Sundays in Graduate School

THEY SLEPT IN on Sundays, coming to the day slowly, lazily, waking, making love, napping, and making love again. It would be almost noon before they dragged themselves out of bed to make breakfast.

“I ran into Nancy,” said Helen one Sunday. “She invited us to go to the Unitarian Church with them some Sunday.”

CJ rested his cheek on her pubic hair, full of the smell of her, drugged by the musky dampness of her sex.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

“No. Do you?”

“Never. I already have my church.”

“Oh?”

“My church is your pussy.”

Helen laughed and said, “Oh God, what have I created?”

From Sodom, Gomorrah & Jones