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He was tall and lean doom 3 and ran like a jock but he wasn't a jock. And though it may be a very unPC thing to say, he had an ass like a black guy: that slightly protruding curve at the top, the delicate swoop out and around, full and firm and circular. He kissed in that strenuous, far-reaching, all-consuming kind of way, the kind of way that made you feel like if he couldn't keep kissing doom 3 you forever doom 3 and ever that he'd rip out his tongue and throw it on the ground and pound it flat with a shovel. Erik and I were a whirlwind from the getgo. It was early September at our crunchy college in the middle of Ohio and it was like already everybody was antsy. I can't honestly say how he ended up hanging off the back of my old station wagon, feet on the bumper, hands gripping something grippable on the back door, with me, wide-eyed and sweaty in the driver's seat, hands white-knuckling the wheel, my foot pressing down on the gas just a little harder by the second.
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