"The beach is that way," he said. "Not far. Jes' go on through. Nice beach. Maybe find nice girls too."

I smiled indulgently and paid the fare. We got out, and he opened the boot and handed me my rucksack. It wasn't heavy. I only had a few things with me - towel, sun-oil, swimming costume, camera, an all-purpose poncho in case of rain, a camping mat, a bottle of water and survival rations. The rest of my stuff I'd left at my lodgings in Redground. We said goodbye, and I looked on as the taxi did a three point turn, and then roared off, in a cloud of dryness and dust, back towards Negril. I watched until the taxi had disappeared from sight, and then watched a bit longer. The road was deathly quiet, and peaceful. I could hear the nervous chatter of birds as they flickered like tiny shadows amongst the foliage. In a meadow on the other side of the road a flock of cattle egrets was perched like candles on the boughs of a solitary tree. Above me, a wide-winged John Crow quartered the sky, soaring and gliding on currents of silken air, searching for carrion. I turned to look down the path and listened for the soft underfelt of silence. For beyond the twittering of birds, the hum of insects and the rustle of leaves, there was, indeed, silence. A disturbing silence. An uneasy peacefulness impregnating the air like sunlight on a trembling leaf. I felt the first sullen pangs of solitude. Somehow the road was secure; what lay beyond, down that coiling track through an underworld of greenness, was not. I was away now from the holiday beaches with their safe, re-assuring knots of people. Here I was alone. No longer invisible. Suddenly vulnerable. The chance victim of a chance stranger. I stepped forward, nervous and irresolute, yet enthralled by the sweet, intoxicating flavour of danger.

But I didn't meet anyone. There were no threatening strangers on that meandering path. Only a luscious self-indulgent sense of fear at eaxch twist in the track, each secluded corner, each unexpected sound clattering out of the brush. I finally emerged from that dense bush with its prowling greenness into a hem-line of open land fronting the cliff. I looked out over the wide trackless expanse of the sea, at the shawl of blue waters crinkling with light. I felt comfort in this space. In the sea before me, and the virgin sky above me, and the green ambivalent woods behind. It was good, at that moment, to be standing on the cliff, a priest in my solitude.

The path now split into two, one track crumbling sharply down the cliff face, the other paralleling the edge. The cliff was only 50 feet high at this point, dipping leisurely downwards until it vanished entirely 300 yards away in a confused jumble of sand and rock and sprawling shrub. The path itself petered out into nothingness beside a small brown stream. Across the stream was a lattice-work of palm trees and bushes, and through this palisade of vegetation I could glimpse the jigsaw puzzle of a sunlit glade.

It was then, as my gaze took in the beach again, that I saw him. The fisherman. He was standing on the water's edge, casting a line. The water was calm, protected by the reef, blue and sharply glittering like ground glass. His silhouette was finely etched against the luminous drape of the sea. I watched him for a while. Watched the lithe, graceful movements as he cast his line. A solitary figure in the landscape, he excited and disturbed me. The elation I had felt on emerging from the forest into the communion of space fled now like the tatters of a dream. He belonged; it was I who was the intruder. I remembered the road I had just left and the re-assurance it provided.

I looked again at the division in the path. Below, the rocky extrusions from the cliff which broke up the cliff into sandy enclaves would secure me a re-assuring privacy. I decided on the quick descent and within a minute or so was on the beach, hemmed in by jagged rocks that stretched like claws into the water. The sand was thick and dry and tugged at my feet, the sea warm and clear, a rich blue, with torquoise patches stretching like batik to the distant reef. The sound of the waves crashing against the coral came over to me as no more violent than a chain of endless whispers. I looked along the shoreline, but the fisherman, obscured by crowding rocks, could not be seen. Then I looked in the other direction, to where a sombre, palm-shrouded headland jutted out into the bay. Indecision nagged me like a thorn. I bent down and dabbled my hands in the sea. The morning heat was becoming thicker and heavier. I gazed out again to sea, at the thin thread of surf that marked the reef. Then I turned and walked along the shore in the direction of the stream, the palms and the sunlit glade, curiosity stirring like a snake within my bowels.

I didn't go far. Maybe 200 yards or so. I spotted the fisherman once as he strode into the water again to cast his line, his body tense, straining against the rod, arcing backwards like a bow. Silhouetted, his body black as night, he seemed naked and god-like against the plangent brightness of the sea.

