In the big old oak beyond the bedroom window a batch of sparrows chirped away. I lay listening to them, feeling the sun's warmth soak into the blanket... The pillows and the bed and my own body seemed permeated with the faint bouquet of Martha Jane's hair and skin. Between my legs was a new wake-up sensation: it felt as if my lower tummy and my genitals were coated with a fine, powdery film of something uniquely female, not sticky or pasty, but soft as down, a feathery lingering of Martha Jane's. She whispered into my ear, “So, is it my beauty that leaves you unable to speak, or did you just have a stroke?”When she drew back, likely my stuttering did not help her clarify that question. She figured things out on her own, seeing no facial droop, and started to laugh. “Oh, you fool! If you don’t drag your tongue back inside our mouth, you’ll trip over it! Here, let’s get into the lake, and hope that the cool water will shock some sense into you!”.I followed, her bouncing gait through the. More

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