The room looked comfortable, attractive. I sat on one of the chairs and watched her flitting about like a shadow. I presumed that I was sleeping here beside her in the bed. I did not ask. I said nothing. When she went into the bathroom, I sat back and listened to the sound of the shower. I imagined her soaping herself. I took off my shoes. When she came out she was naked. In the lamplight her breasts were much larger and stranger than I had imagined. They hung down like ripe pears; all the bottom part was nipple. I wondered if many women’s breasts were like this: the breasts I had seen in films and magazines seemed floppier and lighter; the nipples were different. Susan’s breasts looked as though someone had shaped them, sculpted them.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked.

I stripped and crossed the room and went to the bathroom, which was full of some fragrance she had been using. The mirror was steamed up so I could not look at myself. I had a shower and then dried myself with the fresh white towel which had been left on the rail. My mind was full of questions: what would Donald say if he found that I was sharing a bed with his wife? did Susan have many lovers? did she know that I had only been with men? did she suspect it? I walked out of the bathroom, turned off the light, and closed the door. I went across to the other side of the bed and got in beside her.

“Did you ever think of putting one of your metal grilles across the middle of the bed?” I asked her.

“You think we’re insane to have so much security?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.”

We moved toward each other and embraced. We remained still and said nothing. Her face was buried in my neck. Her skin was perfectly smooth and soft. I ran my hand up and down her back and then I cupped my hand over her breast. She held her breath and then put her hand on my hand. I took my hand away and moved my face to her breasts and began to kiss her nipples. I put my hand between her legs and felt the soft wetness there. I could smell the moist sweetness which came from her. She was excited. I could feel it in the way she responded and gripped me and kissed me. I waited for the moment when she would reach down and put her hand on my dick. I waited with fear because I knew that my dick was soft. I wondered if I carried on, would it become hard? If I imagined that I was in bed with a man, would I get an erection? I was masquerading, imitating what a man does in bed with a woman, but it was not working. The more I thought about it, the more tense I became. I felt powerless. I fondled her body, caressed her warm skin, but it was like playing with a child, it meant nothing to me: there was no excitement, none of the effortless satisfaction and pure pleasure and sense of ease that I got from being in bed with a man. There was something inside me, something unknowable, mysterious, lurking in the spaces within me which no one could touch, something desperately real and exact, which made all the difference, and meant now that this beautiful body beside me did not excite me and my penis lay limp.