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fucked dozens of people. She’d been in love, she’d said, she’d fucked for love — what did I know about it? I’d had, at that stage, a total of five casual and unsuccessful sexual affairs. One of them was a brief encounter with a man, two of the others — with women — had only lasted one ugly night ... I had no rhythm, no grace. I couldn’t even dance. How could you fuck if you couldn’t dance?
    But as soon as my door was closed, Cynthia came alive. She reached up, pushed me back against the wall.
    We kissed.
    There was no emotion in it. My eyes were open and staring at her face. Our mouths were stretched, our tongues jamming in and out. It was grotesque. I was not fond of kissing. Either it was like this, grotesque, or it was something terribly tender. Something far more than sex, something that demanded sincerity. And I had real problems with sincerity.
    Why wasn’t I a man? Why was I worrying about sincerity? Why couldn’t I throw her down on the bed and be brutal?
    My body was the problem. My prick had no guts. It couldn’t take over my brain like pricks were supposed to. It couldn’t subject everything to the whim of the Lord Penis.
    It was too small, that was the problem. I had a theory. Desire was directly proportional to size! You needed something big to wave around, to inspire nausea and confidence. I had no chance.
    And her body was the problem. Women’s bodies were the problem. They did nothing for me, they were just flesh. It wasn’t bodies I got off on, it was personalities, indulgent personalities, fucked-up personalities, ugliness, fear ... the
situation
of fear. But even then, when it came down to the sex, something seemed to be missing.
    It didn’t matter. Cynthia displayed no great interest in kissing either. She pushed me over to the bed and threw me down. She might have been short but she weighed as much as me and was just as strong. We kissed some more and she wrestled me out of my jeans. I was erect, for what it was worth. I was operating, I was functioning, but the mind was still there, it wouldn’t shut up: What do I do now?
    But Cynthia was away. She didn’t bother undressing. She reached under her skirt, pulled off her panties and jumped straight on me. She jammed herself down. ‘Fuck,’ she said. She thrust away. Her eyes were closed. All I could feel was friction and pain. She wasn’t even wet. I grabbed her hips and held on. She threw her head back. ‘Oh
fuck
.’ Then she rolled off and lay there, curled up.
    I touched her back. ‘Are you okay?’
    â€˜I’m okay. I just came, that’s all.’
    It’d been no more than twenty or thirty seconds. My penis had barely even registered it.
    After a while she uncurled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘that was almost rape. It’s just that I haven’t done if for so long with a boy. I’ve been thinking about it for days. I’ve been so horny.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
    â€˜I thought you must hate sex.’
    â€˜It’s not that. I just haven’t managed to enjoy it much yet.’
    â€˜I can’t understand that.’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter.’
    She found her cigarettes and lit one. I took one of hers rather than roll one of my own. It was the first Winfield Blue I’d had for months and it tasted very good.
    â€˜One thing you should know,’ she said, ‘when I come, I have to do it alone. Don’t try to talk to me when I’m coming, don’t try to touch me or do anything to me. Just leave me alone. Okay?’
    â€˜Okay,’ I said.
    We smoked our cigarettes.
    â€˜Can we do it again?’ she asked, after we were finished.
    â€˜If you want.’

F OUR
    We woke late next day. There was an argument in the flat next door. The new tenants. A man and a woman. The voices were loud and angry but indistinct. I sat up and began coughing.