That summer

We got married in winter, and by early summer of the following year, life had settled down, so much so that it began to feel empty. We went about our lives as a young couple, following the same routine every day
.

I remember one early summer evening, the weather was neither too hot nor too cold, quite pleasant. We lay naked in bed, as we always did. We seemed to have
gotten into bed at the same time, each of us engrossed in our own reading, and so we lay there reading. After a while, I suddenly felt something was off: a man and a woman, lying naked
together, yet able to look at each other without noticing? Thinking this, I nudged my wife beside me and asked, "Hey, why are you reading instead of looking at me?" My
wife was taken aback, then laughed and said, "But aren't you reading too?"

Yes, I'm reading too. "How can we read without looking at each other's naked bodies?" I
murmured, half asking her and half asking myself.

"What's so strange about that?" the wife said. "After watching it for so long, how can you watch it all day long?"

"Really? You don't want to watch anymore after a while? We're supposed to be together for a lifetime, and you don't want to watch anymore? What's
the point of us living together then?" I began to ponder.

After a while, I said to my wife, "Do you know what this phenomenon is called?"

"What's your name?" his wife asked, puzzled.

"Sexual assimilation!" I said calmly. "This is a manifestation of gender assimilation. There is no longer any gender difference between the two of us."

My wife seemed to understand, but not quite. She silently placed the book on the bedside table, then gently but calmly embraced me before falling asleep peacefully.

After my wife fell asleep, I was unable to sleep almost all night. I started thinking about marriage, about life, about existence.

Perhaps influenced by this issue, or perhaps driven by some subconscious impulse, I wanted to find an opportunity for my wife and me to
separate , so I told my wife that I would go to Beijing to learn a different skill that would suit my future livelihood. My wife was very supportive, and in
the early summer of that year, four or five months after our wedding, I went to Beijing. I felt as if I wanted to breathe fresh air, see new scenery, and experience new things.
This was my first trip away from home after our marriage.

Early summer in Beijing was hot and dry, reminding me of Xiangzi, the rickshaw boy from the classic Chinese novel *Rickshaw Boy*. His dream was to earn enough to own his own rickshaw. And me? Besides the stated
purpose of studying, though I didn't clearly confront it, I couldn't deny that I always wanted to experience something in this legendary capital. My trip to Beijing wasn't
an organizational assignment, nor was it driven by financial necessity. Although I gave some reasons to my superiors, my wife, and my family before leaving, I knew in my heart that wasn't
the whole story. What was the whole story? I didn't know, I really didn't know. I came from a small family in a small town, and I was fortunate enough to live in an era where education was considered useless.
Of course, I didn't know about Andersen's fairy tales or Greek mythology, but deep down, I seemed to naturally yearn for such things to exist.

When I stepped out of the station, I was extremely hot and thirsty. I couldn't bear to buy an ice pop to cool off, or even a large bowl of tea. Facing the hot wind that greeted me from the capital,
I vaguely yet clearly hoped for something. It was this clear yet unclear hope that made me feel cool and refreshed.

I carried a huge pile of luggage on my shoulders and in my hands, and with great difficulty, I arrived at Beitaipingzhuang in Beijing, to stay with a female colleague from my workplace. This colleague had come to Beijing to study more than
a year . She was the one who helped me contact teachers and accommodation in Beijing. My first step was to seek refuge with her.

This female colleague was a new recruit to our unit. She was eight years younger than me, 19 at the time. Because she was sent away for training shortly after joining,
none of us really remembered her. The only thing we knew was that she was studying in Beijing and had close relationships with teachers there. Perhaps that's why the unit wanted
her to finish her training; of course, she didn't know that. Before she came, the unit leader told me, "You must inform her that the unit's next steps are for her; don't let her stay in Beijing
."

When I met her, she was incredibly welcoming. Perhaps because she had been away from home for so long, she treated me, a colleague with whom she had little contact, like family, running around
helping me settle into my accommodation and contacting my teachers. She was a huge help to me.

After a few days, I had basically settled in, so I treated her to a meal to express my gratitude. I remember it cost 8 yuan, which felt like a small feast at the time.
She was quite touched. After the meal, we took a walk to escort her back to her relatives' house. On the streets of Beijing, a man from a small city who had recently gotten married, and
a young woman who had been in Beijing for over a year, were excitedly chatting about Beijing, its customs and culture, everything about Beijing. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, we
found ourselves talking about the romantic relationships between men and women in Beijing. This female colleague was very enthusiastic. She told me that Beijingers were very indifferent to this kind of thing;
in modern terms, Beijingers are quite open-minded. Constrained by traditional inertia, she said she was very interested in this topic, but she was vague,
which left me with more room to fill in the gaps with my imagination.

