The touch of his fingertips on my back is like a great cellist brushing the strings of his instrument, or a watchmaker turning a tiny screw invisible to the naked eye. The feeling is erotic, magical, and I just want to go home and go to bed.

Love is possession, a sort of vanity.

You know deep down something is over a long time before you face it and do something about it. In bed, as in life, we pass through endless little deaths and wake reborn from them to start again. This is what it is to be human.

There is a sense that we are waiting for something, that however wonderful something is, there is something else waiting to tempt us; however perfect someone is, someone else might be better, more suitable, more fun, better in bed. Whatever road you chose you may just have easily chosen another.

There are many ways to live, to love, to aspire. The mountain only has one peak but there are limitless paths that you can take to reach it. The secret, they say, is to find your own path and stick to it. What they don't tell you is that the path is invisible. If you find it, or imagine you've found it, you follow the path in the dark with nothing to guide you but self-belief.

When you add love to sex, it feels as if your soul is being drawn from the chains of gravity into the core of the infinite. New feelings come to life, emotions without explanations that we try to name with that perplexing little word we avoid using as if the word is sacred or sacrilegious.

There are many kinds of love and many kinds of lovers. You just have too find the right one for you.