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Chrissie Bentley has been interviewed! Click here to read interview.

Maybe it was the wine talking; perhaps it was the way the shadows fell. But, from where I was lying, watching, it was the sort of prick you only read about in the most literary erotic anthologies... you know, the ones where the writer is so concerned with convincing the world that she's a poet ("on that dark and stormy night, his penis arose like a rosebud breaking forth, its unblinking eye proudly pledging to flood my sex with foamy lust") that the only person who could get truly turned on would be her English professor. The rest of us simply look on in abject horror. Read too many stories like that, and it could put you off sex for life. And reading.

But Peter had one of those cocks that could make you go all poetic; that really did leave you rummaging in the back of your mind for something to say that was not a mere gasp, followed by an intake of breath and a "mmmmmm" of approval. Something that wasn't "yummy." Except it was yummy and the only problem was, it was over there, I was over here, and there was 20 years of non-romantic, non-sexual, and not even mildly flirtatious friendship standing between us.

Peter's one of those guys that every girl knows. He's been around forever, but never as more than a face in the pack. He's usually somebody's brother (Rosemary's, in this case), and he's always there if you need a chaperone. You've never slept with him; in fact, you don't know anybody who has, although there's usually some girl hanging adoringly off his arm, and you never catch her name. ...

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