And the argument was on. Even Paul thought it was a dumbidea to include "Casey at the Bat" as a subject for a poetry class."Paul," I answered quickly... and almost too harshly. "Think about it.What makes poetry?" Not that stuff," he said defensively.With that, I shamelessly dumped on him, telling him that any words thathad a sense of rhythm, that had feeling, that painted a picture and thatcaused listeners to react made for "poetry." I even accused him of beinga snob, right in front of the. But I was truthful when I told him that each morning since, when I touched myself, I thought of having him inside me again. I could tell he wanted to be with me again. In fact, I'm sure he was very hard in that moment. But he didn't know what to think about his father watching.The next morning, I was doing just as I had described to my son. I was laying in bed with my hand between my legs, husband snorning away next to me, thinking about my son fucking me. I was extremely wet. I had two fingers. More

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