So I went back to my car. The car had tinted windows and most people are occupied with getting their beach gear from their vehicles, too busy to notic... what’s going on inside one car. “I’ll just change here,“ I reasoned. So into the passenger side of the front seat I went. I wore my “beach day” clothes - cut-off jeans, my favorite t-shirt (a well-worn souvenir), and my cloth flip flops. As soon as I sat down, I kicked off my shoes, unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts and started pulling them. My life become one of memory and fantasy. Memories of days, nights, experiences, with Julie and Anne, and other women, some of whose names I could not even remember, some of whom I was surprised to realize I had known twenty or thirty years earlier, were incomparably more vivid than Lynn’s infrequent, wraithlike presence. I masturbated to those memories considerably more than I had sex with my wife. And I masturbated to rented videos, seeking out those which featured women who bore some. More

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