I really do appreciate your athleticism and best efforts to make me come, though I’m sure you know as well as I that the female orgasm is more akin to a wave machine than a pistol firing once followed by resounding silence. When I looked at you lying face down on the hallway carpet, the light created a kind of halo around your head and made me think that you were given to me by God. I don’t believe in Him any more, since I read Nietzsche. The death of God happened apparently in the nineteenth century or possibly earlier, but He only really died because we all stopped believing in Him. I don’t think I ever believed in Him. My mother brought me up an atheist. But I always believed in love. How does one live without love, Vic? Luckily you and I don’t have to worry about that any more. Ann-Marie X P.S. It’s funny that you called me a bunny-boiler. You know me so well, even though you don’t know me at all. You were almost right. But I boiled a hamster, not a bunny. It happened the night after the crème de menthe – about two years ago.
