I was dismayed to find Tom was right. It felt awkward and silly, and no matter how I tried, I couldn't come while we were arranged in those yogalike tangles. The only new thing Tom wouldn't try was going down on me. I stammered and turned crimson when I asked him for it. I would say that was the most embarrassing moment of my entire life, except it was even worse when Tom replied apologetically he had never liked doing that. It was unhygienic, he said, and he didn't really enjoy how women tasted. If I didn't mind, he would rather not. I said no. of course I didn't mind. I didn't want him to do something he didn't like.

But every time we slept together after that and I felt his hands urging my head down, I started to feel a little resentful. And then I felt guilty, because Tom was generous in so many other ways. It didn't matter. I told myself. There were other things we could do in bed. But the situation bothered me enough—it seemed I was missing some essential understanding—that I told Angie one morning before the salon opened. After making certain everything was set up for the day, the carts well stocked, the styling tools cleaned, we all took a few minutes to primp.

I was spritzing some volumizer in my hair, while Angie reapplied her lip gloss. I can't remember exactly what I asked her, something like had she ever had a boyfriend who didn't want to do certain things in bed.

Angie's gaze met mine in the mirror. "He doesn't want you to blow him?" A few of the other stylists glanced in our direction.

"No, he likes that," I whispered. "It's.. .well, he doesn't want to do it to me."

Her smartly penciled brows twitched upward. "Doesn't like eating tortilla?"

"Nope. He says"—I could feel red flags of color forming on the crests of my cheeks—"it's unhygienic."

She looked outraged. "It's not any more unhygienic than a man's! What a loser. What a selfish—Liberty, most men love to do that to a woman."

"They do?"

"It's a turn-on for them."

"It is?" That was welcome news. It made me feel a little less mortified about having asked Tom for it.

"Oh. girl." Angie said, shaking her head. "You've got to dump him."

"But...but..." I wasn't certain I wanted to take such drastic measures. This was the longest I'd ever dated someone, and I liked the security of it. I remembered all the revolving-door relationships Mama had gone through. Now I understood why.

Dating is like trying to make a meal out of leftovers. Some leftovers, like meat loaf or banana pudding, actually get better when they've had a little time to mature. But others, like doughnuts or pizza, should be thrown out right away. No matter how you try to warm them up, they're never as good as when they were new. I had been hoping Tom would turn out to be a meat loaf instead of a pizza.

"Dump him, " Angie insisted.

Heather, a petite blonde from California, couldn't resist breaking in. Everything she said sounded like a question, even when it wasn't. "You having boyfriend problems, Liberty?"

Angie answered before I could. "She's going out with a sixty-eight."

There were a few sympathetic groans from the other stylists.

"What's a sixty-eight?" I asked.

"He wants you to go down on him," Heather replied, "but he won't return the favor. Like, it would be sixty-nine, but he owes you one."

Alan, who was smarter about men than the rest of us put together, pointed at me with a round brush as he spoke. "Get rid of him. Liberty. You can't ever change a sixty-eight."

"But he's nice in other ways/' I protested. "He's a good boyfriend."

"No he isn't." Alan said. "You just think he is. But sooner or later a sixty-eight will show his true colors outside the bedroom. Leaving you at home while he goes out with his buddies. Buying himself a new car while you get the used one. A sixty-eight always takes the biggest slice of cake, honey. Don't waste your time with him. Trust me, I know from experience."

"Alan's right," Heather said. "I dated a sixty-eight a couple years ago, and at first he was, like, a total hottie. But he turned out to be the biggest jerk ever. Major bummer."

Until that moment I hadn't seriously considered breaking up with Tom. But the idea was an unexpected relief. I realized what was bothering me had nothing to do with blow jobs. The problem was, our emotional intimacy, like our sex life, had its limits. Tom had no interest in the secret places of my heart, nor I in his. We were more adventurous in our selection of gourmet foods than we were in the hazardous territory of a true relationship. It was beginning to dawn on me how rare it was for two people to find the kind of connection Hardy and I had shared. And Hardy had given it up, given me up, for the wrong reasons. I hoped to hell he wasn't finding it any easier than I was to build a relationship with someone.

"What's the best way to end it?" I asked.

Angie patted my back kindly. "Tell him the relationship isn't going where you hoped it would. Say it's no one's fault, but it's just not working for you."

"And don't drop the bomb at your place," Alan added, "because it's always harder to

make someone leave. Do it at his place and then you're out the door."

Soon after that I worked up the courage to break up with Tom at his apartment. I told him how much I had enjoyed our time together but it just wasn't working, and it wasn't him, it was me. Tom listened carefully, impassive except for the movement of tiny facial muscles anchored beneath his beard. He had no questions. He didn't offer a single protest. Maybe it was a relief for him too. I thought. Maybe he'd been bothered as I was by the something-missing between us.