As I dispose of the condom, I curse the damned latex cock-strangler. I hate coming in those things under any circumstance, but this time it was a damned travesty. I hated having the barrier between myself and Adriana.

Look, I’m not a cuddler, or a bring-my-lady-flowers-every-day type. All right, that’s mostly because I don’t have a lady. Well, not for more than a few hours at a time, and frankly, I generally don’t like to spend time with them after fucking. But then, this wasn’t fucking. That word is crass. But that’s what it is, isn’t it, when two mutually attracted people hop into a loo and do the nasty against the wall, or find a secluded Paris alleyway? No need for cuddling then; just a quick wipe of the mouth and an awkward exchange of faux numbers.

What I’m trying to say is that Adriana is different. The moment I first touched her I wanted more of her. I wanted inside her mind as well as her body. To press my head to her chest and listen to her heart, because it probably sounds like music. Something in that woman is special, and her magnificent tits are only the tip of the iceberg, as it were.

To reduce her to a physical entity is to render her a disservice, though. There’s a beauty in her soul that I want to possess, to steal and to hold to myself. I knew it when I watched her smile in that airport bar, that lovely curl of her lips, the excitement in her movements. She’s not like other women I’ve known.

But it doesn’t really matter. Because in a few hours we’ll get off this plane, say an awkward good-bye and be done with it. I won’t see her again, not unless she brings up the memoir, and she probably won’t. The magnificent woman probably doesn’t want to write the life story of a man who just introduced her to the mile-high club.

No. She’ll wander off alone to discover the beauty of the Parisian landscape. She’ll be worshiped by every Frenchman who sees her, every tourist, every waiter. Someone else will perhaps be fortunate enough to experience what I just did, but horizontally, slowly, lovingly. He’ll manage to sustain the sensation and it won’t be reduced to a cheap bit of quickie sex. Oh, to be that man. It actually hurts me to think of another man’s mouth on her. God, when has a woman ever caused me actual pain?

Adriana thought I was laughing after I came because of the turbulence and the flight attendant. The truth is that it was because I felt so damned happy in that moment. I felt so right, so good, so comfortable, so aroused, so fucking perfect, tucked so deep inside her, those loving arms of hers engulfing me. Who wouldn’t let out a laugh of pure joy amid such a tangled web of bliss?

After giving my cock the requisite wipe-down I zip up and walk quietly towards our seats. Adriana stands to let me by and greets me with a shy look, as if she’s wondering if I regret what just happened. Wondering if I’ve lost respect for her, or if she should be ashamed of herself.

Hell no, you luscious queen. You should be so fucking proud.

When I’ve fastened my seatbelt like a good little boy, I reach over and take her hand in mine. She probably thinks I’m doing it to reassure her, but no. It’s to reassure myself. She’s still here, at least for now, and that’s all I need.

“I’m glad we did that,” I whisper, leaning towards her.

“Me too,” she replies, “at least I think I am.”

Silence. Awful, painful, icicle-cold silence. After a time she leans down and pulls her backpack from under the seat in front of her. She yanks out some papers and starts to look over them tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the taste of her. I want more Adriana.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing towards the papers as if it’s any of my business.

“Information about my apartment,” she says. “And some other stuff. Someone’s meeting me at the airport to drive me into Paris, apparently. They’re going to take me to my place. It’s all set up by the agency.”

“What about tour guides and such?” I ask. “Will someone show you around the city?”

“Not sure. I guess I’ll find out when I get there. I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest.”

“Ah,” I say stupidly. “I could show you…” I stop. I was about to offer to walk her around Paris, but that would be foolish. A few minutes in an airplane bathroom does not make us a couple. “I mean, I could mark some sights, if you have a map.”

“It’s okay. I sort of know what I want to see.”

“You have a list, then?”

She issues me a smirk. “More or less,” she says. “All I know is that the Eiffel Tower had better be as tall and erect as they say.”

Saucy little cat.

“It’s not that impressive, though it’ll no doubt grow significantly in your presence,” I say, my cock doing a twitchy dance in my trousers.

Adriana’s eyes look into mine and for a moment I wonder if we’re going to begin our dance all over again. But she holds back, disciplined woman that she is.

“Anyhow, I should…” she holds up the papers, conveying a desperate need to read them.

“Yes, of course.” I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Sleep, I tell myself. Sleep and try to separate yourself from her. It’s what she wants.

And it’s what you need.

* * *

Adriana

I stare at him for a second. Is he asleep? Maybe.

Probably.

I guess he’s a roll-over-after-sex type. But it’s for the best; I don’t want to talk about what happened in there. It was too intimate, too real to have shared with someone I barely know. When I had my arms around him, when he was so far inside me, I felt something more than just sex. I felt connected to Conlon, a man I’d looked at with scorn just a few hours ago. He did something to my chest; opened me up, somehow, to a feeling I thought had died a long time ago.

I was with Roger for all of six years. Six years of good and bad. We were best friends at the start, but at some point along the way he became someone I didn’t know. In the end, I didn’t love him. I didn’t even like him that much.

But in all our time together, he never once stirred up the sort of excitement I’ve felt for Conlon in the few hours I’ve known him. The guy I rejected in the bar at JFK is my lover now—or rather, he was. He excites me, but not just physically. He’s a genius, for one thing. He’s clever and kind. And my God, that orgasm. I feel like all the drugs in the world have been poured into my bloodstream and I’m going to be riding the high for a very long time.

But however great this all sounds, it’s not good. Because every high is followed by a low. There’s gonna be a crash, and I won’t like it. In a few hours we’ll get off this plane and go our separate ways. There’s no way I can work on this guy’s memoir now, not after that.

Damn it, I vowed not to get involved with men on this trip; this was supposed to be a celebration of my independence. And now I’m sitting here, my heart racing, analyzing my damned feelings for someone I’ve only known for a few hours. Trying to guess what he’s thinking. Trying to piece it all together like I can somehow make sense of what’s happened.

How do men do it? How do they shove things so neatly into tidy little compartments and get over everything as soon as it’s happened?

Stupid question. I already know the answer:

Men are made of stone.

And I need to learn to turn myself into that substance, stat.