Helen says Yes.

On Friday afternoon, imagining sex in Helen's room as a grope of large hands and difficult clothes, a scene originating from the delicious Grosz print on my bathroom wall, I knew I was trying to elevate the encounter for, most likely, far from resembling anything from the Master's weimar period, it would very probably end in nothing more than a tense and ridiculous snog.

However, I had not reckoned on Helen making her own calculations so when she said 'yes', I took it to mean that Gareth was two floors below us, Neil'd gone to yoga, the hypnotist had yet to build a client list and so, indeed, fuck, whatever.

I felt uneasy at the control Helen seemed to have taken over the situation and, worsened by the momentary sense memory of my younger self who was forever surprised at the ferocity of female desire, I plunged a hand in my pocket, squeezed the life from my penis, and walked over to her window.

Did we say four o'clock?

There was nothing new. The road below, the bridge. The nineteenth century slums and shithouses now considered priceless. However, the matronly tone in her voice had reminded me of my own role and so, assuming the passive, arrogant and annihilating spectre that served me so well on Wednesday, I turned and smiled, as if shy. Although Helen would allow herself to be seduced by passivity, I also suspected she required a severe duality in her lovers and that, within minutes, she would expect me to take full control.

While considering this discrepancy in her sexual and social selves, wondering if it were part of her difficulties in finding an equitable partner, I slid my hand under her bra. I continued my silent questioning of her until, with a gush, she pulled me down and away from her nipple. I was surprised at the severity of this resistance to the maternal erotic and not a little angry that her selfishness had betrayed itself so quickly.

I began to wonder if Helen and I would ever do this again until, instinctively, I smacked her arse and, as she blushed, I sensed we would. It was a cue that released me from my timorous pose and so, no longer expecting her to touch me, or my penis, I simply swivelled round, parted the tip of her labia, and entered from behind.

I have considered long and hard the mechanics of the intercourse that ensued but what strikes me now and is fondly remembered is the way, when were done, Helen pulled her shirt towards her, leaving for a long while one breast covered, the other exposed, and in this way we formed an understanding that I could leave her now, neither approved nor disapproved.