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When Patrick reentered the room I could not contain myself, and I was surprised at the nature and urgency of the words that spilled from me. “Patrick,” I said, my voice tremulous, “please, please, Honey, if you want me again go ahead. You won and my ass is yours to use. But if you’re done then please, please get my hands untied. Please.” I was afraid Patrick might use the opportunity to gloat and tease, but I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t. There was urgency in my voice he couldn’t miss. He responded with kindness. He leaned over me, brought his mouth to my ear. “You don’t need your hands,” he whispered. He got up from the bed and was back seconds later. I felt one of my dildos begin to enter my vagina. Then it was deep in me, my hips moving back to get as much in as I could. Patrick’s two fingers were on my clit again. They pressed and released, pressed and released, and I humped myself back against them. Moments later I started to cry. Not really. I wasn’t really crying. But. Taking everything on myself and trying my best not to show the jealously that had flared up so recently and so quickly that neither one of us had noticed it, I tried to take the edge off the message by titling it ‘Midnight Train to Georgia,’ and paralleling the lines of the Gladys Knight song of that title. I wrote that LA had proved too much for the man, which it clearly had, and that I was forced to leave the life I had come to know and to return to Georgia find what was left in my world. I made it sound like I was doing Ellen a big favor, which I probably was. Her world was expanding, my world was collapsing. It was better this way, I said. And I believed it was at the time I sent off the message. It was only later that I grieved almost beyond endurance. I tried to make it sound like my escape from failure was an adventure, noting the midnight departure on the Southwest Chief, the hours to Chicago, and then the same from Chicago to Washington on the Capitol Limited, and.
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