The following period was a mixed transition between my studies and my work in Beijing, and my female colleague's preparations for leaving the city. She would introduce me
to various aspects of studying and living in Beijing, and take me to visit some famous scenic spots; I would help her with some shopping before she went home, and accompany her around. In this way,
we became relatively close.

One day, after a long day out, we returned to my rented apartment around 3 PM. We rested briefly before heading to a concert that evening.
During our rest, we each took a shower, and then she lay half-reclined on my bed while I sat on a chair opposite her. We began another indistinct conversation.

Here, I need to emphasize the meaning of "ambiguous speech." You might laugh, thinking, "Who doesn't know this idiom means: said something, but not clearly?" Well
, only those who lived through that era and those circumstances can understand why this happened. Back then, we all seemed to want to express what we
thought about all day long, but never truly understood. If we hadn't even thought it through, how could we explain it clearly? And what we wanted to say was
something that people at the time considered very inappropriate to talk about. Ah, it felt like scratching an itch without hitting the root cause, making it itchier and more uncomfortable; or like dreaming at night about doing
something incredibly strenuous, but being unable to muster the strength, feeling suffocated.

We racked our brains to find topics to talk about, but we kept rambling on about other people's romantic affairs, as if we all wanted to use other people's wine glasses to pour out
the pent-up feelings in our hearts.

Men are always men, and men are always more impatient than women. I finally mustered the courage to squat down on the bed, half-lying beside her. My female colleague suddenly tensed up—
a shy tension, the tension of something longed for but suddenly happening. Looking back now, I'm embarrassed to even describe it. I
didn't grasp the true meaning of her tension; I thought she was going to reject me. Before she could even ask why I wasn't sitting properly in the chair but had come to the bed, I said, "
I'm tired, I'll lie down for a bit, is that okay?" She quickly shifted her body slightly to the side and said, "It's fine, you lie down." To further deepen the conversation,
and to reinforce my reason for lying down, I casually took her hand and said, "Let me tell your fortune." Haha, heaven knows I don't know anything about fortune telling; it was just
an excuse . I touched her hand, pretending to read her palm. Actually, I was intentionally feeling her pulse. I felt her pulse quickening, faster and faster.
This in sync with my own emotional rhythm, stirred the surging currents of our young lives. Our hands gradually warmed, beads of sweat appeared, and our
faces began to flush. The atmosphere we created was completely off. Later, when I attended elegant gatherings and was required to politely hug women,
I often noticed that those of higher status than me didn't hug women with the same natural elegance as I did. I was grateful for the lesson this reckless experience had
taught .

When I pounced on her, our conversation hadn't reached a suitable level where we were both sexually aware. In fact, we were both confused
and caught in an awkward moment, unsure of what to say or what to say.

When I pounced on her, I didn't even choose my stance properly, or rather, I didn't choose at all; I just lunged at her without thinking. At that moment, her hands
were aimlessly playing with her fingers in front of her chest.

And so, at an extremely inopportune moment, unprepared for what seemed like an embrace, yet not quite a rape, she was confronted with a clumsy
and awkward external action: a strange object fell upon her, and this heavy object landed squarely on her hands, which were resting against her chest.
Whether startled or instinctively pushing me away, her face contorted in shock, she acted as if nothing had happened; on the contrary, she was
in high spirits, chattering about various topics the whole way. At the time, I thought she was kind, trying to relieve my embarrassment.

Later I learned that she didn't feel unhappy at all. On the contrary, it was as if something very happy had just happened, like receiving a letter she
had been looking forward to the most. Even though it was just an empty envelope, the letter itself was something she had been looking forward to.

Along the way, unlike my face full of shame and remorse, my female colleague looked refreshed and relaxed. At that moment, my heart was perfectly suited to listening to a concert.

We arrived early, half an hour before the concert started. I really enjoyed the atmosphere of the audience lounge before the gala: brightly lit, filled with distinguished
guests sea of faces, the fragrance of various flowers, different brands of perfume, and the unique scents of men and women permeated the air. Handsome men and beautiful women
, like half-starved fish in a goldfish bowl, excitedly swam through the crowd. Long-lost friends exchanged elegant and polite hugs and greetings, while acquaintances, immersed in the happy anticipation of the upcoming performance
, chatted enthusiastically about various topics.

