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The walk back to the BART station was downhill, and that was fortunate. I could see out across the distance, across the bay to the bridge and beyond. The trees were fully leafed in and the flowers were out, for spring was in full command. Rose bushes bloomed in many yards. The eclectic architecture of Berkeley impressed me because I'd grown up in the distant suburb, where every house was the same house, and every block was the same block. So I had lots to look at as I sauntered down the sidewalk made uneven by decades of tree roots and the shifting of the soil.

But my body felt like a limp noodle. Ms Brookings was done with me, and I was 'bout toast. I'd shown up for my therapy session thinking we'd be talking about how I'd gone wrong, about how I deserved those four years of military school as punishment. When I was 14 I'd borrowed the neighbor's Porsche to take my dying friend on a ride. Pressured by the state assemblyman who owned that Porsche, the judge wanted me assigned to a juvenile prison for auto theft, but my dad, the Colonel, cut a deal with him, and got me four years of discipline and social isolation in a military school instead of jail. I turned 18 and they finally released me. But my probation would last a year, and the counseling was part of the deal. I could survive that, but I didn't bargain on what actually happened at my second appointment.

Ms. Brookings took it upon herself to end my virginity. And she put me through a wringer. She set out to teach me how to be a patient lover, ...

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