She surrounds me with an envelope of softness and warmth in a world of granite and ice. This is where I learn what ‘woman’ is, where I will shape and cement my lifelong responses to the women in my life. From the milky blackness, familiar objects begin to harden and sharpen, while a blanket of dark silence still covers the bedroom. I am small, restless, insignificant, but she cuddles me into calmness, soothes me into sopor. By the heat of her body and in the tender coils of her arms, I grow and grow till I fill the whole bed.

The broadsheet is hard to control and my tiny hands wrestle with the inky pages as they crumple and crease with designs of their own. Page 21. A model. Vicky. Her name is Vicky and, knowing that, I will always recall that I love her. Plunging sweater, impossible cleavage, soft, succulent orbs. Hair that falls in seductive curls to her slight-but-defined shoulders. Beautiful face. A goddess. For the first time, in one image together: a girl; a lover; a woman; and a mother. Scissors free her and I steal and secrete her in a box in my room. Later that night, I take her into my bed and shine a jaundiced torch on her. The unimaginably sweet contents of both her sweater and her eyes fill me to bursting with wonder and my naked groin swells with dulcet discomfort. I touch myself till the sweetness flows and the viscous syrup of desire fills and stills my fluttering belly. But the syrup hardens instantly into a boulder of self-loathing and disgust that I cannot pass. I am ashamed of what I did to her in my selfish, blind search for pleasure and cringe from the obscenities I uttered to her. Kissing her face, I plead forgiveness and promise to cherish her then lay her gently back inside the box.

The school bus sways as though on a violent ocean and tosses me onto an empty seat; the weight of my bag anchors me there. Eyes. Sweater. Bare legs.
'Hi. (I want to hold you snug and warm to my breast, kiss you softly till you swell and strain in your pants. Now, use your eyes, fingers, lips. Explore…)'
Her beautiful brown eyes say so much without even blinking. Ten years out of my mother's bed and at last I find another's eyes that speak of softness and warmth. Drawn by the pretty face, the soft curve of her grey sweater, the short grey skirt and pink thighs - and those eyes - I fall. It takes months but I still hit the ground. The bruise on my heart will never fade.

Bed on wheels in the woods. Red leatherette that smells of stale cigarettes. Seats that groan. There is music, loud music. And blackness. She could be anybody, though it could only be her, for she alone lets me do things, things I’ve never dared believe I ever would do. Things I’ve imagined a million times. No, she does more than let me: she begs me with her sighs, her defiant submission and urgent hands. Again in darkness, I seek out the warmth of a female body and press myself closer to the source of its heat. Again I grow, but now nothing is filled. This is a new need, a deeper need that seemingly cannot be filled, a yawning void that I ache - yet fear - to leap. The need draws us both here to this secluded spot, to do these things; to squeeze, stroke, suck, surrender and invade. I hold the need to her lips and she drinks. I taste it too. Sweet, like honey. Salty, like sweat. Heady, like damp, warm, rich black earth. In this cramped space, clothes find a new purpose. They inhibit and parry, they bury, and tie us in knots of delicious frustration. A determined, foraging hand penetrates my shield of cloth and closes around me. For the first time it is not my own hand. It is softer, smaller, gentler and is painfully unpredictable. I yearn for firm caresses, yet, though it teases and barely touches me, it takes my breath and creates a new longing, one that I could never have created by myself. I could simultaneously cry and laugh, roar and swing naked through the moon-soaked skeletal trees, but I do none of these.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too. Do it to me. Do me.’
Again I am surrounded by softness and warmth. She pulls me inside and buries me in deep, luxurious pillows: of surrender; of power; of wonder; of confusion… of love. I empty myself into her. Suddenly, I am disgusted. By the car, the girl, my lies, the cold… and the wetness that stains my shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to my belly. I dress and drive. The boulder of shame in my gut feels permanent, but I recall it took less than twenty-four hours to break my promise not to abuse the woman in the box.
‘Mmm... That was great.’ There is affection and sincerity in her voice, but it falls into the void. Her hand seeks mine, but the need to change gear is suddenly greater than the need to touch. I know from solitary experience that time will lessen the gap that yawns between us and anticipate that tomorrow we will be here again, ready to leap again.

