AFTER CAROLINE, DESPITE MY NEWLY DISCOVERED PASSION, the post-s*x repulsion happened almost every time. I’d sleep with a girl and then I’d want her gone. Instinctively, I’d pick the girls who were used to having to go. I suppose it was exactly like addiction: excitement, remorse. Confusion. Compulsion.
The girls I f****d asked no questions. They carried condoms in their purses. They always seemed happy if I asked them to stay the night, but they were also prepared to pick their clothes off the floor in the dark and let themselves out before dawn.
In college, these were the girls who published articles about how much they loved themselves and their curves, but they’d show an absolute disregard for themselves if I suggested a blow job in the back of the car. The next week they would march
