OrGod. Or a horse, or a fence-post, or, for that matter, a cantaloupe. Arevisionist literary theorist could write a fairly well-reasoned booksupportin... any of those hypotheses, as well as a dozen others equally ifnot more bizarre. "Edgar Birdwell: First Poet Lover ofExtraterrestrials."Marcia could see it on the Hope Crossing library bookshelf now. Ofcourse, like Birdwell, she'd have to publish it herself.In the end, what was inspiring about Birdwell was not what he'd written,but how much he'd. "Here's Ella on stage getting wet."Sure enough, the picture showed Ella in a bikini bottom and the standard issue wet t-shirt, her tits entirely exposed by the thin wet cloth covering them.Sarah swiped to the next picture.Ella was topless. And then in the next shot, entirely nude, parading on stage. And in the next, she had her back to the audience and was bending at the waist, showing off her glistening pussy.The boys could hardly believe it. Ella was turning red.And then Sarah flipped to the. . poor Marty hadn’t stood a chance against what I was newly carrying around on the front of my chest.After swallowing his seed, my brother presented me with a milkshake.“We forgot, this morning...” he said, and I took it, immediately placing it on the bench beside me.“Oh did we?” I asked, an innocent look upon my face. “Well, maybe we could... forget ... again.”He resisted my attempts to lift his shirt up, and gestured to the milkshake once more.“Please,” he said, “sis...”I pouted in protest,. My apartment, more like my penthouse, who builds an apartment that big and then sells it that cheep? How did I even get to Canada? I never got a passport and I never bought a plane ticket I just remember arriving. So is that when it started? When I got off the plane at the airport that looked more like a science fiction space port? That was years ago. Then I'll start at the end. The day I decided to confront her about it. We were sitting at the table. She'd moved in with me. I couldn't remember.