In truth, she would have been amazed if it had lived up to her expectations. Or at the very least, extremely surprised. How many mornings-after had there been in her life when she hadn’t woken up disappointed? Two? Three at most. It is as if they do it to her on purpose. Hardly has the bedroom door closed behind them than they are at it like soldiers or mechanics, rolling her and squeezing her as though she were a piece of dough, their hands clumsy, grubby, with no trace of imagination, desperate to get inside her as quickly as they can, like racing dogs. Any hope that she has had of arousal
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