They say a woman is made of water, and after today, I knew that old proverb held more truth than I ever imagined. The tavern proprietress was far more assertive than I had anticipated; "assertive" was actually a polite understatement—she was ravenous. It was as if a dam had burst inside her after years of drought.
Throughout the entire encounter, she was feverishly accommodating, guiding me with a practiced hand and rhythmic movements that made me feel like a novice driver behind the wheel of a high-performance sports car. The friction was intense, a raw collision of heat and skin that sent trickles of perspiration and slick fluids down my thighs. We remained locked in that precarious position on the edge of the wooden table, our bodies creating a rhythmic, earth-shaking thud that echoed
