Early this morning I feel like boasting: our love making is no less than divine—when we make love, we make love, and vice versa, when we make love, we make love.

Addendum (March 27, 1994)

This was written in Cambridge, but we soon left for Yugoslavia, where we spent most of that summer. A good part of that period we were in Belgrade, which Lauren had turned out to love for the ubiquitous scabbiness and manginess of the place. We would make love as soon as we would wake up; we would make love after lunch, when my parents would take their afternoon nap; and we would make love before going to sleep. Often enough we would make love in the dark streets and pissed-up doorways of Belgrade. This we would do almost in jest, to mark with our juices the places we liked, like street cats. In spite of several horrible fights, I remember this period as quite blissful. As soon as I would tell Lauren I loved her, I would get an erection; as soon as I would enter her, I would feel my love swell in my heart. In fact, this had remained with me until quite recently, but now we make love so rarely that I do not even know any longer how I feel about her. Indeed, this afternoon I do not feel like boasting…