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“I swear on my mother’s life that I shall not penetrate your quim today, even if you decide you want me to.”

“You’re a gentleman, Larry.”

“Of course you can change your mind at some future date, but not today. You walked into this apartment a virgin. You’ll walk out of here a virgin.”

“A gentleman. Oh, do that some more, it’s wonderful. A real gentleman. I never met anyone like you before, never in my whole life. Oh, God, do you know what it does to me when you do that?”

I had a fair idea.

One thing, Steve. I meant that oath, and the fact that my mother died several years ago doesn’t detract from it a bit. I used that wording for the impression it would make, not out of some perverse streak. (You and Fran seem all too willing to believe I have a perverse streak.)

Anyway, the oath couldn’t have been any more binding had I had a living mother. I was determined not to violate that maidenhead. Rozanne was providing me with a rare enough pleasure anyway, the pleasure of slow seduction.

I didn’t realize until then just how much I’d grown to miss that pleasure. That’s one of the unfortunate by-products of the sexual revolution, Steve. There’s no more working up to it. A girl either fucks or she doesn’t, and the two of you decide it in front, and if she does, you both get into bed and you do it, and if she doesn’t, you go away and that’s it.

Even with the daughters of Lancaster, the most precious angels on earth, there was no gradual pursuit. They knew the game and enjoyed playing it, and they didn’t have to be conned into anything. There were some things they had to be shown, owing to relative inexperience on their part, and it’s always fun to play teacher, especially with such willing and adept pupils, but it’s not the same thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I approve of the change in morals. Seduction as a steady diet is a bore. Artificial as hell, and hard on the nervous system.

Once in a while, though, I miss it. Maybe it’s ninety percent nostalgia. Still, once in a while I miss it.

So I took a long and lazy time with Rozanne. I inspected every bit of her body, turned her this way and that, kissed her here and there. A dozen times along the way she was within a couple of yards of the orgasmic goal line, and each time I would change the subject and throw her physically offside and penalize her half the distance to the goal. I kept building her up and letting her down, until she reached a point where her blood-pressure level was dangerously high.

Until finally I said, “Now I’m going to eat your cunt.”

And she said, “Thank God.”

I’ll do the Victorian novelist number and draw the veil here, old buddy. The modesty bit. Let’s just say that she got what she came for and came what she got for.

And liked it.

A little while later, after she had stopped talking about how divine she felt and how she had dreamed about this but had never, even in her dreams, imagined it would be quite this good, after she had finished bathing my ego in a salve of words, she said, “But what about you, Larry?”

“What about me?”

“I know men have needs.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But aren’t you—”

“Frustrated? Tied up in knots?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course I am. Don’t worry about it. Let’s talk a little.”

“Because there must be something I could do.”

“Later, perhaps. If you want.”

“Of course I want to help you.”

“But first let’s talk. Why is it that you’re so afraid of getting popped?”

“Getting popped?”

“Of not being a virgin anymore.”

“Oh, getting popped.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know what you meant at first.”

“I understand. Is it that you’re afraid of getting pregnant?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Because they have pills for that sort of thing.”

“I know.”

“And they’re a hundred percent effective.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not that.”

“Some kind of sin thing? That good girls have to stay virgins until they get married?”

“No. I don’t believe that anymore.”

“Thank God.”

“I lost my faith. I suppose I’m an atheist.”

“So am I, thank God.”

“As a matter of fact, I guess I’d respect myself more if I wasn