The urge was too great to withstand any longer. Her face and vagina are competing for my attention, so I glance down at the billiard rack of my penis and testicles. Mistake me not. It splits into fragments of every hue the world has hidden as it strikes the prism of their shelter. And since a lot of book lovers are writers—closeted or not—it can be fun and therapeutic to ridicule success. He is panting, still running his race. I am not your Pollyanna, I am not your sweet princess. He wanted to cry like a baby. It was a tough race. We fucked, we fucked, we fucked, we fucked, we fucked, we fucked. He feels the huge change in meaning, in status; it is as though he had grown up in a single suck. He kisses them. I can almost sense the numinous reality of the ammonite. Soon I was locked in, balls deep, ready to be ground down by the enamelled pepper mill within her.
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