A curtain. I’m walking that way as it is, so I skirt closer to the lorry in question. The window’s down, on this cold, cold night, but the curtain...��s still drawn. I stop, I wait, I’m not staying. A twitch. The curtain goes back. A head. A face. A quiet voice. “Busy?” I shrug, I smile. I’m in.Not like the others. Not quite. A talker, the first of the evening. I like that, I like to talk. He asks if I’m ok. I am. He asks if I’m on something. I am. He seems to approve. I ask if I can do some, and. When he talked to her afterwards, she said that was working well for her and she could just focus on the sensations without any of her shyness intruding. Then the big question. “Could she tell it was him?” Of course, she wouldn’t be expecting anyone else so that was difficult to answer. “What if it were a different man? Do you think you could tell? If you could, would it be exciting?”She was trembling as she tried to answer those questions. On the one hand, they were stimulating to imagine; on. More

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