In this setting, the noble have a platform to display their noble qualities, while the lowly have an altar to admire and yearn for nobility; it is also a psychological atmosphere where men and women exchange glances and explore each other's hearts.

Coming from a small city in the heart of the Central Plains, as I entered the concert hall, I felt like Grandma Liu visiting the Grand View Garden, overwhelmed by the sights; yet I also felt like Julien Sorel in the
drawing aristocrat, subtly excited, self-consciously comparing myself to others, and dreaming of the future.

My female colleague, who has many friends in Beijing, had long since fallen into some joyful social vortex during this lively time, completely forgetting about me
. Seeking some peace and quiet, I hid in a corner of the auditorium, greedily observing this unfamiliar high-society social scene.

No matter how broad one's field of vision, one can only focus on a small point for an extended period. Although the sights in the theater auditorium were already overwhelming, I
eventually focused my gaze on one thing: a girl in her early twenties. How to describe her? I don't know if it was my mindset at the time or the surrounding
environment, but the moment I saw her, I thought she was the epitome of beauty. She was beautiful to the point of being almost too glamorous, and simple to the point of being
almost too plain. Her figure was perfect for my visual needs—not too tall, not too short, not too thin, not too plump. Her clothing was neither too plain nor too flashy; the light-colored long dress fit her perfectly.
She exuded one feeling: standard, so standard that she couldn't be more beautiful. She was standing alone at the same time as me,
her eyes fixed on the entrance to the auditorium. It was clear she was waiting for someone.

Since her gaze was mostly fixed on the entrance to the auditorium, I had ample time to observe her. Occasionally, when she shifted her gaze from that
point of interest to another direction, our eyes met. Of course, I would quickly look away, like a child caught stealing food. But I think
she knew I was watching her.

Just before the concert started, she hadn't seen the person she was waiting for. I watched her go to the theater entrance and sell the extra ticket. I was really hoping
to sit next to a listener I liked—an elegant, woman I hadn't dared to imagine seeing her in the auditorium. But to my surprise, she walked towards my
seat . My heart pounded; happiness had come so suddenly. But I was immediately disappointed. She came to my row, but not to sit next to me; instead, she sat
in the aisle seat. Behind her, a middle-aged man walked by, clearly having just bought the extra ticket she
had sold . I was utterly disappointed. But just as the middle-aged man reached our row and was about to walk past the girl to sit next to me,
the girl suddenly stood up, pointed to the seat she had just been sitting in, and said to the middle-aged man, "You can sit here." Then, she herself sat down in the seat next to me
.

Ah! The concert in my heart has reached its climax, a brilliant and flowing passage is rolling and rippling in my heart.

The concert began with the first piece, "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun" by French Impressionist composer Claude Debussy.

The band members were seated, and under the guidance of the concertmaster, a slight, noisy sound of tuning began. It's
a good thing . While the band is tuning, the audience is also making final adjustments to their posture, focusing their gaze, calming their emotions, and
mentally preparing themselves for an aesthetic experience.

The conductor made a dashing entrance. His brief walk from the proscenium to the podium was like a star's stroll. He stood there, head bowed to his chest, motionless,
waiting for himself and the orchestra to calm down, waiting for the audience's emotional state to settle. Because the first piece tonight was Debussy's *Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun*, a
very tranquil piece with a weak, impressionistic opening, the conductor stood there longer than usual before a concert, further
emphasizing the solemn and dignified atmosphere.

The commander raised his hand! The gates of heaven slowly opened.

The lingering blue morning mist filtered the sunlight, making it exceptionally soft. The damp scent of the grass, warmed by the sun,
mingled with the aromas of the men and women in the concert hall, creating a very cozy atmosphere. The girl next to me possessed a faint, youthful fragrance, like that of a woman after a bath. Against the backdrop of the overall warm
ambiance , it became a unique and delightful scent for me to savor, making me feel light and ethereal, as if I had entered the languid realm of the Roman god of shepherds.

I shifted my body occasionally, trying to find a more comfortable position, allowing my blood to flow more freely with the music. At the same time, while maintaining politeness and restraint
, I tried to lean my body as close as possible to the unfamiliar girl next to me.

