The cane was smooth and burnished—natural bamboo, about two-feet long, treated with coconut oil, whose sweet, nutty scent mingled with the braided leather of the handle.
He handed the cane to me, eyes downcast, back slightly hunched, not in supplication exactly, but more, it seemed, from weathering the soft fist of time itself. I took the cane, feeling its impossible lightness, knowing the sharp, biting pain such an implement is capable of inflicting.
Desire radiated from him, along with a childlike exuberance that filled the dark space, dense with bodies, with longing, with the thumping bass line someone could easily have mistaken for a pulse.
His lips parted, mouth wide and wild as he waited for my answer.
My answer to a question I didn’t know had been asked.
***
I’ve written about being awkward at sex parties before.
In one essay, I detailed the many humorous scenarios I’d found myself in as an awkward sex partygoer, blaming introversion, social anxiety, and a general lack of game for m…