There we were at the Villa d'Este, she sketching me and I writing her in my mind's eye. Perhaps were good for each other. In the last few days she had started to get possessive about my time. I was beginning to distrust her, inventing reasons for myself to get away from her.

It was fear. She was cornering me. We would have to go to bed sooner or later. I couldn't leave it up to her. I would have to make the decisive step. After all, I was almost twenty-five years old. I'd have to go to bed with a woman some time. Shaw was forty, I had heard somewhere. But he had had ninety years to live through and more. And he probably never liked it anyway.

She wasn't my type. If I had a type. She was too stout and her face was too large. When you start inventing excuses like that, you know you're fooling yourself. After all, I could do it with any man. You never know about anybody until their clothes are off. A man's clothes never tell you all that much. Why should a woman's? All cats aren't grey in the dark. I hated myself. I was vulgar. She was a tender person, Joanna was. I knew that. She was powerful but anything could wound her. I must never wound her in any way.

Here she was sitting drawing me and giving me the look of a woman who wants a man. Why shouldn't I do that for her? Why should I be afraid? I was a born worrier. You always think you can make a tabula rasa and start all over again. You can keep up the illusions for about ten minutes. Then the same old fears and compulsions hit you.

Last night she had frightened me. We had had a delicious dinner in the old Jewish quarter. We had walked and walked until we were wonderfully tired and hungry. Then we found one of those little restaurants that jut out from nowhere. We sat down on the terrace and had a bottle of soave. Suave soave. Then she talked me into ordering the piccioncione alla diavola just to see what it would be like and the little squablette was as crispy as sin. A handsome street singer serenaded us, pouring his young Italian lungs out. If I had been there alone, I would have absorbed every ounce of his easy masculinity. But I averted my eyes. I tried not to notice his proud neck and wonderful stance. I took him in without suffering. For once I did not suffer because I could not possess. Her protection was there. I had my big girl with me. felt protected.

After a splendid meal, we lingered over our coffee and watched the dramatic Roman sky get darker and darker. We got up to walk when the warmth of the coffee no longer protected us from the slight chill of the evening. We waited for her elevator in the dark hall of her pensione. She kissed me. I knew she would be the one to do it. Her mouth was hungry and her tongue curled and inquired, kittenish, indiscreet, searching. She didn't kiss like a man. But her body was ample, warm, enveloping. We went very far, very quick. There we were, standing in the darkness near the elevator, and I went ahead and satisfied her with my finicky fingers, feeling masculine enough. Then she wanted to reciprocate and somebody came in and almost caught us. From then on they would come trooping in to the elevator almost every minute. We felt silly. She had asked me up to her room but I said I didn't want to compromise her with her omnipresent landlady. No use ruining reputations. She hadn't suggested coming up to my place. Modesty held her back. But I succeeded in angering her. She said that lots of people passed the first hurdles but failed the final exam. That frightened me. Frightened me as isolated fragments frighten you if you are a frightenable person. Why should a boy be frightened if he can't make it with a girl? He can always blame it on her.

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