He never understood it until years later. Her name was Helen. She was his age and a widow, so they had something in common, though of course she would never know it. She was a hairdresser, and real pretty, a blond with a short cut, thin. She was patient when he needed patience and forceful when he needed pushing. Once, she took whiskey from the bottle with him, and he pinned her to the mattress in under ten minutes, took her hard and from the front, 'cause that was what she liked best, and he cared.
One of the most shameful things he done in his life, though: when he came he was crying, and he kicked her out not ten minutes later. Even if it was pussy and tits and blond and widow he was fucking, it wasn't. It'd been the smell of whiskey on her breath and nothing else.
He understood that man or woman didn't matter. A lot of years, he'd been unfaithful.
Was a long, cold time he only had his hand for company after that, but at least there weren't any illusions in the scent of a woman or the feel of her from behind.