"Take off your clothes," Matt says. "I need to see what you look like." He pauses. "I promise I won't do anything. I just want to look."
     "You don't have to promise anything." . . .
     Teaching thick fingers to be nimble is part of the education. She lies on the sofa and lets him unbutton her shirt. For purposes of early education, her bra is front closing. He lets loose the clasp; it springs open. He unzips her pants. She wiggles out, pulling down her panties. For a while, he does nothing, only looks -- all the while absent-mindedly sucking his own finger. Finally, he touches his finger to her nipple. It shrivels to a tight knot. He wiggles it back and forth. Ding, dingy. He plays with her titty. He cups a breast in each hand, holding them, molding them as if to divine all he can . . .
     His face is against them, sniffing and licking and then sucking, pulling hard as he would on a soda straw. Nothing comes. He is disappointed, having thought there would be something, a little snack, a single squirt. Still so unfamiliar with the connect-the-dot routine -- the simple switches that connect lip, tit, and pussy -- he hasn't noticed that all along her hips have been rising and falling, bucking for attention . . . And when he finally gets there, when his investigation leads him south, he says, "Oooohhh, gross, it's all wet. Did you pee in there?"
     He peels her apart, asking, "Is it supposed to be like this?"
     "Like what?"
     "I don't know, like this?"
     "Yes."
     Studying, staring, making what appear to be mental notes, his fingers dip in, slide down the slit and into the hole, feeling around as though by accident he's dropped a penny or a dime and would now like it back. Wiggling fingers. Finding nothing, he pulls out.
     "Show me the clip."
     "Clip?"
     "You know, your clip. It's supposed to do something."
     She reaches down, exposing the gemstone, the dancing dot of pleasure. "Clitoris," she says. "Clit, not clip?" A short course in pronunciation.
     "What's it do?"
     He with his great erector set, his bursting birthday toy, the wondrous want that rises and falls, launching rockets, firing jets of joy, the juiciest jizz of the jungle, he with that magnificent mechanical manhood is not impressed: hers is the wind-up model.
     "It feels good when you rub it." . . .
     "Show me," he says. And she does, illustrating the procedure with her own hand, encouraging him to gently take her titties under tongue while she does the rest, and in seconds there is the shiver, the shudder, and she stops.
     "That's it?" he asks.
     "Yep."
     "I don't get it."