then we started lurching around the flat still joined together. She fried eggs and bacon with me inside her, behind her. She tied an apron around her front and my back.
We went for a shower like some eight-legged primeval creature.
We considered wrapping ourselves in a sheet and going down to buy an evening paper and scare the wits out of people, so we started practising our footwork. But before we’d managed to get the sheet to fit properly , her eyes went out of focus and she sank down in a heap on the hall carpet. She kept saying something about red patches on her breasts; I never discovered what she was going on about.
For once I didn’t have to look at my watch, because I’d talked Bengt-Göran into doing the evening milking, but there was still tomorrow morning to think of. I couldn’t bear the idea of being parted from her even for a minute, so I asked her to come home with me.
The fourth time we slipped together, I had time to feel her squeezing me inside her. She had muscles down there like a milkmaid’s hands after a whole summer up in the mountain pastures. I told her so.
She rubbed her nose against mine.
“Do you think I can learn hand milking, too?” she murmured.
Love makes others into doves,
gazelles, cats, peacocks – but I,
quivering, wet and transparent
– am your jellyfish
Örjan and I used to read The Joy of Sex together. We’d massage one another with oil and then try all the positions , even a strange pretzel-shaped one. I often faked orgasms. Not to make Örjan happy, I have to admit – I just couldn’t go on sometimes, and he never liked to give up until he’d achieved the goal he’d set himself. It was the same with his research, actually – he’d put forward a hypothesis and not give up until he’d proved it.
But he’d certainly read somewhere that women get red blotches on their breasts after orgasm, and when I stayed my usual white, he’d get an irritated frown and look as if he was going to start all over again. I tried taking the line that I was short of pigment, but that made him launch into an account of the difference betweenpigmentation and nerve stimulation, until I fell asleep from exhaustion.
I’d assumed I just wasn’t naturally erotically inclined.
I was wrong.
When I came out of the ladies’ changing room at the baths and scanned the bathers through squinting eyes, I couldn’t at first identify my Forest Owner. I was looking out for a lumbering walk and that blessed cap with the earflaps. And there he suddenly was beside me, in hired swimming trunks, narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered , his arms wiry, with veins like twisted rope. Face and lower arms tanned, the rest of his body white as chalk. That dusty yellow hair had gone into wet gold-en -brown curls.
When I stroked his calf with my big toe in the cafeteria , he put his towel across his lap with an embarrassed grin. I didn’t miss that. My ovaries turned somersaults and I couldn’t get him back home quick enough.
Of course, it was still Desirée Wallin who spent that afternoon at her home address with a man. I mean, I had the same personal identity number and driving licence and birthmarks as I’d had that morning. And yet I wasn’t the same person. Maybe it was a sudden case of split personality, the sort you read about in the Sunday supplements.
He hadn’t just turned my head, he’d rotated it so many times that it came off and I had to hold it on a string like a balloon, while my body twisted and wallowed . Hour after hour. I even found time to spare athought for Örjan when those red patches flared.
Reading in a book about all those different lovemaking techniques can sometimes make me yawn. The concept’s always the same. But when they’re happening to you, it’s like a nine on the Richter scale. I only have to think about it to feel giddy all over again.
Towards evening we were red and puffy and getting sore in several places. He informed me I was coming home with him,
We went for a shower like some eight-legged primeval creature.
We considered wrapping ourselves in a sheet and going down to buy an evening paper and scare the wits out of people, so we started practising our footwork. But before we’d managed to get the sheet to fit properly , her eyes went out of focus and she sank down in a heap on the hall carpet. She kept saying something about red patches on her breasts; I never discovered what she was going on about.
For once I didn’t have to look at my watch, because I’d talked Bengt-Göran into doing the evening milking, but there was still tomorrow morning to think of. I couldn’t bear the idea of being parted from her even for a minute, so I asked her to come home with me.
The fourth time we slipped together, I had time to feel her squeezing me inside her. She had muscles down there like a milkmaid’s hands after a whole summer up in the mountain pastures. I told her so.
She rubbed her nose against mine.
“Do you think I can learn hand milking, too?” she murmured.
Love makes others into doves,
gazelles, cats, peacocks – but I,
quivering, wet and transparent
– am your jellyfish
Örjan and I used to read The Joy of Sex together. We’d massage one another with oil and then try all the positions , even a strange pretzel-shaped one. I often faked orgasms. Not to make Örjan happy, I have to admit – I just couldn’t go on sometimes, and he never liked to give up until he’d achieved the goal he’d set himself. It was the same with his research, actually – he’d put forward a hypothesis and not give up until he’d proved it.
But he’d certainly read somewhere that women get red blotches on their breasts after orgasm, and when I stayed my usual white, he’d get an irritated frown and look as if he was going to start all over again. I tried taking the line that I was short of pigment, but that made him launch into an account of the difference betweenpigmentation and nerve stimulation, until I fell asleep from exhaustion.
I’d assumed I just wasn’t naturally erotically inclined.
I was wrong.
When I came out of the ladies’ changing room at the baths and scanned the bathers through squinting eyes, I couldn’t at first identify my Forest Owner. I was looking out for a lumbering walk and that blessed cap with the earflaps. And there he suddenly was beside me, in hired swimming trunks, narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered , his arms wiry, with veins like twisted rope. Face and lower arms tanned, the rest of his body white as chalk. That dusty yellow hair had gone into wet gold-en -brown curls.
When I stroked his calf with my big toe in the cafeteria , he put his towel across his lap with an embarrassed grin. I didn’t miss that. My ovaries turned somersaults and I couldn’t get him back home quick enough.
Of course, it was still Desirée Wallin who spent that afternoon at her home address with a man. I mean, I had the same personal identity number and driving licence and birthmarks as I’d had that morning. And yet I wasn’t the same person. Maybe it was a sudden case of split personality, the sort you read about in the Sunday supplements.
He hadn’t just turned my head, he’d rotated it so many times that it came off and I had to hold it on a string like a balloon, while my body twisted and wallowed . Hour after hour. I even found time to spare athought for Örjan when those red patches flared.
Reading in a book about all those different lovemaking techniques can sometimes make me yawn. The concept’s always the same. But when they’re happening to you, it’s like a nine on the Richter scale. I only have to think about it to feel giddy all over again.
Towards evening we were red and puffy and getting sore in several places. He informed me I was coming home with him,
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