I called round to see Conrad.I have a composite image of the visit, doubtless assembled from several which I am unable to separate distinctly in memory. Conrad is standing up in his bedroom. Behind him is a small stone idol which I incorrectly identify as a Cycladic fertility goddess. Another small stone sculpture is on the chest of drawers. It is an alabaster worm. Conrad is standing up wearing nothing but a string vest. The dense black shag on his chest glistens through the coarse mesh. He comments enthusiastically on the hygienic properties of the garment. — Haw! They’re very healthy. What?This tall, dark man, whose mouth seemed always to be ejecting an ‘o’ of heavily-qualified interest, stands erect in his bath-tub. This image is doubtless imaginary for I seem to be standing beside him in the tub. I am fully-dressed and he is nude. Peeping through the curly fleece of his pubic and lower-abdominal hair shines the tiny dome of his circumcised prick. — Do you think it’s too small?
