The screams and laugh of ecstasy, hallucinations wandering the desert, inflammations, reductions, reversals losing the won race, plummeting over the guard rails, easing in. Hands slipped into the waistband, the sudden flash of nipple, tit or pussy, the slow grind of her buttocks in my forever attentive lap. Someday you’ll tell your grandkids you knew me but they won’t believe anything so ridiculous, the night engulfs us, embraces us, smothers us. Let’s give a warm round of applause; a nun wouldn’t say that about a mountain.
David Cain, Song of Songs