Though she’d never before handled a male organ, Day was for once a fast learner, fondling the tender scrotum, fossicking the warm furrow, and hoicking Professor Benjamin’s hefty cock until the gooey seed spattered her soon-to-be A paper.

The sun hot slab of Central Park granite beneath her almost bare bottom and the jackhammering thrusts of William’s indefatigable prick upon her practically unprotected pubis made it nearly impossible for Molly not to think of the expression “between a rock and a hard place,” but the flash and glint of three full carats from her ring finger provided just enough distraction.

These sentences, aside from being neighbors, have nothing to do with one another, but perhaps after time, after getting to know one another, they will establish a rapport, a friendship, a relationship which goes beyond mere words, and they will mate, out of which congress might come, besides the bliss of their congress, something more, the start of a tale, one which might over time grow, word by word, until it is a full story, a being unto itself, and then how proud the parent sentences might be, especially when their little story goes on to win the praise of publishers and the care of booksellers and the hearts and minds of myriad readers; or maybe these two proximate but isolated sentences won’t get along at all, won’t fight, won’t fuck, won’t feud, won’t wallow lovingly, fiercely in each other’s words, and maybe, after all is said and done, as the book closes, all we’ll hear is the faintest snatch of aborted song: an ineffable, not-quite-one-syllable sigh