No

train-track veins on the naked arms - late last night on channel 934 - and no scars on the arse, no scratches or scabs, no blotchy patches or sags around those straight hips, no flakes of skin irritating the nips, and not even a hint of boredom in the smiling eyes, as the phone again rings and she, the pornostar, licks her lips, while some stranger cums on the other end of the line, somewhere amongst the beauty of Italy.

4am. Flowing along the flesh-flute, the usual rhythms of Fist. The connosieur Eyes inspect the scene on the screen, and then ask: "Where are the usual hints of drugs or rapes? The background of damaged life expected, there behind the leisuerly surface of self-pleasure? Such an unharmed angel! She of self-love and luxury! Money and endless nudity! She of such fresh pert breasts, and that all-body tan!"

"But look at that firm chin, those flat feet, that knob of a nose," say, I, Fist, as the spunk-javelin fires along the fingers, and then up past the wrist. "She used to be a man. A man," I add as the white slick reaches the chest, the whole body squirming in a brief and vast yes.