Alas, that one can never come within distance of such moments with mere words. Long have I practised such in my diaries, yet ever despairing of describing even the touch of lips to one's own in a manner that will communicate to the reader-even to myself. I who hold the dear memories of a thousand such moments of ineluctable bliss can frame them more closely in my mind than mere words can draw. The words provide but a sketch, the frailest outlines of reality. I trouble myself too much about it, perhaps. To Elaine I appear to possess a mastery of prose such as she can never attain to. Time and again in the years that have since passed after that first night of voluptuous discoveries, she has asked me again and again, “What did you write about it?”-referring of course to whatever event had last occurred. She has been party to almost all I have written, her eyes positively glowing as she has perused my diaries, while for myself I have fretted openly to her that I have failed to capture the fleshly bliss.

“Oh, if I could but write like you, I would write very naughty books,” she has oftimes declared.

I have never been flattered by her praise, however. I know my faults, my shortcomings, the midnight wrestlings with words upon which I afterwards gaze with disappointed mien. However, I digress again and must return to the first ruffled bed in which we found ourselves alone and palpitating.

My nest throbbed. Our bodies were sticky together. With a sigh Elaine rolled off of me, though still continuing to cuddle and caress me. That I made no bones about letting her do so-and even returned her lascivious touchings-was the full sign that I had been drawn at last into my future realm. Hot-nippled as our breasts were, they rubbed together where our nightgowns had been drawn up to our armpits.