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(First of all, thanks for the comments and insights everybody. I'm having some trouble with sending replies via email, though -- I'm hot to talk with y'all, but the old machine keeps on blowing my replies back to me. Sorry!)

I have the last part of Judith's story in my hands. The papers are shaking. Part of me feels the kind of rage that makes a guy run off to Marvin's Milk and Magnum .44 Corner Store to cop a Saturday night special, then pop a cap in the ass of the bastard "that done stole ma wife." Another part of me -- the part that sees the bigger picture, and that knows how close to the edge of erotic insanity almost every one of us is all the time -- is curious, pleased, excited. Some of you think I'm punking out with all this, or that I'm supposed to want forgiveness, revenge, or some sort of grand closure. But I've been thinking about it long and hard, though, and I really think I'll need a lot more time to sort it all out.

Judith writes... When Jerry came back to our place, it was just past six. We didn't say anything more than "hi" and "have a good day?" and stuff like that for about ten minutes. He washed up, and I spent some time on the couch reading a book. You'd said you were going to be home by 10 that night, Tommy, and 12 or 1:00 at the latest. I kept thinking... that gave Jerry and me about three hours to do as our desires were beckoning us to do. But I also kept thinking, "Please just let me hang on for another four hours, and Jerry would be out of my ...

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