Once, in her mid-20s, she sat in the middle of an old dirty sofa on a crowded porch. The porch itself was crooked, collapsing into the earth. And even though she wasn’t enrolled in college—had, in fact, never even applied to college—she sat there surrounded by college students, all of whom she considered friends. And—in that moment—she thought she was happy, but really, she was just drunk. Everyone around her sipped beer or slung back shots of rum as they chattered, and—even though she didn’t smoke, having herself never picked up the habit—cigarette smoke twirled about her head in wispy vinelike tendrils, making her dizzier than she already was.

Suddenly, in an overloud voice, she pointed at her boyfriend who sat on the armrest of the sofa beside her.

“He’s always jerking off,” she said.

Everyone on the porch laughed. He laughed too, with a comical sort of shrug, then took another long drag from his cigarette.

“It’s true,” he said as he blew smoke all around her. “I can’t help it! Sometimes I just wanna beat off, you know?”

“Once,” she said, “we fucked for over an hour, very hot, very intense—some of the best sex I’ve ever had! Then he said, I’m gonna jump in the shower, and I said, okay—even though I did have to pee—then I fell asleep to the sound of the shower running. Only when I woke up—maybe ten minutes later?—I really had to go. So I run to the bathroom and open the door, only the shower’s still running and the bathroom’s completely steamed—and there he is lying on the floor, prick bouncing in his fist!”

Everyone laughed again, even him. When the hoopla died down, he took one last puff from his cigarette, stubbed it out on his boot-heel, and said:

“And I said, what can I do? I can’t help it, I told her, sometimes I just need to beat off!”

“That’s not all you said,” she said, and the cigarette smoke stung her eyes so bad she could feel them begin to water.

“You also said,” she said, “can you not please shut the fucking door?”