Several things aroused my curiosity about the Henryk Trojan painting of two people in bed reading a book. Foremost, how could they read with those almost invisible eyes? But beyond that, what were they reading? Could it be erotica? The strap of the woman’s gown had slipped off her shoulder, but her breast had yet to be bared. I longed to get a look at her nipples. Beyond that, maybe even a taste. The man, for his part, was fully clothed. Was it quite cold in that apartment? Or was he shy? Heck, the guy was even wearing a hat in bed. I’ve known that sort: the guys who wear a hat almost everywhere. Not in the shower, surely. So, is he hiding bad hair? Is he bald as the bold cap of a handsome penis? I think it’s meant to be a distraction, so we won’t notice the significant bulge of his erection beneath the blankets. Wishful thinking on my part? One way to find out.

Then there’s the wine and the snack on the bedside table. But one wine glass, evidently unsipped. Do they mean to share it? Maybe after their fuck. Yes, I’m hoping that at some point he’ll set the book down and ease the strap of her gown further from her shoulder, and take her erect and deliciously pink (oops, gave it away) nipple between his lips, and before too long after that they’ll be bouncing together on that bed, clothes and bedclothes lost to the floor.

It happened that way.

Yeah, he had a big cock. And guess what? Throughout the fuck the guy’s hat stayed on. A miracle. While watching them I polished off the snack and drank most of the wine. I stayed through their climax, and I watched them sleep, snuggled cozily in each other’s arms, and then I headed home.

Oh, the book. Real words, probably. Probably Polish.