The second time he touched me was after I swore it wouldn’t happen again, yet I found myself in his home and following him to the bedroom. Unlike the ravenous beast I had unleashed from years of being pent up during our first encounter on my friend’s couch, this time he was slower, gentler. He took his time and touched me everywhere. We made love to Beethoven and held each other after. He fell asleep and I still wasn’t sure how I felt, except that I couldn’t say no to him or to the way it felt to have his every last shred of attention and approval. Being worshipped by a man is a dangerous thing, and I had already become addicted to it.