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supposedly already had appendicitis? So that’s what had happened. Good to know. A lot of needless hours of worrying. Right after you’ve had your appendix taken out, it hurts incredibly badly to laugh, to walk, to stand, to do much of anything, because it feels as if the stitches are going to rip open. I tensed and curled up just like now with my ass. Is it possible the doctors recognized my name? Did it cause a sensation in the hospital back then—that a girl would endure an operation just to trick her teacher? Did they go out of their way to make this operation particularly painful—oops, I slipped—as payback? Am I paranoid because of the pain? Because of the painkillers? What is going on? It hurts so bad. Robin. Bring the pills.
    Here he comes. He hands me two tablets and says something. I can’t concentrate. I’m writhing in pain. I slurp the pills down. Please, let them work fast. Now. To calmmyself down, I put my hand on my pubic mound again. I always did this as a kid, too. But back then I didn’t know it was called a pubic mound.
    As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most important part of the whole body. Nice and warm. Perfectly positioned for your hand to reach. My center. I stick my hand into my underwear and run my hand around. This is the best way to put myself to sleep.
    I root around like a squirrel down there, and just as I’m falling asleep I have the impression there’s a log of crap poking out of my ass. The bandages feel exactly like that. I dream that I’m walking across a wide field. A field of parsnips. I can see a man in the distance. A Nordic walker. One of those guys who hikes with a pair of ski-pole-like walking sticks. I think: Look, Helen, a man with four legs.
    He approaches and I can see a giant cock is hanging out of his form-fitting sports leggings. I think: Nope, a man with five legs.
    He walks past me and I turn and watch him go. It pleases me to see he’s pulled his pants down in the back and a huge log of crap is hanging out of his ass, bigger even than his cock. I think: Wow, six legs. I come to and I’m thirsty and aching. The hand on my pubic mound wanders to the back to feel my wound. I want to see what they did back there. How can I have a look? I can look at my pussy if I bend way forward, but I’ve never been able to see my ownass. A mirror? No, a camera. Mom needs to bring me the camera.
    Will she be here when I wake up? Message.
    “It’s me. Can you bring the camera when you come? And can you wrap up the bulbs in my room without breaking the shoots? And bring the empty glasses, too, please. But hide them when you come in, Okay? You’re not allowed to have anything but cut flowers here. Thanks. See you soon. Oh yeah, can you also bring about thirty toothpicks? Thanks.”

I grow avocado trees . Besides fucking, it’s my only hobby. As a kid avocados were my favorite fruit or vegetable—whatever they are. Cut in half with a dollop of mayonnaise in the hole where the pit’s been removed. And a bunch of hot paprika powder sprinkled on top. I would play with the pits afterward. My mother would always say kids didn’t need toys—a rotten tomato or an avocado pit did just fine.
    At first the pit is shiny and slimy from the avocado oil. I like to rub it on the backs of my hands and up and down my arms. Spread the slime all over. Then you have to dry the pit.
    If you leave it on the radiator it only takes a few days. Once the moisture has dried, I run the soft, dark-brown pit across my lips. When they’re dry they feel so soft. I like to do it for minutes on end, with my eyes closed. It’s like when I would run my dry lips across the greasy leather cover of the pommel horse in the school gym—until someone would interrupt me. “Helen, what are you doing? Stop that.”
    Or until the other kids would laugh at me. Then you spare yourself the embarrassment by doing it only during thefew moments you can sneak into the gym alone. It’s about as soft as my ladyfingers