He stepped forward confidently and surely, the taste of alcohol on his breath, some residue memories still kicking around inside. There was the time she patted his shoulder gently at the restaurant. They had sex on a futon in new jersey, it was incredible. He still has the stings of her fingers pulling his hair by the roots. Slipping his hands around curves that were completely unrecordable by mathematicians. This was his dream. Back in the real world he had slipped on a checkered shirt and stepped outside. He was creating his own dream from scratch. He had nothing to go on. And no disillusionments, the alcohol had killed it. He was completely guilt free.
And nothings more dangerous than a brain with out inhibition.