his pride in his homeland. When Tito died, R. went AWOL from the café for a few days, in order to hitchhike back to Yugo and be in the crowds for the state funeral in Belgrade.

For me the type of regime or country had nothing to do with it. It was the fact that he went out of pure patriotism. The closest thing I’d ever done was to queue in the snow for hours one night, to see the lying-in-state of Sir Winston Churchill, in Westminster Hall in January 1965.

I sought various means of ingratiating myself with R, like obtaining application forms for low-grade employment at the United Nations and helping him fill them in, and other helpful gestures. But his situation was too equivocal, and he never got these jobs, continuing to serve at the café.

The place was always closed from midday Saturday until 0600 on Mondays, and this gave me an idea. I called at the café one Saturday morning, after a short trip to the nearby office to pick up some papers I needed to work on at home. The place was quiet and it was easy to chat to R.

I asked him if he was busy in the afternoon, and when he said that he wasn’t, I suggested picking him up in my car and "going for a drink together". The idea seemed to please him, and he was awaiting me at the appointed hour when I arrived. (He had a room in a ramshackle old building opposite the café.)

It was winter, and you will not be surprised to know that the drink in question was to be chez moi. Sometime earlier, I had acquired a page from a (het) porno mazine, which showed the outline of a huge prick with centimetres marked alongside it, and an indication of what any particular length was good for, at least in the opinion of women. The only one I can remember was that 25 cm (about 10 in) was for "queers and Arabs only".

I’d left that page strategically in his line of sight while I went to pour our drinks. When I returned from the kitchen he was bubbling with laughter. After a short discussion of the various lengths, I asked him, only half jokingly, where he fitted in on this prickometer. Not surprisingly, he would not be specific.

Next I asked him if he would like to see a porno movie (this was before video became widespread) and he rapidly agreed. Fortunately, I could not darken my living room sufficiently, so it "had" to be in my bedroom.

Being the wicked queen that I am, I had naturally set up screen and projector before going out to pick him up, and had even threaded one of my het films with a little bit of poovery in it. The only convenient way to watch was to lie, or at least recline, on my double bed.

He became very absorbed in the moving pictures, and there was no adverse reaction when the man-to-man bit arrived. Indeed, quite the contrary, because I spied, with my little eye, something beginning with E in his jeans. A burgeoning Erection, which throbbed noticeably at certain passages of the movie.

I moved in gently to the kill, putting a hand on his swelling jeans, then sliding the zip down and undoing his belt. There was a mild sort of protest, but not the sort that said he would beat me up if I continued. So I went ahead,