The conductor and orchestra continued their chanting. The oboe played a dreamlike, passionate theme, and Pan smugly basked in his dream. I, too, began my own dreamlike
journey .

As I looked at the program's descriptions, I wondered, why did Impressionism exist? Perhaps the initial, fleeting impression is often a reflection of the essence of things
. The impression of an awkward experience with a colleague, the hazy impression of the girl's fantasies beside me. I listened to the music, breathing deeply, not wanting to let go of even a
trace of her scent. She was lovely, very subtly fanning herself with the program, waves of her fragrance seeping into my lungs. I boldly
moved my right arm, which was on the armrest we shared, very slightly towards hers—ah, our
arm touched. It was barely a touch, perhaps not even enough to smooth out the fine hairs on our skin. But the feeling was incredibly real. To
avoid the awkwardness of such close contact, perhaps we both tacitly, from the moment our arms touched,
froze our hands on the armrests, communicating only through the tiny hairs on our skin and the sensitive nerves and surging blood vessels beneath, a silent
exchange understanding.

Pan is embracing Venus. A sudden commotion erupts in the quiet concert hall: the commotion of people's hearts.

The god of shepherd felt that he had offended and blasphemed the gods.

I felt the stares and gossip around me. I thought of my female colleagues in the other seats of the concert hall, and my wife far away in my hometown. My arms started to feel
loose , and the girl in the next seat probably sensed something too; she was moving as well. Finally, with a flick of her hair, she inadvertently
moved our arms, which had been touching for so long, apart.

The pantheon returned to his languid state. The music vividly portrayed the lazy and lonely pantheon, who was merely indulging in a fleeting, illusory daydream. As the music faded,
the pantheon, in a state of serene tranquility, reluctantly bid farewell to reality and returned to that illusory dream. Only after the conductor blurred the musical lines to a very distant place
did he bring the orchestra and the audience back to reality.

When I walked out of the theater, it felt as if the whole sky had been washed clean. I met up with my female colleague, and then we went our separate ways back to our respective residences.

The day after the concert, around 10 a.m., my female colleague came to my place again, bringing a whole bunch of ingredients for cooking. She said, "
Let's cook lunch together today." She seemed very enthusiastic, completely unfazed by the awkward experience of the previous afternoon. I felt quite relieved and touched. I've been in Beijing
for many days now , eating whatever's available at the street-side eateries near my place, hardly having had any proper meals.

Under my female colleague's direction, I assisted her in the landlord's kitchen. While cooking, I seized a moment when she seemed to be in a good
mood and tentatively said, "I'm sorry about yesterday!" She glared at me while stir-frying the vegetables: "Why do you keep bringing that up?" Her tone and her gaze
stunned me. I felt like a lowly civil servant in a Chekhov novel—explaining wasn't right, not explaining wasn't right either. After a moment of bewilderment, I silently
continued our cooking under her direction.

The meal was finally ready, a steaming, fragrant table of four dishes and a soup was laid out: Mu Shu Pork, west Du, and a hint of anticipation for what was about to happen.

We enjoyed the meal very much. To celebrate my female colleague's birthday, I suggested we go to a nice restaurant that evening, and she happily
agreed. She can't hold her liquor, but she poured me some of her beer. The beer in her hand wasn't for tasting, but rather a prop; after our first toast,
she downed most of the can. Soon after, her face flushed a very pleasant smile.

I lay down, but I didn't know what to do with my hands, especially my right. Holding it in front of my chest felt uncomfortable; placing it on my head was also uncomfortable. This discomfort
gave me another reason: to place it on her feet. So, I tentatively put my hand on her feet. She moved her foot slightly, as if to indicate disagreement,
but then again, it was just a slight movement. I placed my hand on her knees and sat there quietly for a while. I don't know when, but I began to slowly stroke
her legs. She moved her foot slightly again, just as I had when I placed my hand on her legs, again as if to indicate disagreement, but then again, it was just a
slight . So, I very steadily and rhythmically massaged her legs. Gradually, she seemed to find my massage more comfortable; her
previously tense legs relaxed, and sometimes she would slightly change the position of her legs so that I could massage the areas she wanted. This gave me the feeling that she was
hoping for something to happen. Ah, the thing I've always hoped for is about to happen! The moisture on the ground will evaporate into the sky by the sun. No matter how long it drifts, no matter how many
ever-changing patterns it forms, no matter how colorful the rainbow, it will eventually turn into rain, and eventually this rain will pour down on the earth.

