The first time I ever made love with Gena was the first time I’d ever made love. I think she was more experienced, but I didn’t ask her. I was happy the way things were. The happiest I’d ever been.

We’d only met a few weeks before. It was the morning of my first real day at the museum. I was a guard, my first real job. I’d been through two half days of training, and now here I was, strolling through the galleries assigned to me for that hour, and there she was, staring at a painting called The Lovers. It was one of those modern works which I can seldom make heads or tails of. The large painting looked to me like particles of light penetrating swirls of smoke. I prefer things that look more real. In truth I liked photographs more than paintings.

The girl, she looked to be about my age, 22, stared and stared at The Lovers, not moving an inch, and suddenly she began quivering, maybe just a few small jerks, but I guess I’d been staring at her, so her movements were noticeable, especially as she’s been standing stock still for so long. I was afraid she was having a seizure. Cautiously I approached her.

She didn’t seem to notice me. She was taking small, shallow breaths, almost panting. “Are you okay, Miss?” I asked tentatively.

She turned to me, obviously startled. Her face was flushed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

“Okay then,” I said, or something like that, and I was about to move away when she seemed to take me in. She said, “Thanks very much for asking. Maybe after all I would fancy a cup of tea, if you’d care to.”

I stammered something about being on the job. “Can’t leave my post, you know.”

“Right, of course,” she said. “How silly of me. Maybe some other time.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

Then she left the gallery, and I wished I could be leaving with her, to sit with her and sip tea and find out all about her. I’d never been that instantly and fully attracted to anyone.

During the week I kept my eye out for her, hoping she’d reappear, but she didn’t. The next Saturday, she was there, not at The Lovers but in a different gallery, staring at a painting just as intently as she’d stared at The Lovers. This one was a medium-small still life—fruit in a bowl on a cloth-covered table. There didn’t seem to be anything special about it to me, but I don’t really know art very well, even if I make my living guarding it. There was no way I could not watch her, though, and what happened was very much as before. She stood motionless before the painting for some minutes, then abruptly she shivered—the wrenching of her body slight yet severe, almost violent. This time I didn’t bother her. I could see from the lift and fall of her shoulders that she was recovering. I let my eyes dart around the gallery to see if anyone else had noticed her behavior. Except for us the room was empty. She turned, and when she saw me, her eyes seemed to light up. “Oh, there you are,” she said.

I couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Yes, here I am.”

“And you’re on duty again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “On duty.”

“Too bad,” she said, and her grin widened.

“Too bad,” I agreed, “but I am off next Saturday. Both Saturday and Sunday in fact. Our schedules shift around, you see. So if you’d like some tea next Saturday...”

“That might be very nice,” she said. “I’ll tell you what, come out and visit me. We can have tea and talk about art. Do you know how to get to Shamfield?”

I told her that I knew where it was, but I didn’t have a car.

“You can take the train,” she suggested. “The weekend schedule is light, but there’s one gets in at eleven and goes back at five.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “Okay, I’ll take the train.”

I thought about her all week. The days and hours dragged. I thought about her especially when I was in the gallery with The Lovers or the one with the fruit in the bowl. I found myself staring at the still life and trying to imagine what she saw there. The plump roundnesses. The promise of juice. The shadows caressing soft folds of cloth. I vowed to ask her about what she saw, exactly, when we talked about art on Saturday, if Saturday would ever come.

And then it did. A long ride, and I was anxious every minute. I got off at the Shamfield station, called Prison Cross, fearful she wouldn’t be there—that it was a joke, or that she’d forgotten, but there she was, wearing a big smile.

“This train is always late,” she said. “And there’s no reason for it. It’s not as if herds of sheep block the tracks.”

I laughed. “Flocks of sheep, I think they’re called.”

“Right. Flocks,” she said, taking my arm. We walked along the platform, which was backed by a high stone wall. “They say these stones came from the old prison,” she said. We went up the steps and into the little town. A few blocks from the station was a tea shop. The door jingled when we went in. The tablecloths were blue and white, there were jelly jars with white daisies on each table, ceramic cats sat in the window, and the proprietress was plump and friendly. We talked about our families, mostly, and pets we’d always wanted, and what our plans were for the next five years. I wanted to tell her that I hoped she’d be part of my plans—that’s how smitten I was with her—but I was too shy. The time went by and before you know it, it was three o’clock and the tea shop was closing. “Will there be anything else,” the friendly tea matron asked. I paid the bill and realized we hadn’t talked about art at all. I looked at my watch.

“The last train’s not for hours and you want to rush away already?” she said.

“Oh, no, not at all. Never.”

“Good, then come up and see my flat.”

Her place was very neat, with surprisingly little in it, but there wasn’t much space: just one small room with a small, made up bed and a tiny kitchen area and an even tinier bathroom.

When I came out of the bathroom, she asked, “Want some tea?” and then she said, “No, I don’t imagine as we’ve just had gallons,” while the same time I said, “I’d love some,” and together we laughed.

“What do you really want?” she asked.

“To kiss you.”

“So do I,” she said.

The kissing lasted all afternoon and almost all of the night. Dawn was coming in one of her windows—she hadn’t drawn the curtains because there weren’t any—and she said, “Oh oh, looks like you’ve missed your last train.”

“It looks like it,” I said.

“Well, then, I suppose we should undress the rest of the way and go to bed.”

I said that sounded like a good idea.

I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. Her nakedness in that soft pink light coming through her window was better than any art.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing,” I answered. “It’s just that you’re so beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she said. “Now come to bed and fuck me.”

I came almost the moment I was inside her. She gasped and clung to me. “That’s it,” she said, “pour it all into me.”

We lay together a while, kissing and caressing, and pretty soon I was hard again. She couldn’t help but notice, and she smiled and sat up in her little bed, and then she bent low and took me in her mouth. “Mmmm,” she hummed, and I thought I might come again, but I managed not to. She looked back at me and smiled and said, “You taste good. Why don’t you taste me while I taste you?” Then she swiveled over me so her thighs were on either side of my head and lowered herself so I could taste her. She was soft and plush and very wet, and I pushed my tongue into her as far as I could. She undulated so my chin rubbed her the way she wanted, and after a moment her thighs tightened about my face and she pressed herself hard against my mouth and seemed to open more and more and then she moaned, a long, loud, bumpy moan, like she was falling down stairs.

I guess she wasn’t sucking me while this was happening. We lay quietly for a while again, and then she said, “Oh, you!” and she swiveled again so we were face to face, and we kissed like we were trying to devour each other.

I don’t think I was aware exactly when I fitted inside her again, but there we were, fully joined, and soon she lifted back so she was sitting up, riding me. Even though I was very excited, I discovered that I wasn’t near to going over the edge. Meanwhile she went over the edge many times. Her contractions were sharp and rapid, the tremors rippled her belly and shook her breasts. She yowled sometimes. And when the contractions ebbed, she began another ride, slow at first, and I could hear the squeak of our juices. As her excitement increased, her motions became more rapid, and she brought my fingers to her breasts to pinch her nipples, and then she was gasping and going over the edge again. I don’t know how many times this happened—five or six, I guess—but finally she rolled off me and lay next to me and the next thing I knew she was asleep.