Over and over he brings me to the edge of the bed, those penetrating eyes, that penetrating hand drills into me until the pressure mounts and builds. I ask, “Are you into squirting?” and his eyes spin wild, “Only one way to find out.” His answer holds a supplication and an offer. They tumble from his mouth. I catch them both, and I deny them, holding water back. I will not test him. Better to let him wonder in the winter morning slush, still a stranger to the rush of springmelt flood. I am not his lab. I won’t be an experiment that fails.