I do the regular blow job stuff, but I don't do my special penis-down-the-esophagus routine—which only an ex-bulimic could do—because I'm getting a sore spot on the back of my throat. Tano is extra squirmy because he can't figure out why his penis isn't getting in further. I tighten my grip to make sure spit doesn't get all over the sheets; if I'm going to work full-time and have a life, too, I can't be changing the sheets all the time.

Suddenly, though, I am overcome with grossness. Forget my throat. Tano's penis feels ridiculous in my mouth. I do some respite nipple-licking and continue to stroke his penis like he's got more coming, but really, he doesn't. I throw the covers off and go to the bathroom. I yell through Kleenex as I blow my nose. I feel vomitous, I tell him.

He says "That's okay," and he pulls me over to him so my head's on his chest and his fingers slither through my hair.

Which is how we're lying when the alarm goes off at 7 a.m. So I get out of bed and I run.