In an adulterous wet dream I am seduced by an older, married woman. Her wiles succeed in large part because she grants permission to penetrate without demanding application of latex prophylactic.


I enter the gym, run precisely one stationary mile, and exit. Lightweight that I am, this mild trial intoxicates: a half-shot of endorphins pours over my brain and persuades the muscles at the ends of my lips to lift me into a complacent grin. I revel in the center of a collar of sweat. Dormbound, I walk slowly; I am ruddy and unkempt, and know it. I encounter friends along the way, and they know nothing of the petty magnitude of my exertions, but my appearance presumes physical rigor and I can sense admiration in their eyes. I neither correct nor apologize.


My parents have more influence on me than I like to admit, and this especially manifests itself in my willingness to engage in vice. I first smoked both hookah and marijuana because my mom admitted she had. After my father confessed that he sometimes went to sleep without brushing his teeth, I followed suit. My moral compass is attuned to the magnetic fields of filial morality.


As a younger teen I was aware of the existence of condoms but lacking sexual education in my schooling and other life I had no conception of what they looked like. I was also aware that condoms were an item one might expect his father to possess so on vacations I looked out for strange small plastic contraptions in my dad’s overflowing toiletry bag when it sat in plain sight on our shared hotel bathroom counter. There were blue stringy and loopy thingamajigs that caught my eye and triggered my imagination as to how they might function prophylactically, but I soon discovered that my speculative investigation was way off base, the contraptions in question belonging to the realm of orthodontics or dental hygiene and certainly not urology.