The other evening Rachel grabbed my journal and started to read through the scribbled notes and character sketches. Ten pages in she found a description of a secret plan that might change my life significantly. She borrowed my pen and scrawled NO!! at the bottom.
Lucky she didn’t read a recent journal that starts with Note to self: do not make stupid mistakes and repeat lessons learned before age twenty-one.
On her last night in town a crew assembled at Jean’s flat to eat tasty food and drink lots of red wine.
It was an eclectic bunch of historians, linguists, barristers, mathematicians, immunologists, and artists, born in six different countries and most of us living far from home. There were no English people present until Paul showed up at two with an emergency supply of cigarettes, by which time we were all laughing uproariously.
Somewhere around three in the morning a fabulous boy turned to me and asked a technical question about (look away now if you are squeamish) fisting; someone else needed to know about female ejaculation and I found myself practically running a disease prevention seminar.
I never talk about the fact that I have a degree in health education, but lots of people seem to sense it.
My first job in that field? Teaching sex ed in a juvenile detention facility. When I looked younger than most of the kids in the classes.
It was nearly dawn when it was time to say goodbye. I offered good traveling wishes to Rachel and we embraced. She exclaimed That was almost like a real hug!