It’s gratifying to remember Bexleigh Day. Sometimes I’ve conjured a memory, at other times they appear suddenly, and each time I’ve celebrated the wise decision and good fortune which brought me to her. It was only a week ago. I paced the room before she arrived at the hotel. The night and its details had been easily arranged, leaving me with excitement and some anxiety about the unknown. But Bex was soon in the doorway. Playful expectation was now replaced with a gorgeous young woman, smiling so sweetly, so beautiful, an astonishing counterpoint of radiance in the drabness of the corridor in which she stood. We wined away for a while and talked about frivolous and serious things. Laughter was easy. I wanted to be closer to the lithe and lovely vision resting on my bed, but I also revelled in the moment, because I somehow understood and was content that the flow of things was in her control. Bexleigh stunned me once again when she came from the bathroom in black lingerie. This was a woman basking in her own sexiness, such proud carnality, an embodiment of passion. I was mute. I became a devotee. I’m grateful to have shared the time and space with Bexleigh. A world in which such a thing can happen is kinder than I thought.