I published a different, shorter version of the beginning of This could be the Last Time, one of my unpublished and long forgotten novels, on my other blog a month or two ago.  Here, you never know, it may reach a different audience.  Plus I have revised it.

“I’m sorry darling,” I whispered.  “I’m really sorry.”

It was the first time in my life I could remember being at a loss for an explanation.  All I knew for certain was that I was to blame.  My shoulder ached, my throat so tight I could barely speak and my head swam in guilty panic.  Soon, my entire body was shaking.

Quite rightly.  I had failed me, utterly.  Not let me do what I wanted to do.  What I had dreamed of doing for as long as I could remember.  And it wouldn’t even let me do it with the first woman whom I totally, absolutely desired.  The woman I loved.  The woman I had just married.

“Maybe you’re nervous,” Sonia suggested brightly.  “I mean, maybe we’re both too nervous.”  Surely it must have been obvious that, however much I tried, my body was experiencing no lust at all?  It felt almost like an insult that she was remaining so calm.

“I really am sorry,” I protested, hoping a good enough apology would magically change the situation.  “I didn’t mean to…”  Between my legs my sex lay terrified, shrivelled, useless.

“I expect the first time is – difficult.”  My wife giggled like a little girl.  She had never done that before.  Both of us semed to be descending into childhood.

“But making love is meant to be easy.”   Perhaps, without knowing it, I had traded my libido against my marriage vows.  Why had we agreed to wait until after a white wedding?  “I want you so much,” I told Emma once again.  “But… but… I…”  How I wanted to want her!