Another bed on wheels. Glaring white, tight sheets bind her, squeeze the colour from her. She melts into them, becomes them, a snowflake in a pristine foolscap pad. Her body has surrendered all but its latent heat and her once soft curves are a wasted ossuary of cold, thin angularity. Translucent blue eyes smile and weep and a desperate claw grasps my hand as I turn to leave. Once outside, I ring her then run to her: the girl from the car. Sporadically, we have held each other closely, yet always at arm’s length. At night, by day... in summer, in winter... in water, on sand, in meadows… and in cars. But never in mourning. ‘Show me the warmth, the depth, the sweetness, for I have touched death and have forgotten all…’ The house is empty but for us two and she fills it with my cries of pain, of pleasure - and my bitter sorrow. Frightened and amazed by my feral, desperate passion, she too gives everything, shows me how it used to be, makes me believe it can always be this way.
‘Will you come live with me… when… when she…’ I cry real tears.
‘Yes.’

She is a bed on two legs. Warmth, comfort, darkness, softness. Deep, deep pillows that I long to suffocate in. Coiling arms capture me. Incredibly sexy eyes call to me.
‘I want to take you home.’
She is mother, girl on a bus, paper model, lover, hospital corpse. Whore. I pour everything into her: love, hate, anger, disdain, passion, grief and joy, and, when she is full, I penetrate her, puncture her. Her contents spill, flow and soak into her sheepskin rug as she opens up and welcomes me in. I drown in her. Pure sex. No love, no hate, no expectation - none of those complicated things that can interfere with bodily functions. She bucks and grinds and takes every inch of me and when we are ready, we do it. I do her. I really do her. And she does me, asking for nothing, needing nothing more than I give her: a rigid fleshy pole; rough hands; coffee-tainted breath. Sweat, spit and semen. This is new. This is different. And for the first time, though she asks for nothing, I give everything I have, everything I have come to know about a woman, about myself, about the world. And afterwards, as I stare at the artexed ceiling, feeling her soft lips on my neck, I feel full, though I know I am only full of… emptiness. Now I must go home. To the house of the mother in the hospital bed. Home, to the yellowed picture, still in the box. Home to the girl in the car, to her warmth, depth, comfort... love. Home to her trusting, loyal, simple heart. As I steal silently into bed, she pulls me sleepily to her, kisses my neck. Guilt forms an instant amniotic sack around me from which I will never be born. And a flood of fear fills it – fear of being found out, fear of who I really am, fear of failing those who have succoured me, smiled at me, forgiven me, accepted me and lovingly pulled me to them in the hot syrupy night.

The girl in the car collects both herself and her things together… takes the car to carry away her natural sweet warmth and her nurtured cold bitterness. Now, in the equally cold glass, I watch her come alive: shoes, clothes and wig she left behind in the charity bag; underwear secretly borrowed from her. I twirl her curls, stroke the soft curve of her bosom, lift the dress from black-nylon thighs to reveal the black silk panties. My private dancer, a grotesque mannequin, displays herself to me in a series of parodied clichés. We orgasm violently, simultaneously, and again a landslide of disgust instantly fills me: disgust of the girl; of the smeared black eyes and cheap clothes; of the spattered mirror and me.

American girl on a rusty, creaking, cast-iron jalopy. Holiday girl in a cold, damp chalet. Gyrating, dimly-lit garter girl who slowly strips to Marvin Gaye. They suck, straddle and soothe me in their warm and tender coils. I love their curves. Syrupy soft undulations. Up and down: in and out. They promise it will be simply, joyously, for fun, but I’m always left with a repugnant rock in my gut – though, to be honest, it’s not as bad as it used to be. Over the years it has eroded, and one day I may be left with the mere discomfort of a prematurely swallowed gob-stopper. Sometimes I even dare to believe that one day there will be nothing left at all…

She climbs carefully into the creaking marital bed. I kiss her neck, pull her to me in the darkness, but she is frozen, like a frightened corpse. Vague when she goes out, vague when she comes in; I begin to live with a ghost. Her edges are indistinct and - unwillingly at first - I begin to see through her. I no longer know where she begins or ends, but I know where her lies begin, for when she lies she cannot hold my gaze. And her lies have no end. The bed creaks even more as she brings not one, but four others into it, along with their endless possibilities. I always fear the worst. Four fabulous lovers with four prodigious cocks, four fantastic physiques and four immense intellects. Four voices singing forty sentimental songs, telling four hundred jokes, whispering four thousand secrets. Four million hotel rooms containing four billion possible sexual acts, all adding up to four trillion ways in which I cannot compete. I leave the crowded bed to them as I begin to fail to function, and symbolically take the picture down from the bedroom wall: a smiling couple in a white limousine.

