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hair…and a beautiful thick cock…and, oh Lord, I am sorry!” She had struggled, unsuccessfully, to suppress another yawn.
    At one time I’d have thought that ‘cock’ fell into the same category as ‘lesbian’ or ‘gay’ but I myself, in the context of bed, talked about ‘tits’ and ‘arse’ and ‘cunt’, and in this regard Junie had insensibly followed my lead—as she had, indeed, in most others—so that these days there was no longer the least surprise on my part…nor, naturally, the slightest objection. But, even so, her yawn had warned me that I ought to cut back on the talk and proceed with the action. “Any particular requests?” I asked.
    â€œNo. You choose. Anything.”
    â€œLike your back massaged?”
    â€œLovely. But you’re doing all the work.”
    As usual ! The thought was involuntary. I felt ashamed.
    â€œI don’t mind that. Your turn the next time.”
    â€œI can’t think where you get the energy.”
    â€œRoll over.”
    She’d always said I had a talent for massage and, as I worked, she stretched beneath the arch formed by my thighs and burrowed down voluptuously into the mattress, sighing deeply. I kneaded and pummelled and felt my sweat breaking out. During a moment’s respite I turned the lamp on and she protested only feebly. As I moved slowly down her back I glanced from time to time into the mirror on her dressing table. I derived as much excitement from the sheen of my own body and the taut look of its muscles as I did from the increasing responsiveness of hers. When I reached the base of her spine I gave her bottom a couple of tentative smacks and finding she squirmed pleasurably beneath them gradually increased their power. Eventually I asked her to turn over. I pushed her legs apart and introduced my penis.
    And wondered how many millions of my brothers might be keeping me company. I rejoiced in it. Male solidarity. All those bums going up and down in unison with mine.
    However, it was disappointing. I’d been inside her for maybe less than a minute—to a count of merely twenty-nine—when I found it impossible to hold back.
    â€œI’m sorry, Junie. I’m out of practice.”
    â€œNever mind. So long as you enjoyed it. I did.”
    â€œBut listen.” By now I’d raised myself from the hips up. “It’s really wrong— and sad—that we haven’t made love for at least three weeks.”
    She smiled at me. She was pink and creamy in the lamplight. “So what are you going to do about it?”
    â€œI don’t know, I’ll need to cogitate.” I grinned. “Cogitation completed!”
    â€œGood. Do you know, leaning back like that, you look all glistening and golden and masterful up there?” She ran her hands across my chest, innocently tweaking dampish curls, then stroked my upper arms and shoulders. I felt myself begin to stir in her again.
    â€œAnd don’t I always?”
    â€œAlways,” she agreed.
    â€œShall I tell you the results, then?”
    â€œOf all that careful thinking? Please.”
    â€œGonna fuck you in the morning—fuck you in the evening—fuck you at suppertime… Yes, ma’am, kindly take note, ma’am. I hereby file intention of turning into the world’s greatest lover.”
    If she had replied, “But you already are,” or, “I think you’re practically there,” then the stirring might have strengthened into hardness. “Well, sounds all right to me,” she murmured.
    I withdrew. “I love you, Junie Moon.”
    â€œI love you, Samson Groves.”
    Then I gave her a parting kiss on the cheek and leant over and pulled out a wad of tissues. After we’d mopped up and she’d struggled into her nightdress she switched off the lamp. I turned on my side, away from her, and she snuggled against my