D. the bisexual from Brooklyn told me about a party on Saturday, at her dorm at Pratt. I was at work, obsessing over some fine point of the project.

"What kind of party? Cool kids?" I asked her, by instant message.

"Yeah, cool kids. You need to wear a wig. I might be able to make you one."

I begged off, using my nagging throat cold as an excuse.

Truth is I'm not that attracted to her, curiously. She's got a great body, she seems to be a competent artist, these would seem to be the things that matter to me. But her tongue is too invasive in my mouth – we were kissing the other day and she kept parrying and thrusting with it and I closed my mouth a little, trying to discourage her. "Give me your tongue!" she said brightly and hungrily, as though she were addressing a waiter at the Carnegie Deli. I did, reluctantly, but the entire exchange left me woefully unexcited. She has naked lust, too much enthusiasm. I like restraint and friction, uncertainty and tension.