I reached behind me and put my hands under my ass cheeks and spread them slightly, positioning that hole in my shorts just right so he could see. “I...really feel it here.” I said. “Is that where you should feel it the most?” I asked as I arched my back again and threw my ass into the air and headed his way. I felt his hands leave my calves and his fingers ran up my back toward my shoulders. “Yes,” He said. “And here, too, along your back and shoulders. My ass hit his stomach and made its way. I finished my wine. Charlotte seemed engrossed in the final chapters of Tree of Life -- the dressmaker, the concert with the Jewish violinist, Stan’s death; the boy with a piece of glass who would write a poem.I thought of Finnegans Wake and of Mann’s Magic Mountain and the way modern novels end, begin, circle. Eddison, too. Ouroboros. In Antony and Cleopatra she’s wished ‘all the joy of the worm’. But worm might be dragon.“Gordy! Are you OK?”“What?”“You were mumbling and I was worried.”“I’m. More

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