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One day the woman realized that balding men do make better lovers.

So she went to the library to discover why: androgen, the hormone that causes "regression of scalp hair" and at the same time "growth of body hair" (she ran her mind across her lover's body, but had to stop; she was in the library) also increases a man's sexual desires and his "level of functioning."

The woman smiled secretly to herself as she pushed the encyclopedia back onto the shelf - and very surreptitiously caressed the books with her body, rubbing her breasts hard against the leather bindings.

The woman and her lover never discussed their relationship. He didn't know her last name or her phone number or where she lived. She wrote to him on delicately painted erotic Japanese cards with no return address on the envelope. The woman was in control.

She ran her hands down the sides of her body, stopped at her waist, stroked the soft curves of the hips. The body in the mirror had changed; tauter, it glowed under her touch. The woman cradled her breasts with her hands, missed her lover and imagined his hands playing with her nipples.

Steam seeped out the sides of the waffle iron as the lid closed. She watched it rise and disipate in the crisp morning air and then went to the phone and called her lover.

"I thought of being in bed with you and I'm excited. I want to feel you inside me. I want lick you - all over your body." Before he could respond, she softly hung up the receiver.

As she turned back to the kitchen she looked out the window, saw her husband and stopped to watch him water his garden.

"Hi," she said when he answered the phone. "Do you have time for lunch?"

"Go take off your underwear. Come to me just that way." Neither of them said goodbye, they just hung up.

She did what he said and left the office, and as she descended in the elevator with the men in their three-piece suits she blushed, hoping none of them could tell.

The drive to his studio was quick, all of five minutes, yet by the time she arrived her unprotected thighs were wet. The woman reached between her legs and coated her fingers with her own moisture. She licked them, amazed at her behavior, but excited by her taste.

The heavy, twelve-foot-long wooden bay door to his studio was open and she climbed up the three-foot ledge and walked in. He was waiting for her, naked, behind the door. Immediately, he slid it shut, and without even saying hello, began to kiss her.

He laughed when he tasted her mouth. Watching her face, he clasped her hand in his, reached under her skirt and guided her fingers, entwined with his own, deep inside her. He raised her fingers to his mouth and his to hers; together they tasted. Again he led their hands under her skirt and inside her.

Holding her that way, he walked the woman accross the room to the couch. He extricated his fingers, unbuttoned her blouse, and caressed her breasts, leaving a trace of her scent on them as he ran his hands up her throat and through her hair.

They made love, him naked, her still dressed, his arms grasping her close to him as if without her he could not exist. When they finished he undressed her and carried her to his bed and made love to her again, this time slowly, with less urgency.

When the hour was over the woman put on her clothes and went to the mirror to fix her makeup. She saw at once that her hair was different, fuller, shinier, and that her skin was smoother. She wondered if any of the men in the office would notice.

She turned off the hot water, felt the cool water running into the tub through her outstretched fingers and remembered her lover. He threaded his way around her thoughts as she soaped her daughter's body and squished the bubbles over the tender young skin, making her daughter laugh.

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When the woman recalled taking a shower with her lover (their bodies glistening against each other as they made love, the steam enveloping them, water droplets clinging to her hair wet halfway down her back; he teasing her and watching as she played with herself in response, lathering her flesh and gliding her hands up and down the insides of her thighs and back and forth accross her breasts) she was lifting her daughter out of the bath.

She tucked her child into bed and read her Alice in Wonderland.

The intensity of their lovemaking occasionally scared her; she thought she might become lost and never return. Sometimes the next day she would find a thumbprint on her thigh, a tender spot on her breast close to the nipple. Once both her breasts her covered with tiny bruises; she examined them carefully and counted them, thirteen in all.

It was her ritual to never visit him until the bruises faded, but as time went by, keeping to this self-imposed schedule became difficult. She sent away to a mail-order house for an herbal remedy purporting to make bruises heal faster. The potion worked and they faded in half the time.

His studio was their playground. They made love in every corner, on every surface, until the woman felt she knew his space as completely as his flesh.

She visualized one of his sculptures, "Siblings," the visual portrayal of an incestuous desire, of words that cannot be spoken, acts that must be suppressed, emotions that must be controlled.

Two translucent marble forms, arms and bodies entwined, are lying side by side on a black marble bed. The larger figure is a woman; the other a man. The man caresses the woman's full, marble-veined breasts, pressing them together with his hands while he sucks on both of her nipples, his face nestled in her white flesh.

After she saw the piece, the woman always thought of her lover as her brother.

The woman woke to find her breast in her lover's mouth. She turned toward him and pulled his head closer into her body, his mouth taking more of her into him until she filled him completely. They had been lovemaking for hours, and now the sounds escaping them were quiet, in unison, whispers of insatiable desire, a hunger for each other that could never be satisfied.

When he came they were kissing, and he screamed into her mouth, his lips pressing hard against hers, sealing the sound within thier bodies. It echoed back and forth between them.

Later, she got up, hating to let him slip from inside her, and saw that they were covered with her blood. She washed herself and then gently and slowly cleansed his body.

She watched him water his grapevine. It grew is the central courtyard of a building in the smoggy downtown industrial area. The vine, planted many years before when the district was a vineyard, crawled up the scarred brick wall, two twining gnarled branches that spread and covered the lattice roof of the small courtyard. She was astonished that the plant continued to grow in the four-inch patch of undernourished city dirt.

The woman watched as her lover, little by little, poured water into the dirt patch; the vine slowly sucked it up. He tipped the pitcher and poured more water. The vine slowly sucked it up.

She wished she were the vine, watered by her lover, patiently.

He filled the crystal glass with cognac, handed it to her and then lifted the bottle and spilled the sweet, thick liquor over her shoulders. It flowed accross her voluptuous breasts, through the deep hollow between them, down the axis of her body, past her naval and into her pubic hair, leaving the trace of its course on her flesh.

She laughed and drained her glass with one swallow before reaching her arms out to him. He bent his head down to her cognac-soaked breasts, and as he licked and sucked the luscious liguid off her body the woman began to cry.