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September 4, 2004
The corduroy jacketed guy from the latest J. Crew catalog takes me for a brisk October drive through the countryside in his slightly battered red BMW 2002. The windows are open and the stereo is on, but not loudly enough to drown out the leaves's rustling all around us on our trip up to his Maine cabin, where later that evening he'll prepare the best Pad Thai I've ever eaten.

He reaches his right arm out for me, and pulls me toward him. We're a blur of wavy brunette hair, suede, corduroy, wool, and root beer.

This is my pornography.