I found a small alcove of rock where the cliff was no more than 15 feet high. I dropped my rucksack, took out my towel and laid it on the ground. I put the sun-oil on the towel and rummaged around for my bathing briefs. Then I stripped off my clothes and stood there, naked, surveying the ocean. A tingle of sensuous pride rippled through my flesh. Away from the recognized beaches and the clamour of the town, naked and alone, I felt at peace, felt unashamedf and perfect, stirred only by unvoiced sensual possibilities. I knew I could stay here all day, at almost any point along this beach, in my own little kingdom, private and inviolable, and not be disturbed. No one would come. Not even the fisherman was likely to leave his chosen spot. And even if I were to stroll out further into the lagoon, nude, in full sight of the fisherman at his line, what of it? In an isolated bay like this, nudity seemed acceptable, understandable, almost the proper thing. I would, after all, be no more out of place than he. We would both be natural figures in an untainted landscape.

I began rubbing the sun-oil into my body. The back, obviously, was difficult, but I enjoyed the slow, sensual massage of my belly and genitals. I felt comfortable, too, with the evanescent perfume and relished the sun glistening on my chest and belly in an emulsion of liquid light.

I strolled down to the water-line, my heartbeat quickening, my blood elated, my skin trembling at the caress of air. I glanced through the mosaic of rocks, wondering when he would come into view, wondering if this time he would see me, suddenly aware that now I was visible, too, from the forest above.

I stood in the margin of the water, crossing my arms and clasping my shoulders. Tentatively I waded out, watching for hidden rocks and urchins. I crinkled my toes in the sand. It was soft and spongy. Little blue fishes darted through clefts of coral, silent and supreme in their watery stillness. The water was now up to my thighs, the sea-bed having dipped into a hollow and forming a small amphitheatre of coral.

I looked back at the sloping cliff with its slag of rocks and the ragged growth of bush and forest behind it. A heron suddenly rose from the canopy and soared with great flapping wings into the stainless sky. I looked again along the beach. The fisherman, however, had gone. I felt a strange, nervous disappointment. I had wanted him to see me, solitary and naked, bathing in the lagoon. I hesitated, then made my way back to the shore. I started walking leisurely towards the stream at the end of the beach. He'd been fishing not more than 50 yards away. I wondered if he'd gone home already, or had simply retired temporarily into the shade. The thought of strolling along that beach in the nude and suddenly coming face to face with a stranger and having nowhere to retreat, excited and inhibited me. I hesitated again. Then, after going no more than ten yards, I lost courage and returned to the sandy cloister where I'd left my clothes. There, I slipped into my bathing costume. It was, anyway, very brief and very sexy, little more than an immodest pouch at the front laced up at the back. Not really the sort of thing you'd wear at the municipal swimming pool, or even on a well-frequented holiday beach, but here, I suppose, it was a tiny concession to propriety where the only person you might meet would be a simple fisherman. It was not, anyway, a costume you'd wear if you didn't feel confidence and pleasure in your own body. I slicked my hands down my waist in satisfaction. I was slim and, I felt, good-looking, with a smooth hairless chest and belly. Rather boyish perhaps, but that pleased me and satisfied me.

The sun was hot now, its rays soaked up by the oil glazing my skin. The air was still, lethargic, with only the slightest murmur of a breeze stirring the surface of the sea. I wanted only to slide into the water and find some hollow of deeper blue, where I could float like a silent fish in a dreamworld of shifting, liquid colours.

I had come out from the cover of the rocks, where boulders had pitched from earlier cliff-falls and now lay in rugged anarchy on the beach. I was standing on the edge of a large enclave of sand, bounded at the far end by the stream with its cluster of palms. Beyond the palms, just further inland, was the harsh, robust growth of the sub-forest. The place was deserted. I moved forward self-consciously, aware that each step into that arena made me more conspicuous, more vulnerable. I scanned the line of palms and the thick undergrowth at the head of the beach. The stream was brown, fast-running and shallow. On the other side, through the lattice-work of vegetation, I could see the grassy glade I had glimpsed earlier from up on the cliff. I could see no one, but always there was that thrill of uncertainty inside my stomach, as if the shadows themselves were alive. I stood there in the silence of that sunlit theatre, nervous and proud, intoxicated by the challenge of my own desires. I wanted to slip out of my thong and stand there naked and defiant, daring the shadows with their shapeless ghosts to take on human form and confront me. I slid my hand down my belly and grasped my pouch. My penis stirred and tingled with the presentiment of danger.

