"How do you know?" I asked, irritated by his presumption, nervously curious. I wasn't sure I was what he thought I was -- wasn't sure what had been going on that night, beyond alcohol dulling my reactions and feelings. But I knew I hadn't been abused or violated. I hadn't asked him to stop, and I wanted to figure out why. "How did you know about me?” "I can tell," he said, and grinned. "With you, it was obvious.” He paused, added quietly, "You were begging for it.” A couple of hours later, we remained fully clothed, my face was buried in his pillow, and I was crying. He'd pinned me down so I couldn't move, and was raking his nails across what was exposed of my tank-topped back. When Richard first spotted the tears, he'd asked if I wanted a break. I'd said that it was okay, that he should continue, that I was fine. I felt myself fragmenting, desperation and terror and pain pouring through me in an unbearable, necessary torrent. I told myself over and over that it didn't hurt that much, but I couldn't stop myself from tensing, crying out. After a while, I found myself saying, "No." I felt him check himself, shifting his weight from my back. "Can we clarify something?” he asked gently. "Do you really want me to stop when you say no?” No, I realized, / don't, and something vital in my psyche seemed to snap. The tears overwhelmed me. I couldn't get an answer out through my sobs, but even if I could have, I haven't the faintest idea what I might have said. "We should take a break," he decided, and moved away. I'll never forget the relief -- and desolation -- I felt as he did. ok It was a long time later that I remembered: I had met someone like Richard, years before. It had been in spring 2003; the guy was thin and pale, dressing mainly in black. I hadn't once thought of him in a romantic light. I'd counted him a friend, but had only been alone with him once. We were in his living room, seated next to each other on dun-colored carpet. I couldn't recall how it started --