pool. When the pigs feed, they disturb the skin that forms over the swill.
I’ve grown accustomed to the smell, I’ll admit; but that night, I simply did-
n’t want to deal with it. I couldn’t.

For some stupid reason, I went to the window to reason with the
pigs. I wanted to tell them I was weak, that I couldn’t bear their rapture,
the stench. I stuck my head out the window just as one of the pigs came
up for air. They dunk for the larger morsels; and as I watched his mouth
work feverishly to manipulate the slippery shit he had collected from the
bottom, I heaved into their swill, to drown out the sound of slobbering, I
think. All the pigs converged below the window to the spot of florescence
floating in their broth, so I backed away, not wanting to see them fight for
my bile. It was then I was desperate for the cleaner smell of rubbing
alcohol.

I knew she was old, but she was strong. She had all her teeth, wide
hips, huge breasts. I pictured my hands kneading her soft flesh as if she
were some enormous pile of fresh dough.

Usually, a half hour passed after supper before she asked for her
massage. I waited. I didn’t want to upset her. I waited and trembled,
ecstatically horny.

And then it happened. She took off her apron and headed for her
room. I followed, both of us silent. I watched her climb into bed, pull her
skirt up. I went back for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. I took my time
coming back, leaving her alone for a bit, her skirt pulled up high. I
thought she might get horny too.

How should I explain this? When I saw her lying there, looking up at
the ceiling with those, well, crazy eyes, I realized she was begging me
for something but was too embarrassed to ask me outright.
Lift your skirt higher—I see a knot of veins, fine and blue, I remember
saying, on the inside of your thigh. Higher, higher up. That’s it.