Light-headed, I strolled towards the stream. I stepped in and felt my feet sink into the soft, pliant ooze. The water was cool, having flowed through ancient mountains and dank primeval forests. I stooped down and rinsed my hands, and splashed the brown, peaty water over my body. It was cool and invigorating and I shivered with pleasure.

It was then that I saw him. He was standing on the opposite bank, a few feet away, as silent as a shadow, his black body merging cunningly into the penumbra cast by the palms. I gave a small suppressed gasp, and stood slowly upright. He didn't speak, but continued watching me. He leant against a palm, naked save for a pair of grubby briefs. Dangling from a cord around his waist was a knife in a worn leather sheath. I glanced with embarrassed fascination at his bulging briefs.

He was about 30, I suppose, strong and muscular, with a vigorous growth of black hair on his chest and stomach. His face, clouded with dreadlocks, was well-structured, with strong cheekbones and a broad, firm nose, and dark penetrating eyes that fixed mine in an intimidating and malevolent stare. I was uncertain what to do. My heartbeat had quickened, and the sweet pulse of adrenaline was priming my blood. My mouth and throat were dry. Silence fell like a shroud around us.

"Where you from, man?" he said at last, his gaze never shifting, his terrible self-certainty as broad and muscular as his body.

"England," I said quietly. "I'm staying at Negril."

"Ah, Negril," he echoed, turning his head slightly to look out to sea, as if Negril were somehow beyond the horizon. "Negril long way. Why you come here?"

I shrugged, suddenly aware again of the coldness of the water washing round my feet.

"I was told it was a quiet beach," I said. "Isolated. No tourists. No crowds."

"Negril have many crowd, huh?"

"Yes, well.....a bit."

He shifted his feet and returned his gaze from the horizon to me. His eyes flickered up and down my body as if making some private evaluation. As to what though? My physical stregth? I certainly knew that physically I would be no match for him. A life-time of outdoor labour had endowed him with a broad chest, muscular thighs, and quick aggressive arms. He also had a fisherman's hands - coarse and gnarled, with the strength of hawsers. I sensed, in that quick movement of his eyes and in the thinnest allusion to a sneer, that he had made his assessment, and had found in my smooth-skinned, soft-bodied white elegance something weak and unmasculine, and in my revealing bathing slip a slick vanity which he could patronize and scorn.

"Don' like crowd," he said at last.

Again, there was silence, an uncomfortabkle, threatening silence.

"Have you caught many fish?"

He shrugged.

"Come look-a-see," he said, jerking his head behind him. "Don' be afraid, man." And his lips once again curled in the merest flicker of a sneer.

I followed him across the stream and into the glade. The earth was soft and faintly moist, the grass a rich limpid green. Butterflies flittered amongst the foliage, wafted along currents of scent from flower to flower. From a hibiscus, scarlet blooms hung down like bells, dangling incense in invisible trails.

Underneath a tree, in an awning of shade, were his clothes - a frayed, discoloured T-shirt, a pair of grubby shorts, and dilapidated sandals. Beside his clothes were his lines and tackle and two plastic pails. A little to one side was a crude, makeshift shelter, and in front of that, a small pile of sticks and a roasting spit. The ground near the fire was scorched and grey with ingrained ash. A number of logs was stacked behind the shelter.

"You like fish, huh?" he said, stooping over the pails and eyeing the one survivor squirming in its manacles of water.

"Yes," I said. "On a plate."

He smiled up at me, then dipped his hand into the pail and lifted out the fish. It was jerking and twisting in his grip, its slim, silver body glistening like a rush of coins in the sunlight. He laughed. The fish continued to flap and gasp in a death panic. He then drew out his knife. It was a narrow 9 inch long blade, double-edged and well-honed, He pressed the point into the soft underside of the fish near the tail and then slid it upwards, slitting open the belly. I gave a little quiver of astonishment. The fish flapped wildly. The fisherman laughed again and gripped it more tightly, shaking the guts out over the altar of firewood. He then dropped the bloodied fish into the second pail, where it shivered spasmodically with the final flickerings of life. He cleaned the knife in the water and re-inserted it into his sheath.

"Don't you stun them first?" I said tentatively. "Before doing that?"

"What you mean?"

"I mean....isn't it cruel to disembowel a fish while it's still alive?"

"Cruel? Huh. What it matter? You like fish or you don' like fish?"

I didn't answer.

"You wan' me to hit it head, man?"

I shrugged.

