She only really remembered two of them: Joe's, god that thing was magnificent, and her husbands."Funny, how I can't remember anything else about Joe ..... was he blond? What did he do for a living? Just that cock is burned into my mind. All those others? They all just blend together. Did I really give everything up for something I can't even remember?" she pondered.Those parties and events.The trips and cruises.So many to keep track of.Arm candy for those men."Why can't I remember them as clearly. With another pair of tacks, I positioned his photograph above the condom and secured it in place, sitting back to admire the collection in its entirety.Two walls of the room were nearly covered from the waist up. I'd have to move onto the third soon. My gaze roved from photo to photo, man to man, recalling their qualities, their taste, preserved in the dangling cocoon of rubber beneath each. The French for condom is préservatif. In my own way, I was the embodiment of preservation.Tonight's man. More

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