Like a pearlescent teardrop, the stretched car streaked down the black tarmac of the gaudy strip then quivered in the heat before a massively imposing building. Her hand clasped mine and I remember wondering at her white dress, bouquet and tear-streaked face. We paused and posed inside the car while the chauffeur took a photo and then, after emerging into the bright, dry desert air, we walked into the hotel lobby through a gauntlet of applause. The cool cacophony of spinning wheels and falling coins only faded when the elevator reached the second floor. I broke the silence of our suite then felt unexpected disappointment as I began to unwrap my new wife, exposing the same old girl I’d fucked the day before - though I can’t imagine why I’d expected anything else. White curtains diffused the burning sun and cast an unearthly glow on her pale, young skin. Her performance quickly banished my earlier disillusionment, for she was at her sexy, loving and dirty best. A girl, a woman, a something in between… the best lover I’d ever had. I came once in her hungry mouth and by the time she had cum into mine, I was ready to slide my rigid fleshy pole into her soft, fleshy hole. As I gazed into her lovely face and pumped into her, I suddenly realised this was the last person I would ever fuck - my ultimate fuck - and I was glad, relieved even. We collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed and the crumpled sheets tied us up in tired, sweaty knots. She pressed her soft breasts into my back, wrapped me in her loving coils and cupped my aching tool. A polished pebble silently rolled around inside my gut as I sank into a satisfied sleep. Later, I ordered room service and then we did it all again. I place the picture of the smiling couple face down on the dressing table, hoping to banish the intruders from my mind, but still the memories burst through the open door of the white limousine and fuck my head.

Squeaking office chair on tiny castors. The screen magically metamorphoses our frantic plastic tip-taps into parodied clichés of passion. Our responses quicken and rise in pitch like the dying rattles of a spun coin on a hard tabletop, a deafening crescendo before the inevitable and imminent equilibrium. There is no need for physical contact; no need for sounds or images… words alone will suffice. I have lived enough, listened, touched, tasted, fucked enough to know absolutely what she is doing to me and what she needs from me. I can see her, hear her, taste her, feel her sitting astride me, pierced by me, so when her graphic prose becomes monosyllabic and then absent, I know it is time for me too to release. The spatters on the well-placed newspaper penetrate and puncture pleasure’s brief bubble and, when my vision clears, I look down into pretty eyes, pouting lips and soft, naked breasts darkened by my hot, thick cream. As usual, I compare her to the original model - the model in the box, the one who displayed nothing yet showed everything - and reflect how times have changed for the worse. I type a quick, grateful thank-you to the girl on the screen and, without another glance, I consign them both – the naked girl in the paper and the girl on the screen – to their respective recycling receptacles. Not surprisingly, the boulder in my gut is back, but now it doesn’t simply fill me with disgust, it also admonishes me for the precious hours this brief moment has consumed. ‘You wanker! What a fucking waste of time when you have so much to do.’

Another noisy bed, this time with careless crumbs from a shared sandwich. The sound of our laughter bulges the hotel walls, drowns the seductive soundtrack from her mobile phone. My ultimate fuck is about to become my penultimate fuck and I’m suddenly grateful to the four in the marital bed, because without them I would not be here. She strips me, pulls me to her delicious undulations then takes me down and flows around me, under me, over me. Through me. This is new, fundamentally different, though with elements of all of them: softness and warmth; sweetness and tenderness; joy; pleasure; submission; wonder… love… They teem in her eyes and mouth; her bra, belly, thighs and knickers; her heart and mind. Her soul. Though only my penis is inside her, she totally surrounds me with her soft envelope, deadening the four mocking voices, absorbing their relentless, pounding body blows. The sudden silence and calmness is an incredible relief. I can’t imagine how I will ever leave this place and face the world again, but her loving whispers give me the strength to stand on my own; they rehabilitate and re-arm me. As I empty myself into her, she fills me up, selflessly sates the void… with herself. And when it is over, there is no boulder. No rock, stone or pebble. Not even a grain of sand. Nothing but soft, warm pillows of sweet fulfilment and our prophetic tears on her beautiful face.

A wooden bench on a grassy hill. We sit easily, contentedly, sharing the embers of the day, silently sifting through our boxes of memories. I lay the final leaves on top of the others and tuck them in to keep them safe, keep them warm - mother in starkly contrasting beds, models in newspapers, girl in the car, the bed on two legs, mannequin, fun girl three, girl in a limo/frightened corpse, girl on the screen, the girl I loved and lost - and close the lid. It is full to bursting; there is not even room for one more sheet. I offer it to the fiery red furnace of the sunset, watch it being consumed, then she turns towards me, takes my hands.
‘I will never take their place, but I will take my own place beside you.’ Her eyes say all that and something else too that is harder to interpret, something about need. ‘Each one has filled a need, much as you have filled that box with your memories of them. Here, then. A new box, an empty box and the hardest job of all: fill it to the brim before I too must leave.’