Actual physical sex seems so clumsy and awkward to me these days. My own nudity seems rubbery, numb, this pregnant belly and these thin weak limbs, this rough shock of pubic hair. Sex works much more smoothly in my mind. I never think of anyone but my husband, of course—that would be a real betrayal. I haven’t ever been unfaithful to Craig, and I wouldn’t. I always turn him into a stranger, though, when I do it: some guy I meet in a bar, or a library. He looks over at me and he just can’t help being excited by my huge butt (which I actually do not have).

So I do kind of secretly understand those gay men who say they just love to make it with strangers. I mean, I would never have the courage personally to go pick up someone I hadn’t even been introduced to, and I probably wouldn’t even like it, if it were real. Or maybe I would. But you know how some people are so disgusted with the idea of certain gay men and how they used to have sex with strangers before AIDS; who knows, maybe they still do, but not all of them do. In fact, the most solid couple I know, aside from me and Craig, are both men—Larry and Dennis, we had them over to dinner last week. They wouldn’t dream of picking up a stranger. I am totally non-homophobic—except of course when it comes to my sons, where it does make me mildly nervous, the idea of them being gay, but they’re not, I don’t think. It’s probably too early to tell, though you’d think I have an intuition.