After supper Molly went out to meet Sara and Emily, some friends from high school she hadn’t seen since the end of summer. They’d changed. They’d become pretentious and silly, fat and snide, like overfed cats. She found she didn’t really want to say anything to them about how her first semester had gone—how could she unless she confessed to sleeping with her English professor? Well, not really sleeping with him, but everything else, and maybe more.

Thinking about the more, she excused herself to the bathroom and sent him a text. Merry Christmas. Homework without you is like sacked kittens in an icy creek.

She was surprised that he replied right away. He must have been on his computer. I miss you, too. Where oh where is the magic wand that will wend you my way?

Don’t you keep that in your pants? she replied.

Sadly so, he answered. And then: Unless it needs, as it does from time to time, a good luck kiss or a long sweet swim in a pool of cunt-hot honey.

He was going to fuck his wife. And if he thought a bit of Molly while he was doing it, what good did that do her? Molly jacketed the cell phone, shoved it deep into her purse, and rejoined her friends.

“Mollicent, what were you doing in there? We were afraid you might be drowned.”

“I have to go.”

“What? Really? You just got here. It’s not even eleven. Don’t be a party-pooper.”

“That’s why I have to go.” They’d called her Mollicent in high school, and now that she thought about it, she hadn’t cared for it then, either.

On the drive home she almost hit a deer. It bounded away at the last second, leaving her shaken. Then she was pulling her mom’s car into the driveway when the headlights flashed on something darting across the pavement and into the neighbor’s bushes. Probably that stupid cat she’d seen in the park this afternoon, unless it was a raccoon. Too small for a raccoon, unless it was a baby raccoon, but wasn’t this the wrong season for baby raccoons? She hesitated getting out of the car. She contemplated sliding across and getting out the passenger’s side, which would put the car between her and the neighbor’s bushes and whatever it was in there.

“Everything all right?”

The tap at her window startled her. It was that retarded neighbor kid, Mark—not a kid anymore, of course—he was a couple of years older than she was, and not really retarded, just a little slow. He was wearing the same jacket he had this morning shoveling snow.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, cracking the door and stepping out. “I thought I maybe saw your cat.”

“We don’t got a cat.”

“Oh, I thought you did.”

“We used to before it runned off.”

“Well, I saw something. Maybe he’s back.”

She wondered what he was doing out here. As if reading her mind, he said, “I was s’posed to straighten out the Santa.” He pointed to the roof. “The wind musta blew him over. I guess I’ll wait to tomorrow.”

Molly looked up at the roof. The overhang obscured her vision. She glanced the other direction to her bedroom window. Funny she hadn’t noticed the Santa, fallen or otherwise, this morning. “Tomorrow would probably be wise. Wouldn’t want you to fall in the dark.”

He laughed. “Hey, Molly, get anything good for Christmas?”

She hadn’t realized he knew her name. “Some stuff,” she said. “These boots.”

“Nice,” he said. His enthusiasm seemed real, but she was sure it was too dark to really see the boots.

“Some clothes and stuff,” she added.

“That’s mostly what I got too,” he said. “Clothes and stuff. Remember when you were little and hated getting clothes?”

“I always liked getting clothing,” Molly said.

“Not me. I hated clothes.”

Molly couldn’t help picturing him naked. She smiled. “I got this really nice kimono-sort of dress. Silk.”

“Kimono. That’s Japanese, right?”

“Would you like to see it?” Molly wasn’t sure why she made this offer.

“You’re wearing it now?”

“Yeah, but it’s too cold out here for me to take my jacket off. If you want to see it, you’ll have to come in.”

“Okay.”

Molly didn’t take off her coat until she was in her bedroom. She tossed it on the bed and gestured for Mark to do the same. His coat landed on hers but slid off onto the floor. “It’s a small bed,” she said.

“Not too small,” Mark said. He picked up the jacket and laid it carefully atop Molly’s. He studied Molly’s dress. “Silk you say?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I just didn’t know.”

“Do you think it goes with the boots? When I was a girl I always wanted boots like these. Cowgirl boots.”

“They make your legs look nice.”

Molly smiled. “Why thank you, kind sir. Sometimes when I was a kid I’d play cowgirls and Indians. My bed would be the horse.”

“Really? So you didn’t need the boots.”

“I guess not. I’d put a pillow on the headboard here for a saddle. The knob on the bedpost was perfect for a pommel horn.”

“Pommel horn,” Mark repeated. “You knew what all that horse stuff was called.”

“Yeah, I loved horses,” Molly said. “My bed was called Big Boy.”

“Like the hamburger.” Mark laughed. A snort of a laugh, but there was no smirk in it.

Molly laughed, too.

“So what kind of clothes did you get for Christmas?” she asked.

Mark didn’t answer at first.

“You forgot already? Must not have been very good.”

“No,” Mark said. “I mean, yeah, it was good. Underwear. From my mom. She always gets me underwear.”

“What kind?”

“Boxer-briefs. One gray and one striped.”

“Like cats.”

“Huh?”

“Are you wearing them now? The underwear, not the cats.”

“You’re funny. Yeah. They’re very comfy.”

“Can I see them?”

Mark’s face registered surprise. He looked toward the door.

“Don’t worry, no one will barge in. Not after what happened this morning.”

