Many men had taken me, proven their expertise, left bruises on my body and tingling in my limbs. It had been a big show each time, the way they wanted to impress rather than being impressed. No one had kissed my nipples with such reverence. No one had slipped a finger inside of me and moaned in pleasure. This was what it was like to be worshiped.

After, we lay separately staring up at the ceiling. One of his hands was under the sheet on my upper thigh, hot and weighted. I liked the feeling and detested it at the same time. You shouldn’t grow to like the feel of a man’s hand on your body because it would soon be gone, and then what would you do? Cry yourself to sleep every night like my mother? Both of my hands clutched the sheet to my chest as my eyes moved rapidly over the ceiling. I looked over at David and he was staring at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked. Was I blushing? That would be embarrassing.

“Tell me about your boots,” he said. “The ones you always wear.”

I pursed my lips and crossed my eyes. “Everything isn’t a story, David,” I said. “They’re just boots.”

“Maybe you don’t think the simple story of your boots is important, but it’s the simple things that tell the most about our complexities.”

His interest in me felt like a burden. If he dug too deep, he’d come up empty-handed.

“Humor me.” He reached out and touched a piece of my hair, lifting it between his fingers and tugging.

I sighed, but I was already in compliance with his request, pulling from my memory the story of the boots.

“When I left England and came here to America, I started out in New York. Everyone’s dream, right? To see the great city of New York.” I laughed at myself remembering, but he only nodded. “The only pair of shoes I brought with me was a pair of sandals. It was summer and I figured I’d buy what I needed when I got settled. Anyway, I got a job in a restaurant in Manhattan and of course, I had to buy a pair of those terrible non-slip shoes that restaurants often require. So then it was just the sandals and the ugly restaurant shoes. I got really depressed that fall. It was a combination of missing home and not being able to find my place in New York yet. One day I was walking to work with my head down, thinking about what an awful failure I was, when I looked up and saw these boots in a shop window. They were badass, tough—you know…” I glanced at David and he nodded like he knew exactly.

“So, I marched into the store and bought them. Except they were four hundred dollars and took every penny in my bank account. But, I didn’t care. I was convinced the boots would make me tough. And I’ve been wearing them for a year now and they show no signs of wear. Best four hundred dollars I ever spent, even if I had to eat every meal from the free salad bar at work for the next month.”

David rolled onto his back and now it was his turn to stare at the ceiling.

“And you didn’t want to tell me that story,” he said, shaking his head.

“Are you going to write a song about it?” I teased. It was a joke, only a joke, but he nodded seriously.

“Yes, probably.”

I rolled my shoulders and stretched, suddenly embarrassed and wanting to change the subject.

“Did all that great sex put a kink in your neck?” He was leaning up on his elbow all of a sudden, his eyes mischievous.

I laughed and put a hand over his face to push him away. He kissed my palm and then fell onto his back. We were playful together. It didn’t feel like work to be with him.

“I’ve not been worshiped that way before,” I told him, half joking and half serious.

I rolled on top of him to distract him from my outlandish statement, pressing my nose to his.

“That seems wrong,” he said, his voice husky. “Something as powerful as you.” He reached up to knead my behind and I closed my eyes and buried my face in the crook of his neck.

“Again,” I said. “Let’s go to church again…”

He grabbed my thighs and moved them apart so that I was straddling him.

“Open then,” he said. “Let me in.”