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care what form the fulfillment took, or how it looked, or what it meant. She was ready to accept that she had to have something inside her to complete her emptiness or go raving down the corridors of her want.
    But, at that very moment, he stepped back. She was left frozen in her posture, raw and ragged at the edge of her willingness to submit to anything he wanted to do with her, amazed that he was able so quickly to find just the exact switch to unleash the energies that had been so long suppressed in her. But then, he was one of the few great pornographers of the twentieth century.
    “Would you like some coffee?” he asked in a conversational tone.
    “Coffee?” she repeated stupidly.
    He smiled gently. “You’re beginning to get a bit carried away,” he said. He sat down next to her. “I must confess something to you. I’ve already had one heart attack, and I’ve been told that if I don’t watch myself, I could collapse at any time. According to my doctor, I shouldn’t even look at women, much less engage in these scenes, but if I have to give up sex altogether, I might as well be dead. So, I compromise. I indulge, but I pace myself.” Seeing the look of chagrin on her face he went on, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten or disappoint you, but these are the facts of life.”
    She looked at him with concern. He went instantaneously from a horrid but fascinating lecher into a tired old man with a bad heart. Mixed with his rank sensuality and his pictorial grasp of sex was his actual humanity, the fact that he was only a mortal. She felt a pang of empathy with him, and from that flowed the compassion which was to bring them together in friendship.
    She went into the kitchen to put coffee up to boil. He disappeared into his bedroom, and when he came out he was dressed in a satin dressing gown. They sat and sipped the hot brew in silence, each enjoying the relaxation of the moment. And after a while she spoke. “Does that mean we’re not going to…have sex any more tonight?”
    He laughed again, a sound that she was beginning to find heartwarming. “Not at all, young lady, we will almost certainly have sex for the next three or four hours. It’s just that when the fires burst from inside you, I’ll have to stand back from time to time and let you, as they say, do your thing. I won’t be able to meet you at the peaks of your ecstasy. But then, I will be here, quite sober, should you plunge from those peaks into valleys of despair and self-disgust.”
    She gave him a questioning, appraising glance.
    “Don’t try to figure me out yet,” he said. “Look upon me as a teacher, perhaps,” he went on, launching himself into his favorite image of himself, a kind of sexual guru to the nation, both in the books he published and in the private scenes he mounted.
    “It’s hard to switch from such wild letting go to such rational conversation,” she said. “I don’t know if I can get back into sex again.”
    He put his coffee cup down. “Come with me,” he said, and taking her by the hand led her into a small room that he had specially constructed himself. She felt like a child being led by her father into a garden of delights. The room was covered with photographs and drawings, and it contained a water bed in one corner, a leather message table in another, and row upon row of gadgets, the use of which she was unable to discern without a studied look.
    “Lie down there,” he said, pointing to the water bed. And when she did, she found herself staring into a mirror which had been cemented onto the ceiling. She had forgotten how she looked and was now rudely reminded, as her long legs kicked idly about on the undulating surface, and her cunt winked lewdly from around the edges of the garter belt. He knelt next to her.
    “Now let’s take this off,” he said, expertly unhooking her bra, allowing her breasts to fall out, thick, creamy, lush, tipped with purple nipples. His head fell toward and in a