Ed’s cock does not look so different from the one he wore when we were together. In 1974 or so, we hitchhiked to Cortes Island in Canada. We slept in an old turkey shed one night. I went inside myself and inside Ed’s tender flesh, I sank my face into it, held him with joyful reverence, the fresh and musty scents—here’s luxury, here’s surfeit. There was straw on the floor, dead weeds poked through the cracks, and old calendars and newspapers from the Depression were pasted to the gray barn-wood planks. The mountain in the window had the same weak texture as the grain in the wood. Ed went into a trance. He luxuriated on his back, occasionally cooing, while my hand grew numb and my arm grew sore performing their seemingly hopeless task. Ed was going through a period of not wanting to come when we had sex in the morning. He liked to be held in my mouth for as long as possible. All my inner necessity drained into boredom and exasperation. I wanted to cry to heaven at the injustice, to lift my tired hands and face to the highest court: Where is my union contract, my forty-hour week, my coffee break? My tongue moved slightly or just pressed. It was like praying. He did not want to go beyond his self-control. After he finally came—an orgasm I knew almost as well as my own—and the jolts of pleasure subsided, he asked, round-eyed, “Are there still turkeys here?”