Like yelling out underwater to see if your friend on the other side of the pool can decipher your bubbly shouts, like typing on a keyboard disconnected from a computer (or, for the cynical, into MS Word with too many windows open on a taxed box with Autosave turned off) it's the next step past invisible ink, no fluid being secreted to gum up the silent and unread message it conveys which must never be understood or comprehended.

Clasped in naply serenity I idly stroked her back with a finger, twirling this way, dragging that. Recalling some long-ago cunnilingus advice in some magazine or another, I moved to letters of the alphabet for variety of texture and direction. Set the hand on automatic and it goes off, spelling out the message in hypnagogic movements it feels are most appropriate.

(scratch scritch scratch) I
(scratch scritch) L
(scratchratch) V

My goodness, am I writing what I think I'm writing?

(scratch scritchscritchscritch) E

Why, I do believe I am. Fitting that the hand is willing to admit what the brain is not. What am I to do about this?

(scritch scratch scratch) Y

Woah ho, that's a mighty squeeze she just gave me! Is that in response to the sensation of the caresses or in anticipation of the conclusion of the text? But how could she know? Nobody's back is that sensitive as to make out letters! (Then why am I writing them? Precisely for that reason?)


Just in case, this calls for a case of emergency over-ride disclaimer! Quickly!

(scratch scraatch scritch)R
(scratch scriitch scriitch)B
(scratch scritch scratch) I
(scratch scraatch scritch)R
(scraaaatch scritch)D

Phew. No giggles at that, so I guess she wasn't keeping track with the letters.

Well, I do love her bird. Maxwell the lovebird is a real charmer, but him I can tell to his face. (... but not in a means he'll understand, so is it really so different?)

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