She stuck the turkey with the thermometer and gave me a wink. I blushed. I’d told her a vague memory of having my temperature taken in the living room in front of all my cousins and how the embarassment and shame might have lodged itself in my fetish brain. I hadn’t thought about it in years, and probably didn’t think about it too much — it wasn’t really a fetish, and I’m not sure if I could really say I had one. Yes, I fantasized about being paddled by a matronly woman on occasion, and a trip down some alleys made me realize that being tied up in a big web of ropes might turn me on and calm me not unlike a cat under a blanket, but I’m never bored or unhappy with making love in whatever capacity, maybe if you told me I couldn’t bite the “cute” of her cheeks I’d be a bit upset.

I wasn’t very anal either. I enjoyed it a little, but maybe it was like having pancakes to me.

There was something about those old timey thermometers, how cold they were, the little bulb, and durable, how many generations could they last?

Later that night in my childhood double bed I took her from behind. I knew she was in that kind of mood so I gave her my thumb to suck and bite. I wasn’t even sure if she was conscious when she was in the mood for a second man in bed but I could feel the vibrations. Maybe sometimes I was just imagining it, but I was pretty sure I felt something when my cousin brought her new boyfriend the fireman. He was quiet like she liked. She came quietly out of respect for the house but I could hear her scream on my tip as her basin and cunt shook like giving life to the future.

The next day she play-acted begrudingly going shopping with my family while I stayed home. We didn’t have the money and she truly wasn’t a shopper but there was something about the collective insanity that was attractive to her. She liked large crowds where someone might get trampled or shot. I imagined that if she could choose her death that might be it. I don’t know why it gave me pleasure to think such things, but I sometimes did after we had especially good sex and were then parted. She knew my favorite sex was sex where I’d have to leave immediately after, it made me feel like I was a detective or a police man on beat and maybe I imagine she liked that as well.

Lots of imaginings. But still we hadn’t talked.

On the drive back home we took a side road and went walking in the foliage. It was her turn to feel my vibrations and she guided me into a little grove she seemed to know from somewhere and took me into her mouth with kindness. I looked up at the falling foliage and felt free. Afterwards I couldn’t shake the feeling that this would be a last. She didn’t speak a word as we kept driving, looking out the window in a dreamy fashion, and I regretted never asking her once this whole trip about how she felt about this thanksgiving without any of her family. At this point it felt past.

Sometimes I feel that I’m the maze and she’s the gardener making sure I’m trimmed at least. Sometimes I feel that she’s the maze and my job is to get lost but not to hate her for it, to hate her for what she is. Sometimes I feel she’s gotten out the maze and is quietly waiting at the exit for me while I’m inside enjoying the same old dead-ends.

I don’t know. If that’s the case I hope she’s patient enough to wait for me.