’ She let go of my shirt and slid her right hand down my body, reaching my belt buckle before I could stop her. I grabbed her hand and held it, stop...ing her fingers from trying to unclasp my belt with my left hand. ‘I’m not here for you Liz.’ My harsh voice stabbed at the room, filling the corners with a gruff and dry voice, not angry or vicious, but truthful. In fact I was here because I couldn’t find a window in which to detach myself from her after I helped her out of my car. I was planning. But that morning, as she held a Battenburg-lace parasol in one hand and a Leica M1 camera in the other, she looked to me like the most perfect creature in all of God’s great creation. Even without psychedelics, the sex-centric mentality of my late teen mind was envisioning the erotic possibilities. Jillian and I lying on the beach, her skirts and petticoats askew, my fingers probing the moist, pleated folds beneath her panties. Groping in the backseat of my Dad’s ’57 Chevy, her tiny hands. More

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