He drops by on an irregular nightly schedule. Magnificent body with a huge span of wings. It’s the wings that are a bitch. Not easy fucking a guy with wings. Hands have to be strategic. Forget rolling over, me on top—his wings are way too sensitive. The novelty gone, I think of moths, insects, creepy crawlers—sci-fi nightmares. Near climax, the wings will unfold and flap in orgasmic fury. The air disturbance is unbelievable—like fucking a helicopter. And he’s so airy. More light than substance. I like a body with substance. Some mass inside and around me. Not that he understands. And I’ve tried explaining. Then moving. Several times, around town, to a new town, new country, subterranean. He’s a master stalker, more bird than man, his homing instinct supernatural, natural to me.