And, Like Any Doomed Quest

Angela was a sculptor who had wonderfully lean arms and biceps like wire rope from hammering out bronze sheets and chiseling stone. As a spreadsheet jockey, limited time on the Nautilus left my own arms flabby by comparison. No way would I ever arm wrestle her for anything.

That's what doomed the relationship, finally—my fascination with her arms. I wanted to stroke them, lick them, rub my cock over that corded muscle. She'd get angry and say, "My pussy's down here, Jed. Between my legs, remember?"

Oh, I remembered, all right. Terra too cognita. What I wanted was Unknown.