It started with grapes.  Grape started with a chat with Ms. Serena Blue about the modern LGBT movement, the flaccid backbone of the American Liberal Party and modern chick lit. I dropped the names of a few British poets (American women become soppy at even the thought of British accents), gave my best Hemingway reading, and untethered a feign blasé flick of the wrist to procure the wine. I did not plan to have the taste of yesterday, however sweet, on my tongue today, but I woke up this morning and discovered myself in my room lying next to a sleeping Serena Blue.

The room wasn’t spinning, but it did feel alive.  The smell of grape from the evening before was still lingering on the breath of the walls. The floor was haggard with a few bottles of wine, my favorite dinner jacket, a black dress, shoes and heels. The…