My bleary eyed ego takes one last sweeping swing between the id and super-ego before settling like a toad, a resting clammy hand on my shoulder… and I recall Swenson trying with all his might to turn me. A slip of a boy set against the great teutonic bulk of a sweating shemale, thrusting and grunting, links rechts, links rechts…, and all I could do was spin -dreidel dreidel dreidel…. Odd now to be a man fully formed from the silk of pastel sheets. As we know the id wants what it cannot have, the super-ego denies the want of anything at all. How such a thing does not die from doubt is a miracle, or something we cannot comprehend.