The Guider of the Prick

She wanted Bill to obey her. She wanted that very much. When Bill came down out of the tree, his mother was a little afraid of him, but she said, “Good”—meaning, she was glad that he was back down.

Boy, she thought, is Bill ever a handsome boy. She put her arms around Bill. Then she tested the skin on her own arm with her fingertips to see if it was still as soft as silk, and it was.

Would Bill’s mother ever say to Bill, “You’ve done enough for me already”?

Bill gets angry now, as a grown man, when some woman guides his prick for its entry into her cunt hole.

But back to when Bill was the pluckiest little boy in the world, sitting on a tree branch, and his mother had thrown a small rock at Bill, and his mother wept and Bill wept, too. Bill saw apology, sadness, and dis­belief in his mother’s face. In Bill’s face, his mother saw ordinary crying going on.

This is what Bill looks like as of today: He is large and unkempt and his mother is proud of him. He is the keeper of the flame.