As I slowly and alternately kneaded my female colleague's thighs, our minds were completely in sync. As she cooperated with my caresses, I moved the leg from the chair beside
the bed onto the bed as well. She shifted her pillow further into the bed, and we lay together comfortably, like a couple, even though we were sleeping
at opposite ends of the bed. My hand slowly moved towards the "Shangganling" of sexual pleasure. Her cooperation became more cautious. At this moment, my hand, like a dark cloud in the sky, could no longer
withstand the pressure of desire; it was about to rain. After lingering at the foot of the "Shangganling" for a while, my hand finally, like Huang Jiguang, pounced on the "gun hole" of that happiness
fortress . My hand completely covered her genitals; because we were sleeping at opposite ends, it was very convenient for my hand to rest there.
The moment my hand touched her, my female colleague's body trembled violently. Then, her buttocks arched upwards slightly, just as they had when I first placed my hand on her thighs, as if indicating
disagreement, or perhaps not; in any case, it only moved slightly. I didn't move, I just placed my hand on her mons pubis, and remained still, using my heart and energy to feel it.

What followed was a period of communication between souls, through clothing, and through the point of contact between two bodies. There was no language, no movement, everything was still, except for
the restless mind, the restless nerve endings, which were working intensely. I could clearly feel the nerve endings in my palms and fingers throbbing,
the blood vessels pulsating, and the beads of sweat glistening; I could also feel the blood vessels in her pubic area and groin throbbing, the nerve endings trembling, through my palms and fingers. Was this period
a minute? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I can't really remember exactly how long it lasted, but I know it was enough for me to remember for a lifetime.

Rainwater falls and wets the ground. I felt my female colleague's pants were wet; I didn't know if it was from the sweat on my hands outside or from the seeping
pleasure . Rainwater moistens the earth, and new life sprouts from it. I don't know when it started, but I felt her mons pubis moving. Sometimes it was
a very slight up-and-down arching motion, like a bamboo shoot slowly pushing against the pressure on its top; sometimes it moved left and right, as if her mons pubis sensed some inexplicable
restlessness, as if searching for a more comfortable place. It tried left, it didn't work; it tried right, it didn't work; staying still was even worse, so it had to keep moving, struggling to find
a more comfortable paradise. With the movement of her hips and mons pubis, my hand moved faster, increasing the pressure. The frequency increased, the amplitude increased.
At the same time , my penis grew increasingly swollen; the natural angle of the erection was very uncomfortable due to the pressure of my pants, so I used my hand to turn it towards my head
. At first, it was slightly better, but eventually, that didn't work either, so I simply unzipped my pants. She knew I had unzipped my pants and kindly touched my penis with her hand. Ah,
that feels much better. I felt better, but she felt uncomfortable just like me. She unzipped her pants herself, and I helped her pull them down. Then I reached out to caress her
pubic hair . Ah, that wasn't a pubic area at all; it was a swamp, even her pubic hair was soaked. I considerately and quickly reached out to help her. I inserted my thumb into
her vagina and used my other fingers to caress any other places that needed soothing. We began a joyful frenzy amidst light moans, a whirlwind of pleasure, a tempest of emotions,
a tumultuous storm , a tempest of emotions. We worked intensely with each other, with our own hands… Blood rushed through our veins, countless capillaries burst,
our bodies were engorged with blood, and our forms were rapidly stiffening… Our nerves were at their peak of excitement, and our control was at its limit. Following the laws of physiological response,
driven by emotions, and responding to the call of desire, we quickly took off all our clothes, lay down at one end of the bed, embraced each other, our bodies intertwined, our tongues
intertwined , bodily fluids and sweat mixed, and our souls danced wildly in this land of tenderness.

In the midst of our frantic struggle, I entered her body, and it seemed she even guided me a little. When I entered her, I was stunned! I had sexual experiences with two women before—my first
love and my wife—and with other women afterward; their physical reactions were similar. But this female colleague beneath me was absolutely
unprecedented and unparalleled. Her body was so strange: First, as soon as my penis entered, her vagina felt like a nimble hand, instantly and
completely enveloping it, warm and soft, leaving no room for error. Second, her vagina didn't
grip in rhythm with her body's movements; it had its own independent rhythm, almost like a rapid, 16th-note rhythm at 120 beats per minute.
Third, the gripping force was astonishing. I couldn't believe such strength existed in that soft, gentle place. I thought even if she used her hand, she
could have that much strength. Afterwards, I tried to mimic that force by squeezing my penis with my own hand, and it took almost 80% of a man's grip strength to
hold it tightly. Many years later, I heard from people who had seen sex shows in Thailand that some women used their vaginas to cap beer bottles. I absolutely believe it. Even without training
, this female colleague of mine possessed that innate vaginal strength.

