Still and all, this is a curtain raiser before getting down to the real point of the visit: the Murphy bed in the bedroom has already been swung down out of the wall (“A real bed takes up more than half the space, to fold it into the wall is a lot more economical”). But it’s not so simple, the structuring of sex uses Bele Bachem’s corseted debauchee as a model, her claws dig into my hand as it tries to sneak under the sweater (“You little thief, you!”). After some rather intricate fiddling, the brassiere finally snaps open, her eyes deepen, she painfully bites my earlobe, then I’m promptly sucked into the maelstrom of a four-minute French kiss, no sooner can I draw my breath than the struggle with the girdle begins, but no (“I can’t just undress like at the swimming pool and spread my legs, dear, there’s no excitement in that”), first stocking after stocking must be detached from the complicated garter-belt mechanism, rolled down individually from each thigh, a kiss in the hollow of the knee (which she has artfully slung around my neck: “Trying to drive me crazy again, are you!”), and in order to get to the girdle again, I require some unwinding (Laocoön), pulling it down is then relatively easy (at least no harder than a rabbit skin), it comes rustling off the already damp buttocks, their notch feels marshy, a peat bog burial ground, one heartens oneself with amorous truisms (une femme qui ne mouille pas—c’est comme un homme qui ne bande pas). Ramming my right middle finger in all the way up to the proximal knuckle (my hand trapped between iron thighs: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Want to make me nuts!”), I can finally think about unbuttoning myself (while sucking on one of her nipples: “Oh yes, that feels good, dear!”). For the actual act of love, I then have to carry her like a kill into the Murphy bed (“Just feel those springs under the mattress, dear—chrome steel, it doesn’t rust so easily”), a frivolously added-on cliché (“If you don’t rest, you don’t rust”) entangles me once again in the breathtaking thoroughness of one of her kisses: what follows is of the highest technical perfection, with something of the glistening enamel industrial-product luxury of the magazine ads, it aims at one’s happiness, which is suspended from a safe interest rate and full-coverage insurance (“Make sure that the excitement curves meet harmoniously in the culmination points!”); all the positions shown in sex manuals are tried out, the accompanying moans have an ad-copy character (“Just see if you can find anyone who’s better than me!”), any original features that break through aim to stimulate (“Trying to fuck me to death, are you?”), and the aimed-for fulfillment has psychologically remote-controlled dimensions (“Yeah—now—yeah—baby—give Mama everything!”).