"No matter," he said. "Fish him die, man eat. You want I ask fish how he wan' die?"

"I suppose not," I said, laughing nervously.

"Come," he said.

We walked back towards the stream. He lay down in the shade of a palm, leaning on his elbow, his legs stretched out in front of him. He beckoned me to join him.

For a time we rested there in silence, on the grass, in the cool of the shade, looking through the vegetation and out to sea. Occasionally he dusted his hands down his body, flicking off imaginary insects. He gestured at my chest.

"What you put on you, man?"

I touched my skin lightly.

"It's sun-oil," I said. "To protect my skin from the sun."

He made a brief, non-committal grunt, as if he didn't really understand my answer at all. There was silence again.

"What you want here, man?"

"Want here?"

"Yeah, man. What you want here?"

I shrugged. "The sun and the sea, I suppose. The solitude."

"Stay long?"

"Maybe I'll stay overnight and go back to Negril tomorrow."

"Stay all night, huh? Here?"

I nodded. "Maybe," I said.

He breathed out ominously and looked around with exaggerated respect at the trees.

Maybe duppy come."

"Duppy?"

"Spirit. Evil spirit. Him live in forest, man. Come out at night. You sleep here - him take soul."

I tried to look serious.

"I think it'll be safe near the beach," I said.

He shrugged, and let his eyes wander uneasily around the clearing.

"Maybe," he said, unconvinced.

There was a pause.

"Maybe duppy call you in forest. Come talk to you in de night. Maybe spirit look like girl. Beautiful girl. Her call to you. You come. She beautiful, man. You make love. Her take you soul, man. You die."

"Sounds like a great way to go," I said, smiling nervously.

He laughed, his voice tinged with uneasiness.

"Only one t'ing to do, man. Run fer de water. Change into fish 'fore de duppy get you."

"That right?" I said.

He didn't answer, but gazed with foreboding at the forest.

"You married?" he said, at last dismissing the duppy.

"No."

Silence.

"Girl-friend?"

I shrugged non-committally.

"Why you girl not wit' you now?"

"Haven't got a girl-friend," I said. "Not at the moment."

He looked me up and down again, with barely suppressed scorn, as if a male with leisure who wasn't actively covering a girtl wasn't a male at all.

Of course, I'd had girl-friends. Well, one. But I didn't think he'd be impressed by that. It was all over now anyway, and hadn't lasted very long either. A few months, that's all. At University. In Manchester. From October to February. Half a year ago. But it still hurt, and I still missed her. And my own inadequacies were to blame. Even now, here in Jamaica, loneliness would cut through me like a knife. I would stroll along the beach at Negril in the soft warm tide of evening and see couples lying in the sand. Then sadness would ruckle through me like a desperate ache, and I would think of my own cold, north country loss. It was no good thinking back to those times though, when I'd walk her home to her lodgings, late at night, in the thin comfortable drizzle, our arms locked, our heads bent close together, laughing about impossible things. It was all over now. Just memories of a few songs. And memories of cold Manchester evenings in the rain. It always seemed to rain in Manchester.

"What about you?" I said softly. "You married?"

"Married once. But - ah!" He jerked his chin towards the sea. "De women dem drive you crazy. Always acting de boss. Don' understand a man need other t'ings."

He began picking at blades of grass, then tossing them away. One, he scrutinized closely and started nibbling thoughtfully.

"You like fucking?"

The question was hard, direct and unexpected, like being struck by a stone. My stomach lurched suddenly and the blood pulsed in my cheeks. I blushed, stumbled over my words, slid into evasive fatuities.

"Yes, of course," I said. "Of course."

He laughed ambiguously and eased his hand down his chest, slapping his hairy stomach as he did so. Then he slid those tough, callused fingers beneath his briefs and stretched the fabric with studied casualness, letting the air circulate around his genitals.

"Whoa!" he whistled. "It so hot here, man! where you get dat?"

He pointed at my groin. I assumed he meant my thong.

"In London," I said.

"Very good, man. De quality. I like it. Very sexy. Make you feel sexy?"

My eyes skittered anxiously, my nerve weakened by his strong unwavering gaze.

"De girls, huh, dey like grab you balls? Like that, is it, man?"

Self-consciously I slid my hand over the pouch and smiled uneasily at him.

Again there was silence. I should have spoken, but my mind was a blank. I felt vulnerable before him, conscious of his strength, his vigour and his masculinity, fearing, yet excited by, the slow fuse of scorn that seemed to burn below the surface of his words. He fixed me with his eyes.