With each contraction and relaxation, each softness and hardness, alternating repeatedly, I never imagined that a woman's body could bring a man such intense pleasure. With each hot and cold, each high and low,
rising and falling, I felt as if my body and soul were swinging together because she gripped me so fast and so powerfully. I felt as if I didn't need to thrust, but only needed to experience
and savor the almost drug-like pleasure she brought me.

I propped myself up with my hands, intending to make closer contact, to make her, who brought me so much pleasure, a little more comfortable, and to
better appreciate her expression as her vaginal sphincter tightened rapidly.

As she moved rhythmically to the rhythm of her internal bodily waves, her face was smiling, her eyes seemingly looking at me, yet also at something
infinitely far away. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing half of her tongue, like the petals and stamen of a newly blossoming flower. I couldn't help but lean down and kiss the flower, kiss
the stamen. The moment our lips touched, her head suddenly jerked upward, pressing tightly against mine. The stamen suddenly transformed into a small snake, darting into
my mouth and intertwining with my tongue, swirling and churning, the swirling faster and faster, the rhythm becoming increasingly chaotic.

The liquid coming from her mouth was like extremely strong liquor, and the gas coming out of her mouth was like steam billowing from a freshly opened steamer. I was drunk,
I was dizzy.

Ah! She let out a deafening scream. My head spun, my vision went black, and with the last of my sanity, I pulled my penis out and placed it on her lower abdomen. Then, with
a very unpleasant male howl, I ejaculated for the first time since my marriage for an extramarital affair.

We lay there quietly. My bodily fluids slowly diluted on her lower abdomen, forming beads that gradually spread into a puddle, shaped like a map of Eden
; I was rapidly sinking into a valley, not knowing when or where I would stop… Like nature, after a storm comes calm and sunshine, and
after even the most frenzied climax, there is always an unimaginable tranquility. After the intensity of our physical and spiritual experience, our minds were blank with peace, and we
lay there quietly, breathing lazily and relaxed.

In this stillness, I began to experience a persistent sense of mental descent. I remember a teacher at work telling a story about dizziness, saying in a heavy Sichuan accent, "
Before that phlegm comes out, I'm so impatient, but once it does, I just want to kick that woman off the bed!" At the time, I just
found it funny, laughed it off, and forgot about it. Now, it suddenly came back to me. I've had sex before and after marriage, and I've experienced the intense longing before orgasm
and the overwhelming sense of peace afterward. But those were fleeting feelings, both in intensity and duration, and passed quickly. This time, the feeling
was exceptionally strong. After surpassing the peak of excitement, the rollercoaster of pleasure seemed to plunge into an endless abyss. The further I fell,
the further I drifted from the previous sexual pleasure, the less I understood the previous longing and the psychological process of creating foreplay, and even more I regretted it—why did I make love this time? What was the point? But I
know that this is a phenomenon of the past, and I cannot reveal this feeling at this moment. Otherwise, it would be
the greatest desecration to the woman lying next to me, the woman whose body and soul were just one with mine.

If anyone feels confused about how to grasp life, they only need to seriously study sex to accurately grasp life, as the sexual process is almost
a condensation of the life process.

I lay there quietly, savoring the experience of sex as a microcosm of life's
endless . When we were kids, we often played a game while swimming: throwing our own or our friend's foam slippers far into the water, then swimming
frantically to retrieve them. A while later, we'd throw the slippers far away again, then swim back to get them. Isn't life the same? Time and again, we set a goal for the future,
striving and striving, achieving or being disappointed, taking a break, letting time pass, then setting another ideal as a slipper thrown into the water, and striving again towards a new goal
.

Like sex itself, the process of setting goals, pursuing those goals, creating the atmosphere, and engaging in the act itself before each orgasm is incredibly busy. But what happens after reaching
the peak of excitement? It invariably brings the same feeling I have now: a rapid descent. I've had this feeling before, and I've wondered if, next time before sex,
I could recall that descent after sexual arousal and perhaps reach a point where I completely overcome the natural influence of sex on my emotions and reason.
Haha. Unfortunately, I'm not a superman. I never think about that descent before sex, and I forget the desire I felt beforehand afterward. Humans are like that, haha.

