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May 17, 2004
Thrust…grunt. Thrust…grunt. He pulls in, and out. Slowly, then quickly. I live on a shelf. I live right next to The Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby and In Cold Blood. It feels good here. I feel lost but not alone. Thrust. Grunt. He is done. I finished a long time ago, my fingers clutching his back and his neck in melody with his hips. He buries his face in my hair and inhales. I think he hopes to find something there he remembers, amidst that tangle of sweaty, perfumed hair. He relaxes into me, and we are gods.