The problem with being “it” when we played Pleasure Island was I was always it. Okay, maybe not always, but mostly. Sometimes Logan was it, but Leila never was. Good as I felt after being it, and I felt very very good, I felt slightly guilty. My two favorite people in the world pleasuring me with uninhibited verve and joy and skill...

Except, except, except, after, with me wiped out with pleasure, immersed in a cocoon of well-being, on the verge of sated slumber, Logan and Leila, lying next to me, made love. And I couldn’t help feeling that was the main event. I was just an appetizer for them. Now the adults were fucking. Oh God were they fucking. And I, having been it, stranded on an island of myself, was powerless to participate. They fucked as if I weren’t there. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, me being there, helpless to do anything but witness their pleasure in each other, added to their pleasure.