We interrupt the recent barrage of pieces about sex by queer men and pieces about sex by queer women and pieces about sexual harassment by straight women to bring you an instance of a much older literary form: a piece about sex by a straight man. Specifically, about casual, deceitful sex within a group of friends. It begins:
My freshman year at Lewis & Clark College—a glorious hippie wonderland—I dated this little flower child named Kristen. Not her real name. What I liked most about Kristen was that she lived down the hall from me. If she'd moved to the other side of the dorm, I'm pretty sure that would have been the end of us. Profoundly earnest, Kristen had a narrow avian face and a fragile little sparrow chest. Listening to me, she'd tilt her head and bunch her mouth, as if rapt, but her wide blinking pigeon eyes revealed emptiness inside.