She didn't dress provocatively, but her body made it so. She would wave and smile, sometimes say "Hello!" or a few times something more enticing like,..."Where do you get the energy?" Most days, by the time I got to her house whatever the run accomplished to abate my ardor, was undone by passing the gauntlet of her temptation. On this day, I was exhausted to the bone, except as I neared the house, that bone came to life like Pavlov's dog when the bell tolls. I dragged myself up the street; I. I still couldn't tell if she was crying or moaning.Why would she be moaning?I looked back at the white woman, who was every bit the age my mother was in the picture. I guessed the both of them were in their late teens, but had no clue where or when this photo really was.I flipped through the next few pictures, five in all. Each one of them similar yet more graphic than the other. One had her thrusting her hips up towards the stick with her mouth wide open. Another had the white girl sitting on. More

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