Activity

We went to bed. We went to bed in that grownup way – you know, as if it were just the next thing. No mood-qualifiers or tone-deepenings, no goatish grunts or frisky yelps and giggles, no props, brandy, brothel gear, thongs, thumbscrews, third parties. She stripped swiftly. Her pants are pretty tale…

Martina stood silent on the terrace, in T-shirt and useful shorts, one arm akimbo as she trained her hose

they have what men call self-belief and blame you for your misprisions in their dreams

You have to queue, and pay good money, to mingle with vituperative interpreters and flashlight-faced Japanese

You won’t believe this. It’s the damnedest thing. Suddenly, it seems, half the girls in New York want to get in my pants – yes, my pants, the winded Y-fronts with the slack elastic. Is this success? Is this money? Is this promotion, the light shed by Martina Twain? Loafing around at the Blithedale,…