The Historian e-mailed me what she called “marginalia” – her contemporaneous journal entries from the weekend in question (almost two years ago now). I recall everything she writes vividly, but still, it’s jarring to read it in her words – both because her perspective at the time was not mine (her frustration at my complete control of my orgasm, for example, is palpable in her writing) and because as time proceeds, my memories shift.
Her writing reminds me that we didn’t go straight to the hotel after I picked her up, for example: we went to some ridiculous South Beach dancing/drinking scene. We watched the beautiful people, and they turned us on.
Then we went back to the hotel and ripped each others’ clothes off. I learn from reading her account that I kissed and bit her nipples, that I touched her clit and fingered her cunt, that I went down on her, that I didn’t stop after she came.