Happiness

He's thirty-nine, a writer, dried up and waiting for better days. She's ten years younger, an arts graduate, not doing anything much. Both married, both bored. Lust at first sight. And so they f**k each other and keep f**king each other, just about everywhere in just about every way, and their desire increases. They explore every facility available to intensify their excitement; toys and films and vodka and cocaine, and peep-shows, exhibitionism, and voyeurism. Drugged on each other, they want more. They don't talk much. But they do keep notes. Hers fill the left-hand pages of their short, shattering novel, his the right. Alternately dazed and lucid, shrewd and bewildered, they provide a precise description of sexual passion, its smells and tastes. Of the rest of their lives, they record a few fading fragments: names of designers, novelists, singers; some stray ideas and concepts, and brief scenes from their marriages like clips from old films. Their erotic journey begins in a hotel room, and ends in a toilet cubicle. Happiness is not a love story.