Free Mantissa by John Fowles

white strap of the tunic off her delectably rounded and golden shoulder. But she clamps her arm against her side when the whole top of the garment threatens to fall.
    “And before you start thinking you’re doing a marvelous seduction job, I’d better remind you that you’re not the only one by a long chalk. I’ve had my clothes taken off by sensitive geniuses. I’m not going to be impressed by a composer of erotica.”
    He takes his hand away. There is a silence. Then, still staring at the wall, she slips the hanging strap under her elbow.
    More silence. Still she stares at the wall.
    “I didn’t say you had to take your arm away.”
    He puts it back.
    “Not that I care a damn. Personally.”
    He teases, very gingerly, the front of the tunic over what prevents it from falling to her lap.
    “You think I know nothing about men. I can tell you my very first lover had more sex in his little toenail than you do in your whole boring body. Or he would have if he’d had a little toenail. You wouldn’t have caught him just looking at the breasts of Miss Greece of nineteen eighty-two.” She adds, “I refer to nineteen eighty-two B.C., of course.”
    He raises his hand, and lets his other hand, around the shoulders, slip down to the bare waist and pull her a fraction closer. He leans to kiss her cheek; in vain. She turns her head away.
    “But then he didn’t have an infantile transferred fixation from golliwogs.” He clears his throat. “I take that back. But then he didn’t have an absolutely typical male pseudo-intellectual’s sexist belief that making black sisters proves he’s a liberal.”
    There is a silence. She looks down at his right hand and its movements.
    “I’ve a good mind to tell you about him. Just to put you in your place.” She watches a few moments more. “And that happens to be a purely involuntary reaction. I can produce exactly the same effect using my own hands.” She sniffs. “As I often have to, given how inept and ignorant most of you are.” His hand stops. She lets out an impatient breath. “Oh for God’s sake. Now you’ve started, you may as well go on.” He goes on. “I don’t know why men put such enormous value on it. It’s actually not half as exciting as you all so fondly imagine. It’s only a biological survival mechanism. To facilitate suckling.” A moment or two later, with another sigh, she leans back, propped on her arms. “Honestly. You’re just like laboratory rats. The simplest trigger… off you trot.” She subsides further, on her elbows. “Nibble and bite. Bite and nibble.” There is a silence. But then she sits abruptly and pushes him away. “You can’t do that until you’ve undone my zone. Anyway, you’re only trying to distract me. What you really need is a good bucket of cold water.” His hand is slapped. “And stop that. It’s a very complicated knot. If you want to do something useful for once, you’d better go and close the door. And turn the light out while you’re about it.”
    He goes to the door, and closes it on the impenetrable night that stands beyond. She is standing as well, by the bed, her bare back to him, her hands by her side, untying the saffron girdle. But just as she is about to slip the tunic down, she glances back at him over her shoulder.
    “If you don’t mind. We’ve already had quite enough voyeurism in this sickening room.”
    He presses the switch at the door. The white panel above the bed is extinguished, but another panel above the door, apparently controlled from outside, continues to glow. It is dim, penumbral, like summer moonlight.
    He opens his hands apologetically.
    “Sod. You’ve just invented that.” He raises his hands in denial. “Oh yes you have. There hasn’t been a single mention of it before this.” She admonishes him with a long moment’s accusing stare, then turns her back and steps out of the tunic. Now she faces him, holding the garment in front of her bosom, like some Victorian