"What you want?"

I felt my limbs tremble with a curious, indefinable thrill. I didn't know how to reply. I wasn't sure exactly what he meant. But my blood raced, my stomach curdled, and the itch of incertitude tingled within my penis. With a kind of fascinated horror, I became aware of the erection straining inside his briefs.

"What you want?"

"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" I said inanely, my mouth dry, my voice hoarse and sticking like a fly to my throat. "You come here every day?"

He didn't reply. He just continued staring at me. With my stomach fluttering and my knees weak, I rose, and self-consciously turned my back to him. I stepped up to the line of palms that edged onto the peaty, brown stream. I leaned against a tree and let my fingers explore the smoothness of the trunk.

"You can see so far out to sea. And it's so quiet here. Like a private garden."

Like Eden, I thought.

He was watching me. I knew he was watching me. With those staring, lizard eyes, he was watching my back, my buttocks, his gaze preying on me like an animal of the night. The long, cold tentacles of fear and excitement wormed through my bowels.

"Me like you batty," he said in a low, robust whisper.

I sensed him rising. My legs were trembling. I was ashamed of my fear and dug my toes into the soil. I felt him approach. Submissively I turned and leant against the palm. My breath was quick and urgent, my belly rippling with fear. He was standing a foot from me, the darkness of the minotaur in his eyes. I glanced down apprehensively at his groin, and was unnerved by the sturdiness of his erection. I smiled nervously, in appeasement.. He rested his hand on my shoulder. My stomach was quivering in a slick of excitement. His nostrils flared, and he smiled cynically. He slid his hand leisurely down my chest, then dipped his gnarled, callused forefinger into my navel, and probed there, pressing into the soft belly-flesh, his eyes exploring mine for the first signs of pleasure or pain.

"You like it?" he said. "You like de fucking?"

I smiled uneasily, and he drew the back of his hand down my belly, lightly brushing the skin and causing my abdomen to tremble and ripple at the delicate innuendo of his touch.

He was closer to me now, his face only inches from mine. I felt intimidated by the hard, aggressive features of his face, the broad firm nose with the flaring nostrils, the wide, savage mouth, and the full lips which parted to reveal the white ambiguous teeth. I noticed, too, the dark, incipient stubble on his chin and above his lips, and the thin beads of moisture that glistened like tiny pearls on his cheeks. But it was his eyes that fascinated me, subjugated me with their gaze of razor-like menace. There was something wild and fearsome about him, and my vulnerability showed itself in the timid responses I made as he crowded closer to me and teased my sexuality. My legs had begun to shake. The air was clammy on my skin. He looked down my body and smiled laconically at my trembling legs.

"Hey, Quasheba! Fight good, huh? Wrestle good?"

"Wrestling?"

"Yeah, man - wrestling. You wrestle good?"

And in a sudden movement, like a snake striking, he thrust his hand inside my thong, tugged it down, and began jouncing my balls. He pushed me firmly against the tree. My head was swooning, my body palpitating in the twin tides of pleasure and fear.

"You like wrestle?" he repeated hoarsely, his lips brushing mine.

"Yes," I whispered, cowed and fascinated by his surging masculinity.

He smiled, and his white teeth gleamed triumphantly. He wrenched my slip down further until it dropped onto the grass. I stood there naked, pressed against the tree, my whole body trembling in fear and humiliation, conscious of my weakness against his strength, confused by my cock rising in youthful, ambivalent defiance and trembling in the air.

He laughed exultantly and removed his own briefs. Then he loosened the cord around his waist and dropped the knife to the ground. Thus he stood there, arrogant, supremely self-confident. Fascinated, I glanced down at his throbbing prick as it bobbed hungrily in the air, like a black spear. Quickly I drew my eyes away, and gazed, bewildered, at the powerful chest matted with hair, and then at the hard, ruthless face. I closed my eyes. My breath was heavy, my head giddy. With numb disbelief I felt his cock glide coaxingly against mine. Timidly I shrank back against the tree, fearing I would faint. Amused, he gave a short, dry chuckle, puckered his lips lewdly, then grabbed my sex.

"Don' be afraid!" he whispered, his voice husky and rough with sin. "Dis fight bes' fight. Dis fight no rule!"