“What happened this morning?”

“Nothing. Just a little misunderstanding. Go ahead. Show me your comfy gray boxer briefs.”

Mark started undoing his belt. He stopped. “How’d you know I was wearing the gray ones?”

“Just a lucky guess. It’s not like I have X-Rated eyes. Now let’s see.”

Mark took his time undoing his belt. “X-Ray,” he said, “not X-Rated.” He worked the button. The zipper. He had it halfway down.

“Don’t be shy,” Molly said.

“The thing is...” Mark started to say.

Molly could see what the thing was. The front of the boxer-briefs bowed ardently. “Mmmm,” she said. “They do look comfy. Snug and soft. Can I feel?”

Mark looked to the door again. “I don’t know.”

Molly’s fingers brushed the swollen shape at the front of the boxers. Her touch was just firm enough to test the springiness. The feel delighted her.

Mark sprang back. “I’m not sure if you should...”

“Because?”

“You know,” Mark said, backing away another step.

“Hey, you want me to show you how I played cowgirl and Indians?” Molly asked.

“Um, sure, I guess so.”

“We have to move the bed a little away from the wall, so there’s some room behind the headboard.”

Mark pulled and Molly pushed. The bed shifted a good two feet from the wall.

“When I was little my feet wouldn’t touch the floor,” Molly said. “Now with these boots, standing on tiptoe, I think I can just barely...”

But she didn’t put her leg over. “Mounting up would be easier if I weren’t wearing this dress.”

Mark eyed her warily.

“Should I take it off?” Molly asked him.

“Sure, I guess. Go ahead. I won’t tell.”

“You’re the one who’s funny,” Molly said. “I guess I can manage with it on.” She patted the bedpost knob, round and big as her fist. “Good horsie.” But again she didn’t swing her leg over. She looked at Mark. “You should take off your clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the Indian. Indians don’t wear clothes.”

Once again Mark looked at the door. “Is there a lock?”

“No lock,” Molly said. “My parents won’t be back till way after midnight. Now strip.”

Mark scuffed off his shoes. He removed socks and then took off his shirt. He had a strong chest, tight nipples, a deep belly button, and not much hair. He paused.

Molly’s eyes went from the bow of Mark’s erection to his eyes and back to his erection. “What about the underwear?”

“I’m leaving the underwear on. Indians wore loincloths.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.” Molly swung her leg over.

“What about the pillow?” Mark said.

“Hah! Indians don’t use saddles.”

Mark scrunched his face. “I thought you said I was the Indian.”

“You are, but I stole your horse.” When Mark gave her a questioning look, she said, “You’re just lucky I didn’t stake you over an anthill.”

Mark didn’t say anything to that, so Molly said, “Staked over an anthill, your privates slathered with honey, the ants would squirm their way up your asshole to get at that sweet, sweet pay dirt.” Molly looked pointedly at Mark’s groin. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you, but...”

“Imagine what those ants would feel like in there. But if they dawdle they might not get the honey—not if a big old mama grizzly rumbles out of the woods and beats them to it. Bears love honey-coated cock.”

“They do?”

“Does the pope poop in the woods? You’re not Catholic, are you?”

“No, I’m ... we’re...”

“You’re Indian. So sit Indian style. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll be able to see up my dress.”

Obediently, Mark sat, legs crossed, boxer-briefs tautly bowed. Molly shifted her way forward on the headboard. She had her right knee on the pillow on the bed, her left foot on the floor, barely. It was a bit of a strain to reach. Luckily, the top of the headboard was smooth and curved. Slowly she inched her way along until she was at the very front, her mound pressed against the bedpost knob. Mark was watching her intently.

“You know I’m not wearing anything under this,” Molly said. “Silk feels so good on skin. A rough slipperiness. On my boobies. On my ass.” Molly shook herself back and forth. She was pretty sure Mark could get glimpses of her nipples riding up above the low-cut bodice.

“Bodice,” she said aloud. “Do you like that word? Maybe breasts should be called bods instead of boobs. Round and full and tapering to soft points. Mmmm, the silk makes my nipples feel all tingly. Do you like my bods, the way they bounce?” She shook herself again.

Mark nodded. His cock still bowed the front of his boxer-briefs. She could see the pulse of it. The steady twitch behind the soft gray cotton. Maybe she was taking things too fast.

“Do you like poetry?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Did you have Hamm in seventh grade? Miss Hamm. We called her Ho Hum Hamm. I hated the way she said poetry. So snooty. And poem, too. Two syllables. Po-em. ‘Now class, today we’re going to read some po-ems.’”

“I don’t think I had her,” Mark said.

“Even then I wanted to be a poet. If I couldn’t be an artist. That’s my collared puffbird on the wall. My dad framed him for me. But I know I’m not really any good at art, even if the puffbird turned out okay. I can draw a pretty good fox, too. It took me a long time to get the snout just right. I like the look of foxes. They are so crafty. And those arctic foxes are so cute and cuddly. The red foxes eat the arctic foxes, you know. That’s so sad.”

“I saw a fox once,” Mark said.

Molly realized she’d stopped rocking on her headboard horse. Her left nipple was just visible. Mark was staring at it.

“Peter Handson—have you ever heard of him?”