“Sure you will, Bobo. The minute I close this door, you’re going to grab that magazine and lock yourself in the bathroom. I know all about men.” She winked. “What a waste,” she sighed. “What a waste.”

She stepped outside and closed the door. I waited. The door opened again.

“Yes, Lila?”

“You knew I’d do that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Lila.”

“See you later, Bobo.”

“See you, Lila.”

She closed the door again. I could hear the cart squeaking down the corridor.

I slipped out of my shoes and took the magazine and brochure and leaned against the headboard of the bed.

Lila had not exaggerated about the centerfold. The picture was of a man with an enormous, erect penis, a blood-purple blush covering its gleaming head. He was sprawled awkwardly across a young girl clothed in a gown from the waist up. He had his left arm around her neck and shoulder, and his right hand was under her left thigh, pulling the leg up to reveal her vagina and the glistening mat of dark hair. In this position, his penis was about to penetrate her. In the background, as though suspended by wires, was an image of Elvis Presley standing in a garden.

I laughed. Someone at the magazine—or a freelance photographer—had a sense of humor. The pose was an imitation of a famous Japanese painting from the eighteenth century. I remembered it from a college art class taught by a shy, nervous man named Winfred Reed. I remembered the swimming giggles of embarrassment as Winfred Reed attempted a serious discussion of the painting’s composition as we stared at the slide in a darkened room. He talked of its lines and its symbolism, its historical social message. It was, Winfred Reed, explained, the story of a young girl—a student, perhaps—being taken by an older man in permissive sexual abuse. There was persuasion, trickery, hollow promises in the scene. Not once did he mention what everyone was staring at—the penis-beast. The name of the painting was Lovers in a Landscape Garden.

I thought of the stockbroker and the judge’s wife in the pose, imagining themselves as the couple of the centerfold, playing at power and submission, playing at the joy of conquering and being conquered.

I heard Lila say, “… you couldn’t lock me out of this room with the CIA standing guard.” And for a moment, a flash, I saw myself in the same pose with Lila. She had been close to the truth about my sex life. It was not dead, but it needed more passion than acts of habit can provide.

I closed the magazine and tossed it aside, then picked up the Jews for Jesus brochure and scanned it. The rationale of its message had been carefully defined—ancient cultures stitched together with select threads of Scripture. There was urgency and joy, begging and celebration, in the words.