I almost burst out laughing when I thought about it. Suddenly, I realized there was another woman beside me, a woman still covered in my semen. I immediately
snapped out of my philosophical reverie and grabbed a towel to clean up the mess on my female colleague's abdomen. I first
carefully , then washed the towel with water and wiped her again. I first used one side of the damp towel to carefully wipe her thighs and pubic hair, which had already
been soaked in my semen, then used the other side to wipe the areas where the semen had remained. As I wiped her body, I suddenly felt
a fatherly feeling, a rather tender feeling. Just as I was about to rinse the towel again and wipe her one more time, my female colleague silently got up and
dressed herself, piece by piece. I also silently went to dress myself.

After my female colleague finished dressing, she suddenly lay down on the bed again, turning to her side with her back to me. From behind, I could see that she had started
sobbing . I gently patted her shoulder and asked, "What's wrong?" This question turned her sobbing into a full-blown wail.

I lay quietly beside her, slipped my left hand under her neck, and gently pulled her into my arms, making her feel cared for. Then I began to wonder, somewhat
confused why she was crying.

Why was she crying? Although I was holding my female colleague, my arm was almost in a stiff arc. I knew that at this moment, like a student being scolded by a teacher,
walking away was wrong, and going to ask or argue was even worse. So I neither asked her why she was crying nor left her crying alone on the bed, but got up and got out of bed. And so,
I supported her with that stiff arc of my arm.

She continued to cry, her crying becoming more relaxed, more unrestrained, and more even.

Why was she crying? I tried to guess: tears of joy? Unlikely; tears of sorrow? Also unlikely; a lament of grievances? There were no grievances, it all
happened . I really couldn't understand it. Women and men's logic isn't always the same system; sometimes they completely misunderstand each other's feelings.
My head was throbbing with thought, but I still couldn't figure it out. Adding to that, the fatigue of a man's post-coital refractory period, and I unknowingly fell asleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but I woke up when she nudged me. I realized that my arms were no longer around my female colleague. I was sleeping on my side, and she
was lying on her side facing me. The tear tracks on her face were still there, but her eyes seemed to shine even brighter after being washed by the tears. When she saw that I was awake, she smiled slightly and
looked at me silently.

"Ah, I fell asleep?" I rubbed my eyes sleepily, and once again put my left hand under my female colleague's neck and hugged her.

"Why were you crying just now?" I asked her, puzzled.

"It's nothing, I just want to cry!" she replied playfully with a half-smile.

"Happy? Sad? Wronged?" I kissed her cheek and continued to press her for an answer.

"Neither!" she replied blankly, then removed my left arm from hers, lay back alone, and stared at the ceiling.

"If you don't tell me, I won't know why you're crying, or if I did something wrong, or how to comfort you." I said to myself,
partly as a self-deprecating remark for not getting an answer, and partly to urge her to tell me why I was crying.

"Regret!" she uttered, her voice as mechanical as the two robots' own.

Oh my god, I get it now, she regrets having sex with me, and I regret it too! The regret that men already feel during the refractory period after sex
was suppressed by my female colleague's crying earlier, but now that she said that, my regret has suddenly surged up. I clearly feel that I deeply regret the sexual experience just now,
and I don't know what all that desire and effort before sex was for. Now it's my turn to be confused.

We lay there quietly, our two bewildered hearts resonating with each other's bewilderment.

"What do you regret?" Although I might regret it more than she does right now, I won't let her know that I regret it.

"I despise myself! I've let him down!"

"Him! Who?" I asked without looking at her.

"Someone I love!" she continued in a robotic tone.

I don't want to say anything more. I know she's an early bloomer. She was only 16 when she joined our company, and her female characteristics were already very developed.
In the past two years, she's been away for training, and I've heard some rumors about her—that she dated a young man at the training center and had an affair with one of her trainers. Who
knows who the man she's talking about loving right now is? What does it have to do with me? I'm just annoyed that she didn't think things through beforehand and then regretted it afterwards. If she regretted it,
why did she have to say it? Isn't that a denial of the other person? Although I also felt a little regretful, I didn't say anything. First, I'm responsible for my own actions; why
regret them? Second, I couldn't bear to defile the person I had sex with.

"Shall we get up?" she said indifferently.

