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all, let his skin
down. Do you monkeys underrate anything more than you do skin? Granted, you've got to be careful with taste - trial
and error being no way to work your way around the
flavours of a bathroom (as I found after swallowing a dab of
what turned out to be Gunn's verruca gel) - but with the
exception of the dangerously hot or riskily cold you should
be rubbing and dragging yourselves up against pretty much
everything. I spent an hour playing with the water in the
tub. Another two adding hot and watching my thighs go red.
Don't get me started on Gunn's towels. Nor the deliciously
cool thorax or throat of his bog, nor the boiler's lagging, nor
the velvet throw in the cupboard, nor the slick lino, nor the
warmed enamel of the tub after its water had spiralled away,
nor - I could go on, obviously.

    And in spite of all this, I still believe I would have made it
outdoors that first day had I not been ambushed by the most
horribly engorged erection I'll wager Gunn's pesky little
penis has ever entertained. Rather embarrassing to admit,
but there you are: a rod-on like the Unholy Poker of
Antioch.
    Naturally I got better at it, over the fourteen hours that
followed. It's in my nature, getting better at things. A
stunned and ham-handed debut it might have been (oh, I
found myself saying, between Popeye gurus and
Fontainesque pointwork, oh, oh, ooool hhh), but I've had all
sorts of wanks since: breathless, businesslike, vicious, enervated, feisty, playful, lingering, nuanced, crude, nasty,
hysterical, sly ... I don't believe I'm boasting when I say I've
had ironic, perhaps even satirical wanks. Shameful, the speed
of that particular assimilation. Dad hooked by state-of-theart toy. Dami this thin. What'll they conic up u'itli next?
    Let me be honest: I knew I'd have myself to contend with
in those first hours of incarnation. I knew I'd have my ...
appetite to deal with. You want to be cool. You want to he selective. You want - if you're possessed of even a shred of
dignity - to avoid the temptation to rush around perception
like a Sunderland lottery winner in Harrods. I remember
thinking, just prior to taking ecstatic possession of Gunn's
bathing corpse: What I really must avoid is making an
absolute pig of myself. On the other hand, that's quite difficult given that I intend to make an absolute pig of myself.

    The handjobs took me on a tour of the porn closet that
is Gunn's head. I'd expected to meet Great Lost Love
Penelope in there, naturally, since he spent so much of his
time remembering Her Voice and Her Smell and Her Eyes
and Her Soul and so on - but au contraire. Violet. It's heavily Violet. Violet being Penelope's problematic successor.
Quality grist to Gunn's fantasy mill in that, unlike Penelope,
she's not in the least interested in having sex with him -
chief aphrodisiac to our boy's libido. Violet's better-looking
than Penelope. That is to say, she looks less like a real
woman and more like a pornographic model.
(Pornographic models, Gunn knows from lengthy study,
have mastered the arousing art of looking like they're doing
it for money. One of the reasons he sticks (ahem) to magazines rather than videos is that too many of the women in
the videos seem bent on convincing the viewer that they're
doing it because they enjoy it; worse still, not a few of them
actually do seem to be enjoying it. Post-Penelope, anything
that focuses on the genuine rather than the fraudulent condemns Gunn to a depressing detumescence.) Therefore
Violet, who certainly isn't doing it because she likes it. So
much so that Gunn can't quite believe she lets him have sex
with her. Not that she often does, these days. Her sexual
availability has declined as her initial conviction that Gunn
was someone who'd be rubbing shoulders with useful
people has waned.

    I should take this opportunity to thank my host for providing the wank-addicted Lucifer of those embarrassing early
hours not