The dragon on his arm seemed to climb from his skin to mine.
I wanted dragons. Big, wide, fire-red eyes. Red like the blood that pooled on my skin.
Nothing but sex. That’s what I expected.
Men, women. Cats, dogs.
Lizards. I learned somewhere, during my years of academic delinquency, that some lizards are parthenogenetic, meaning they are all female and thus the male of the species is obsolete. They might be the ultimate feminists, except that during mating season one female lizard assumes the role of the male for purposes of mutual stimulation. Thus, what might have been an example of ultimate feminism becomes, instead, an example of ultimate feminist capitulation.
But I am not a feminist. These issues should not concern me. I only remember because at the time, in ninth grade—maybe tenth?—the concept struck me as being cool.
In college, though, I expected less kissy kissy in the hallway and more in the way of actual fornication. That was the whole reason I went. My stated major of Engli…