I responded silently, quickly got out of bed, and indifferently tidied the bed where we had just fought.

She silently straightened her clothes and combed her hair.

After we had all finished getting ready, it was time for her to leave. Just before she was leaving, she suddenly stopped, looked at me, and solemnly said, "Even though what happened just now,
we are still lesbians!"

"Isn't it closer than friends?" I asked her, trying to ease her regret. I prepared to kiss her again. Just as I was about to kiss her
lips, she suddenly raised her head, offering me only her forehead.

I stopped. She wouldn't let me kiss her lips anymore, and I didn't even want to kiss her forehead.

I asked something incredibly stupid: "We've been so intimate just now, why won't you even kiss me on the lips now?"

Her answer made me regret asking that question for the rest of my life: "I don't love you!"

Humans are truly complex. Sometimes they can be the closest of friends and family, sometimes complete strangers; sometimes they can share joys and sorrows, sometimes they can turn against each other. In
extramarital relationships where physical pleasure is the primary factor, the changing nature of these relationships is truly astonishing.

Whether it was my straightforward nature or my male pride at work, I retorted, "I think the same way you do, but I'm not
as cruel ; I didn't say it!"

She paused, unsure if she understood what I meant, then turned and walked away without looking back. Our
plan out of the question.

I walked with her to the door, silently watching her departing figure. She didn't turn back until she disappeared from my sight.

After my female colleague left, I went back inside and closed the door. The room, which had been steaming all day, suddenly felt cold and empty. I sat down, staring blankly
out the window, looking south, towards my hometown, and a fierce yet calm introspective thought began to wash over me.

I had my first extramarital affair.

Did I have my first extramarital sex?

I had my first extramarital affair, it just happened, it's true.

The sudden loneliness, coupled with the physical aversion after sex, deepened my regret for my first extramarital affair and my guilt towards my wife. I
couldn't sit still any longer; I needed to do something immediately to make my body and this room I was in different from what I had been in before.

First, I rearranged some of the furniture in the room, moving the bed and desk. Then, I changed all the sheets, duvet covers, and pillowcases,
even though I usually dread doing laundry. Next, I cleaned the entire room, wiping the table, bed frame, and even the windowsill with a cloth.

Next, I gave myself a thorough cleansing: first, I brushed my teeth—the most meticulous and thorough brushing I've ever done in my life; second, I took a shower.
After the first shower, after drying myself off, as I was getting ready to get dressed, for some reason, I went back to the tap, turned it on, and showered a second time, following the exact same
procedure as the first, washing myself thoroughly once more. If the first shower was about washing away the tangible dirt left after a physical experience, the second shower
was a complete spiritual cleansing; it seemed that without it, I couldn't face the torment of my soul.

After cleaning and taking a shower, I felt a sense of relief and refreshment, as if I had just finished my work.

I sat down at the table and wrote a letter to my wife. Of course, I wasn't foolish enough to tell her what had happened; I wanted to forget about it completely
. The letter was just a polite reminder to get some rest, but for me, writing was a form of emotional redemption.

After writing the letter, I wrote a long diary entry, in which I deeply repented for my behavior and my soul.

I thought that from then on, I would be completely transformed, I would change my ways, and I would forever stay away from extramarital affairs and return to being a
virtuous person with traditional moral ideals.

No! Life isn't that simple. This moment of spiritual repentance is merely the dregs of traditional ideas rising to the surface, the drag of long-standing traditional psychological inertia,
a handrail needed when stumbling upon waking from a dream, or even just a fig leaf needed to cover up something that isn't ugly in itself when it's perceived as ugly. Once Pandora's box
is opened, it shouldn't be closed; once the snow-capped mountains are melted by the sun, the rushing water will flow downstream. Only by releasing hope can we defeat evil; only by guiding the flow can
rivers return to the sea.

Later, as time passed, my female colleague still had sex with me before leaving Beijing; later still, she experienced the most severe emotional
and reputational trauma a woman can suffer; later still, she had a happy marriage and went to the United States; later still, when she returned to China to visit her family, besides her relatives, I was the only
friend she wanted to visit.

Later, I finished my studies in Beijing and returned to my own city, where my wife and I lived a peaceful and intimate life. Later still, I had an extramarital affair
. Later still, my wife and I seriously analyzed our marriage, the affair, and the extramarital sex. Later still, we found what we considered a scientific and happy view of marriage:
the three principles of marriage—stability, affection, and tolerance.

【over】

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