Redheads are always a little crazy. But that makes sex even more upside-down and inside-out. Which is a good thing. She had a habit of kicking my buns with her heels when I was in her, as if nudging me in a little deeper. She had a habit of scratching and biting.

Some people scream, some people shout, some people don't say anything. She would simply whisper in my ear, "Fuck me. Your dick is so big!" I'd look to see if she was laughing, but she wasn't.

The laugh was what made it all great. The laugh, that never departed, no matter where we were. It said "Joy. Joy. Joy." And joy is good. I live for joy.

I don't ski Black Diamond. In fact, I don't ski at all. And if I were ever able to scale a rock face with my bare hands, I'm sure that halfway up, I would freeze and they'd have to call in the medevac helicopter. Even if I were only 20 feet off the ground.

When I was with her, all that astounding energy, all that buoyancy she possessed buoyed me up as well. She conferred an immense, smiling passion that refused to be swallowed up in the vast dreary cesspool of day-to-day life.

And when she laughed, I had no choice, I had to smile. And when we finally came together, after swimming up the channels of our love, breathless (me astounded by my own vitality), she wasn't the only one laughing.

My laughter would come out of me like a small explosion. I would crest into her, there would be that head-swimming moment when past, present and future collapses into the now. Then I would rear up, shiny with sweat, she looking up at me. And it would come, better than the orgasm, full of exultation. Unable to stop myself, I would laugh. A hearty laugh. From my belly up through my nipples.

And she'd be lying there all languid and ask "What's so funny, pal?" And I'd say, "Nothing."

Read No. 29.

Private Life Romance, relationships, and the personal side of Table Talk