I should be enjoying this more than I am. Look at X – the diligence, the enthusiasm, the technique – there’s little to fault. Although it is hard to tell from this angle. If I can just stop thinking for moment, stop writing these lines across the ceiling, then I will let pleasure in, I can be like a movie star, drenched in passion from the moment lips brush skin, yes, that’s the answer.

Two, Four, Six, Eight, Ten, Twelve – too easy. Seven, Fourteen, Twenty-One, Twenty-Eight, um, Thirty-Five, God, Forty-Two, God, that’s Forty-Nine, good, that’s good that’s Fifty-Six, I’m not making any noise should I make a noise?

Damn.

I make a noise of pleasure, a breathy groan, which to me sounds false but X doesn’t seem to notice. Actually, X is making more noise than me. I’m not breathing again. The duvet is ruched up around X’s back, half covering my legs. The only sounds in the room are the sounds of mouth and skin. I make the breath groan again.

X is beautiful. X is my ideal. I should be going down on X. But if we stop now it’s such an indictment. Oh stop being such a martyr. You’re being gone down on, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? Sevenfourteentwentyonetwentyeight God damn shit it’s no use. The trouble is (and this is not an original thought, I have thought this many times before, lying here with lovers attending) that going down on someone is pretty much the most attention you can pay to a person. Hold my hand, and my head is filled with the thoughts of my hand. Go down on me, and my entire body gets wired up to the central cortex of my brain.

My right nipple is erect. Just the right. I wonder how often this happens?

I need something, a magnificent distraction, something to carry me free of the wheel of myself, like P could, what was it about P and where did they go, god damn now P, actually P made me feel like I’m feeling now, oh lord just breathe yes just breathe and oh lord, moan, a real moan, but I thought about P not X oh who cares and --

***

Well, that was close. The doors were open, but in my desperate enthusiasm to reward X’s skill and technique (and, let’s face it, have this over with) I rushed towards them and I got so tense and suddenly I was outside myself watching this strain, this nine-to-five diligent effort for pleasure like I was constructing a fucking Excel spreadsheet. When did I forget how to let go? But, it was good, it was really good, and X is really good and I’m happy, and --