When Oscar woke up and lifted the book off his face, it was very early in the deep damp morning and he was wide awake. The moon was full, heavy and he was nearing the reputed hormonal peak of his day. He had no memory of what the book was about, but he recalled with perfect clarity a sultrily ethereal gypsy fortune-teller claiming that his female side was nearly as well developed as his male side. As she read his Tarot cards, he sat on a wooden crate sucking on a ball of frozen orange sherbet packed into the hollowed out half of a blood orange and stared at her lips. That’s what he really remembered: her lips, and that they would make a wonderful sofa. His blood pulsed with warm, little sonic booms the more he relived the firm, fluidly muscular movement of her lips and the cool, tangy citrus of the sherbet on his lips and tongue. The little sonic booms in his inner ear got stronger the closer it got to four in the morning and the zenith of his male hormonal power.
Meanwhile, incidentally, but, coincidentally, dutifully, rhythmically, and after all, the moon was full and to Oscar it resembled a bowl with not much cereal and too much milk. He padded to the kitchen and got a box of Captain Crunch, walked outside and threw a couple of handfuls of cereal at the moon. He knew exactly what he was doing. He and his hormones were wide awake.
He went back to bed and tried to remember what he had been reading before falling asleep, the book settling again, softly, maternally, reassuringly on his face.
hey, that tickles 