Like I said, I wasn’t that drunk, but I was still more than buzzed enough to just kind of go with it. I leaned into his touches, I got on top of him... I bit his neck. There was no part of it that I wasn’t participating in, even if a sober me would never have initiated that kind of thing. By the time we found a condom in the roommate’s night stand, I knew that this was only going to make for serious problems in the morning. The way he did everything showed — even if he was wasted — that he was. Fast forward now two years (this would be 1983)---At the time of the picnic conversation I alluded to above, I didn't know that my wife was involved in fucking someone else. That only came to light about six months after our divorce. I'd met the guy she was fucking, too, but I didn't know it. He was a slightly younger black guy by the name of Duane, who worked in the shipping-receiving department where my wife worked; and though I maybe should have been angry about that...strangely enough, I. More

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