I dive in and surface in the cool, clear water, striking out a couple of lengths of crawl. I love that moment when you hit the water and the clumsy gravity of land seems to be instantly replaced by sleek weightlessness. My body feels streamlined and strong, moving effortlessly at speed, graceful and thrusting. It is an escape and I imagine myself travelling far with each stroke although I am actually staying in the same place - a twenty metre pool in my condo.

I swim every day. It is when I think; it is when I dream. Sometimes my thoughts are mundane- what shall I cook for dinner? Other times they concern my work. Mostly I write stories in my head.

Ten. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke. I am well into my rhythm now, settled into my smooth breaststroke, half submerged, eyes closed, sun warm on my back, front cool in the water. The pattern lulls me; part of me switches off. I am alone, suspended in a tank of water lapping without purpose like a goldfish in a bowl, deep inside my own head. Twenty. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke.

Today is different. I am not swimming to relax or dream or think. Today I am swimming to burn off the energy that is bursting inside me. My body feels alive and energised, wired and pumped up. I am like a runner before a sprint race, every nerve ending straining, unable to stand still, heart pounding, blood beating, adrenalin coursing through my glands. It feels like move or explode.

Thirty. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke. He always does this to me. I had almost forgotten the last time, the only time we were together and how it changed me. Too much had occurred in the interim so that my memories were hazy; the time became a smutty joke, a byword for sexual marathon. Even between ourselves we made smart comments to bolster up the reputation that the incident had gained. But it was more than wild sexual gymnastics, much more. What is this thing he does to me that fires me so?

Forty. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke. He is asleep. I couldn't wake him. A hellish long journey and a night of little rest; I can't blame him. But I cannot lie beside him without touching him or wanting him. I barely slept, tossing and turning, broken half-dreams, still in his arms, waking myself with cries of passion that I had uttered hours ago. He would stir, mutter something, pull me close but sleep on. I would lie in the lee of his body but it gave me no peace. I could feel the rough, unshaved stubble of his face graze my neck, the rise and fall of his rhythmic breathing against my spine, the soft droop of his genitals pressed against my butt, his strong arms wrapped around me, caressing even in sleep, and those powerful legs interlocked with mine. I was hot- from his body, from his passion and from that burning desire within.

Fifty. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke. I should be tiring but in fact my speed is increasing. I want to empty myself. He is so strong and relentless. Once he pulls you to him, you are helpless. Nature and his will prevails. But he is no brute. His tenderness is heartbreaking, even when he is loving me in ways that might seem dangerous or abusive. But they are not- he has never laid a finger on me in a manner I did not wish for. It is the way we are. We release something in each other that neither of us understands, but both of us accepts. That is the way we are. He fills me with his raw strength, pounds his blood engorged energy into me, offers me all he is and I receive it gladly. And then he sighs, that soft, incongruous sound, and floods me in his gift. And falls helpless in my arms, to talk and smile and be the man he never can be any other time.

Sixty. Roll, turn, push off, glide and stroke. Some of the girls say he is judgemental; I suppose he is- full of attitudes and platitudes that make me smile. But he never judges me. I'm not sure he quite understands me. I am out of his frame of reference and he simply sets me apart and doesn't question my ambiguities. He knows I don't want to be protected; he knows that I won't confide in him. Perhaps he enjoys that he can be free of his own needs to cherish and take responsibility. I don't know; neither does he. He's a man from a world and a time that is alien to me. But sometimes I think he reminds me of my father. Dear God, what does that say? Oedipus- you got it right! Strong men, brusque and rigid, driven by temper and simple codes. Both needing to protect and take control, both tender and wounded within.

A shadow falls across my lane as I surface at the edge of the pool. I stop and grip the side. He is standing there, hands in pockets watching me, no discernible expression on his face. Is he angry that he woke and I wasn't there? He crouches down to speak to me. I wipe my eyes and smooth back my hair.

"How many?"

"Sixty something so far."

"You got there yet?"

"Where?"

He smiles, a crooked half-smile. "Where ever you want to be."

I shrug. "I wasn't running away. I was trying to ease down."

"I watched you from the balcony. You looked like you were swimming across an ocean."

"I had a lot of energy this morning. I needed to expend it, that's all."

"It's hot."

I nod. "You don't have weather in California. This is weather," I smile. He looks up at the blue, blue sky and the burning sun framed by the towering tropical hardwoods in the beautiful grounds of this complex. "Why don't you come in and cool off?"

He shakes his head. "Later. I'm hungry."

"I'm sorry, I'll go cook."

"I didn't mean for food."

I push back and glide on my back watching him as he straightens up. He looks so fine, dressed in a tight black T-shirt and a pair of beige Chinos. I can see the sweat on his forehead and have a sudden urge to lick it off. I close my eyes and feel the silent weightlessness and the sun kiss my body.

When I open my eyes he is gone. I look around. Has he been there? How long have I been floating? Pulling myself out, I pick up my towel and dry off, slip on my sandals and run for the lifts. I race back to the apartment and let myself in. It is cool and quiet inside, a local radio playing some easy listening on a very low note. I enter the bedroom. He is still asleep. A shiver of something passes through me. Was he there on some other plane? Or was my mind playing even greater tricks than usual?

As I watch him, he stirs and rolls onto his back. He is groggy, unsure where he is, a little grumpy as he rubs his eyes and begins to remember. We look at each other.

"You're wet," he growls in a lower, huskier voice than usual.

"I went for a swim."

"Come here," the husky tone, but now mellow with a sexual promise.

"I'm still wet."

A smile. "Good. Come and wet me. I think I need a swim."