It was just blissful. I wanted to surrender to it. To be with him, without any guilt or worry or awkwardness. Being with him felt so right right....

You're on the rebound, I sternly warned myself.

So what? I asked myself back. I mean, it's not as if I'm going to marry the guy. Can't I have some fun?

Well, yes, I suppose I could have some fun.

But at the same time, I can't be going around sleeping with any man who asks me to.

But, then again, this isn't just any man.

This is a nice, sweet man who cares for me-well, at least he seems seems to care for me, and I care for him. to care for me, and I care for him.

With a little shock, I realized that I did, in fact, care for him.

I mean, I'm not saying I loved him or anything, because that would be untrue. But there was something about him that touched me.

And I didn't want to hurt him.

But was I going to?

Did sleeping with him imply a commitment?241.

He did know that I was married.

He was fully aware of my feelings for James.

And maybe he didn't want a commitment.

Maybe he wanted to be with me because he knew that I was really with someone else and it would let him off the hook?

Oh Lord!

Traumaville!

Decision time.

I stood up and held him by the hand.

He looked at me questioningly.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Can I get you anything?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"What?" he asked.

"Laid."

But I only said it under my breath. I didn't want him to think I was terribly terribly vulgar. vulgar.

Because I wasn't really.

Not all the time, anyway.

I started moving toward the kitchen door, still holding his hand.

I felt so liberated and wanton.

"Where are we going?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Down the road for a drink," I told him.

I looked at him, and disappointment was written all over his face.

"I'm joking, you idiot." I smiled at him. "We're going upstairs." So we walked up the stairs, me leading the way, still holding his hand. With each step I took, I became more and more convinced that this was the right thing to do. We got to the top of the stairs and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

It was gorgeous. He felt so big and strong. I could feel the smooth skin of his back through his sweatshirt. He turned me around and steered me toward a door.

"My room," he said. "Unless you brought me up here to give you a tour of the house."

"That can wait until later," I said, barely able to speak with excitement and nerves.

His room was nice, so tidy that I knew, instantly-not that 242 I had ever been in any real doubt-that he had meticulously planned to get me into bed. Men's rooms are only ever clean the first time you sleep with them. Once you've had sex with them the place goes right to hell. It's as though the instant the relationship is consummated the man shouts, "Right, fellas, you can come out now!"

And out from under the bed appear armies of dirty underpants and sweaty socks and cups and plates and car magazines and hideous sweaters and pint glasses and sexist calendars and Stephen King books and damp towels and jars of Ben-Gay, all elbowing and clamoring and complaining loudly about the amount of time that they had to spend in hiding, and stretching and dusting themselves down and then draping themselves artistically on the bedroom carpet, delighted to be back where they belong.

"What took you so long?" a sock might shout cheerfully at the successful seducer. "Put up a bit of a fight, did she?"

"We thought we were stuck in there forever," a filthy pair of trousers might good-naturedly joke. "You must be losing your touch."

Adam eased my passage over the pristine floor to the bed by kissing me, so that I didn't have to march over and sit down on it, looking expectant and awkward.

No, he just kind of kissed me and sort of steered me across the room and, well, you know, we just arrived at the bed and as it was there, we thought it might be a good idea to lie on it, otherwise we would only have to go around it.

After a while he started to undo the buttons on my dress. And I put my hands under his sweatshirt onto the bare skin of his stomach and chest.

Very gently and very slowly, he unbuttoned my dress all the way down and started to take my clothes off.

It felt nice but weird. Weird but nice.

It had been a long, long time since I went to bed with someone for the first time, if you follow me. It was funny that he wasn't James. Not horrible, or unpleasant. Just, as I say, a bit funny.

I felt a bit awkward about my body, and about Adam seeing it. I wasn't exactly uninhibited at the best of times. I wasn't a great one for dancing around with no clothes on. It243.

was all right when I was with James. I had no problems with him. Eventually, that is. But even with him, I'd been very coy for ages.

Adam kept telling me that I was beautiful. He was so glad that I was there and stroking me and caressing me and holding me and kissing me.

After a while I completely relaxed. Call me old-fashioned, if you want, but for me there is no bigger turn-on than being told that I'm beautiful and being made to feel beautiful.

You can keep your fancy tongue work and elaborate hip swerves. Five minutes of flattery works a whole lot better for me.

After a good deal more of kissing and getting to know each other, if that's what you'd like to call it, it became obvious that the evening was heading in a definite direction.

Adam pulled himself away from me.

"God!" he said. "You're a witch, you're driving me wild, you're gorgeous."

I sat up a little bit and looked down at him as his hands roamed over my stomach.

I was so thankful that I hadn't eaten anything.

He was lovely. Such a beautiful body. And such a gorgeous face.

And such a nice guy.

What had I done to deserve this?

My eyes traveled down his chest, admiring his taut stomach, but I averted my gaze when my eyes moved down a little bit lower. How do I describe the state of play below Adam's waist without being overly explicit or overly coy?

It's very difficult to discuss having sex without being so crude that I sound like a pornographic book or without being so discreet that I sound like a repressed, uptight Victorian novelist who suffers regularly from va-ginismus and still calls her husband Mr. Clements after twenty-seven years of marriage.

How about if I just say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow?

Isn't that good? Discreet yet symbolic?

Offensive to no one but at the same time leaving you in no doubt whatsoever that Adam had a hard-on that could cut diamonds?244.

Whoops!

Vulgar, vulgar, vulgar!

Although while we're on the subject I might as well tell you that it was big enough to make me fear for the safety of the light fixtures if he made any sudden movements.

Which, naturally, I wholeheartedly hoped he would.

No, I'm only joking. It wasn't that big at all.

It was of medium size.

Neither alarmingly big nor depressingly small.

Just right, really.

Of course, there are some unscrupulous women who tell whatever man they're with that he has the biggest penis they've ever seen.

You know, quite simply as a matter of course.

They shrink back against the mattress and stare round-eyed with mock horror at the man in question and squeal, "Oh my! You're not coming anywhere near me with that monster of a thing. What are you trying to do? Screw me or batter the door down?"

Sneaky tactics.

Because of course the man in question is delighted. Believing himself to be in possession of a weaponlike member, he feels invincible and all man.

And gives them a seeing-to that they won't forget in a hurry. But you wouldn't catch me doing that.

Well, only very rarely.

And I also can't describe what was going on below Adam's waist because I can't think of a word that I feel comfortable with to describe his, well, you know, his...

Well, how can I tell you what I can't describe if I haven't got a word to describe it!

I mean, the correct word is, of course, penis.

But that sounds so clinical.

I don't think I'd like someone to say to me, "Oh, that's a beautiful vagina you've got there."

It's not exactly evocative or romantic, now is it?

Hardly the language of hearts and flowers.

And by the same token I think penis penis is far too reminiscent of biology lessons at school where a scarlet-faced substitute 245 is far too reminiscent of biology lessons at school where a scarlet-faced substitute 245 teacher hurriedly and scantily explains the human reproductive system to a room full of sniggering adolescents.

It's not a human-enough description.

But what else can I call it?

I know there are hundreds of words, but not one of them seems appropriate.

How about knob knob?

That one's currently very fashionable.

Weeeell, I don't know.

It sounds a bit functional to me.

Although then again, why shouldn't it?

Cock?

No, I don't like that one either.

For some reason I find it reminiscent of aging rock stars with London accents and horrible stone-washed jeans and long gray hair.

And worse again are the situations where the man has christened his member with a name. I mean, did you ever! Sidelong smirk from man, followed by wheedling noises.