I angle my neck uncomfortably to avoid my face rubbing against the tiles. I catch a glimpse of him, busying himself over me, a large bird tattoo twitching on his right pec, right under the collarbone. Is it a bird of paradise? A peacock? A phoenix? This is obviously a man who revels in simple visual signification, probably identifies with one of these birds or has at one point in his life identified strongly enough with it to get it tattooed on his body. He has his mouth wide open as if in a song, which frankly seems inappropriate, even to me, and I am the person this man is currently fucking. His eyes are shut tight, creased with those sexy smile lines. I remind myself once again: he’s fucking me.

He utters a broken-up sequence of virile ‘huhs’ that sound suspiciously like porn. Animals don’t emit that sound in nature. Would someone like him consume so much porn that he’d learn to mimic it? Doesn’t he get laid all the time? Does he rehearse his sex cry in front of the mirror? I look at the crack in the tile and try to imagine him as a little boy, with braces on, dark hair he hadn’t yet learned to straighten, olive skin turned yellow by the lack of sunlight, long before he discovered tanning salons, before the Pilates and the weightlifting and the therapeutic blood cleanses.

It’s hard to think with him pounding me so hard from behind. The grunting never ceases, but now he adds something extra: a slap on my arse cheek. I hear the noise first, before I feel the sting. Again, I look sideways and see the underside of his arm flexing. It makes me think of the reclining armchairs we have at work, leather stretching with a creak as the foot stand snaps out of the bottom. Is his rhythm quickening? I think it is. I see the side of his calf muscle tensing. He leans in against me, his padded torso rubbing against the small of my back, my spine. His hands slide up and cup my breasts from below. Can he feel the exact sag of them, the weight, the stretch marks riding up the inner sides? He tries to reach my lips with his mouth, fails, settles for my right earlobe, and leaves a trail of saliva down the side of my jaw. His tongue is thick and rubbery. It rummages in my earhole, and then my ear pops, like when you’ve got water inside it. I tilt my head sharply to clear it. Which must startle him, because he stops mid-action. He freezes. Then he shouts:

‘I’m about to come!’