My tongue would not stop leaking. From where I lay—chest pressed into his writhing thighs, chin nestled in the lush mounds’ crevice as I prodded their centre—his body seemed to grow out of me, rising up like a wriggly flower. I watered and watered and watered it, my tongue slippery and drunk. It all became so gooey, I tell you, so mucky and gorgeous. As I so often do in the midst of this peculiar joy, I thought about God. I worshipped there; his ass raised up to kiss me back. I slavered and marveled and probably gurgled. This could be expressed no other way. Joy shimmered in the exudate: cleansing, naughty, anointing. And yet still I poured forth, rivulets that ran down his tailbone to pool in the small of his back. I watched the gathering puddle, imagining I could grow it for hours. We would create an ocean, yes; there would be tides and tempests and astrological implications. I would never run dry; this succulence was endless. The lake made me curious, its milky tide lapping above where I lapped; I wanted to play God with this landscape. With one muscular shove of my tongue—oh, delicious hide and go seek!— his cries transposed up a few scales. Pressing a finger down on his slim left flank, I drained off that lake; it oozed south past my finger, disappearing down onto the sheets. I saw every thing that I had made, and, behold, it was very good. And I was just getting started. My tongue sprang eternal.