As if in a dream, he led me out into the glade, into a clear dish of sunlight. I was trembling, unsure and afraid, intimidated by his strength and his sheer, unquestioning sense of masculine power. He slapped me arrogantly on the chest and the belly. Then he gripped my shoulders. He told me to do the same, undermining me with his cold, ruthless laughter. He stared at me with crude delight, then suddenly grabbed my hair from behind, jerked my head backwards, so that I saw the sky spinning above me, felt my throat ripple in terror. My arms flailed, scrabbling behind me, leaving my loins exposed. Suddenly he punched me in the belly, just below the button, his knuckles twisting and grinding into my guts. The intestines squirmed upwards against my stomach, forcing the air out of my lungs; they squeezed downwards, against bladder and prostate, and my balls seethed in sudden ecstasy, my prick, moist and desperate, jerking towards the sky. I could hear his laughter, hear the velvet flap of wings as a bird was startled from the undergrowth. I twisted in his grip, gurgling in shock, the next blow hitting me lower, just above the bush, crunching my guts.

Then suddenly he dropped his arms to my waist, sliding them behind my back in a bear-hug. I gave a small gasp as his powerful hands locked together, sliding in an emulsion of perspiration and oil. My prick tingled with excitement as our genitals brushed and were then squeezed together. Then suddenly he loosened his grip, bringing his right hand beneath my groin and sliding it upwards through the cleavage of my buttocks. A moment later he was heaving me bodily into the air. I gasped with shock. But the sharp, exquisite frisson of pleasure was also there. He squeezed me to him forcibly, grunting with laughter. I pressed down on his shoulders, wriggling against his body, trying hopelessly to slither free.

Then he flung me backwards. I stumbled and fell onto my back. I shook my head, dazed, the foliage and the sky swirling together like currents in the sea. Then he thrust his heel into my balls. I shrieked with the sudden erotic pain. Twisted backwards. Squirming away. He kneading his heel into my sac. My prick raw and tumescent against my abdomen. A moment more and he had dived on top of me, straddling me, his legs forcing mine apart, his prick thrusting aggressively into my groin, his chest heaving with the thrill of battle. A quick flurry of punches to the belly. His knee grinding into my balls. He pinioned my arms and raised himself above me, his thighs and legs pressing down on mine.

"You no good fighter, white boy," he whispered. "Very weak. You lucky I gentle, huh!"

His prick pressed hard and violently into my genitals, thrusting for entrance. I felt it snaking over my belly, rubbing against my thighs, probing my anus. I was breathing deeply from helplessness and fear. Again, I glanced into his eyes and felt his fierce, savage power. His breath was thick and lustful. I whimpered helplessly. Then his mouth dropped on mine. My eyes closed despite myself and my body turned to water. I writhed against his thick embrace, but just as the ayrms, the legs, indeed his sheer muscular weight, were too much for me, so was the searing violence of his kiss, as his lips moulded against mine, and the pink, quivering tongue darted lizard-like into my mouth. I tasted the ancient sweetness of his saliva. Desperately I heaved upwards, writhing and squirming, trying to dislodge him, but he was too powerful for me. My arms were pinioned, my legs manacled to his. My mouth, too, was a prisoner to his power. Rapidly, my body weakened. Strength drained from my limbs as I lost all will to resist. Defeated, I surrendered my sexuality.

Eventually he withdrew and gazed derisively into my eyes, scorning my delicately-nurtured whiteness, exulting in the masculine triumph of muscle and brawn, rejoicing in the primeval tide that raged through his veins and not through mine.

"You like fucking?" he whispered.

I didn't answer. There was no need to answer. He smiled triumphantly at my silence, levered himself off my body, and lay close beside me. Gently, he stroked my belly. My prick was hard and firm. I was confused, confused by my own ambiguous responses, disturbed by the conflicting waves of desire that swirled chaotically within me. He snickered. Then he seized my cock and began masturbating.

"You like, huh?"

I groaned in a flickering confusion of pleasure and despair. He gave a sharp, sardonic laugh. Then, placing his hands beneath my buttock and waist, rolled me over. I closed my eyes. Blades of grass rubbed against my cheek. I clenched my teeth, biting another spear of grass. The light, delicate odour of earth slipped into my nostrils.

"Please," I whispered. To the grass. To the soil. To the invisible bacteria crowding this microscopic world. "Please.....don't....."

The air that percolated through the pores of the earth seemed rich with strange dreams and fanciful memories of that winter night in Manchester when I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, naked, in the dim light, stroking my body, then turned to the bedroom where Mandy was waiting.

"Yeah, man, you like de fuck?"

End of Part One