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We were friends. That was it. She'd make a bed up for me in her flatmates old room, which was now the living room, pulling down cushions from the settee, hunting out bits of blankets and quilts and putting them together like something resembling a child's idea of a bed, all jumbled heaps with no hospital corners and the smell of spilt Kestrel lager. I stripped of down to my Ys,, like a child getting ready for bed, a little self conscious, but showing off in equal measure. I needed another pee. She could see that I had a hard on, but she chose not to see it, tilting her head away, watching something, watching nothing. I always had a hard on when I was with her. She couldn’t mistake the feel of it poking against her as we got into clinches. My whole body was waiting, primed, sensitive to her touch and slightly musky smell. She was watching something on the TV when I got back, something funny, because she laughed. I didn't know where to sit. The settee was spread out on the.

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