Last night Dr. Joan and I had still another in a succession of intense encounters that left me exhausted. During foreplay, or at least my version of it, she suddenly pushed me away, and stared at the ceiling. "Why do you keep your eyes closed when you make love to me?" she asked.
My erection instantly subsided. Oh, here we go again. More questions. Like a stern professor she probes, demands answers, and I am obliged to respond. Her idea of romance.
"Well, to be honest I keep my eyes closed because I want to create the illusion of hiding."
"I'm no longer an Adonis."
Actually I didn't give a damn about how I looked, I was more worried that I would become too aware of what she looked like. But I'm a gentleman, after all, and I would never dream of alluding to the faint liver spots on the backs of her hands, or the lack of definition in her thigh muscles, or the dryness of her skin, or the rough calluses on her heels. Or her hands. Which were not as slim and elegant as those of Elizabeth, my favorite ex-wife.
And that was it. Dr. Joan suspected I was keeping my eyes closed because I was fantasizing being back in the arms of my beloved Elizabeth. Which was not really the case. I hadn't been thinking of Elizabeth lately, I was merely looking forward to getting laid. But I couldn't say that, could I?
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