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Tricia convinces her gay brother to help her explore anal.

"Um, um! Sugar, if we could bottle that we could make ourselves a million dollars."

I took my packet of clothes, leaned across the counter, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She touched her face and gave me an exaggerated look of surprise.

"You can keep the money," I winked. "Just let me see your pretty smile every morning."

She giggled. "You go on now!"


That day they had us picking up litter along the highway. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I must have picked up five bags full. It made me happy to look back and see how nice my stretch looked when I was done. At least I was rehabilitating something.

That evening our cell door buzzed shut at seven o'clock on the dot.

"Ready?" I asked.

Dolores gave her hips a little twist, showing off her pretend outfit. She smiled shyly, awaiting my complement. We'd come to take each other's nakedness in the cell for granted. But now I couldn't help but pay a bit of extra attention to the pleasant curve of her hip, the soft roundness of her breast, made all the more alluring by the invisibility of her imaginary clothes.

"A pleated skirt," she said. "Kind of an ivory, I guess you'd call it. Don't you love the way it swishes?"

"Ooh la la! And the top?"

She blushed, in her cheeks and in her nipples. "Cashmere," she said, in a reverent tone, as if the word itself told all that needed to be said. I reached out to touch its imaginary softness on her shoulder.

"And how about you?" she asked.

"Trousers. A new shirt. Um, button-down collar, um, stripes, um, gray and light blue."

"Not bad," she assessed.

It turned out that she'd never been to a fancy restaurant before. She'd read an article in one of her magazines about how a girl should conduct herself, but she couldn't remember it all.

"Just stick with me," I assured her. I described the checkered curtains, the way the maitre d' took us to our booth, the table cloth, the silverware, the chianti bottle candles. Luigi's is just a neighborhood place, but I made it sound fancy enough. Dolores loved that I ordered a plate of cheeses and olives as an appetizer. She loved the warm, crusty bread, the sparkling water, the crisp lettuce salad. She knew to order her steak medium rare, and she sampled my eggplant parmesan. She loved it when Luigi and his cousin Tony come out of the kitchen to sing along with some of the old songs on the juke box,

Then we had to hurry down to the theater. I'd gotten a book of plays from Mrs. Carlsen's library. There was a one-act comedy with only two characters: a well-intentioned dreamer of a fellow who wasn't quite as smart as he thought he was, and a girl who came across as scatter brained at first, but who managed to get him to see things her way in the end. It was funny and sweet, and the two of us were still a bit emotional after our spat and our making up. We laughed so much during the funny parts that we could barely make it through our lines. And we blushed so much during the sweet parts that it was all we could do to look at each other.

When the play was over, I asked her "Why don't we go for a little walk? That's what we'd do if we were on a real date."

The cell was long enough to take about three steps between the door and the toilet, then three steps back again. We'd each paced the circuit many times by ourselves, but this was the first time we'd ever done it together. It was a tight fit, but we weren't in any particular hurry. We talked about the play, about the highway, about the latest gossip, about how things might have changed on the outside. We kept on walking long after the lights clicked off.

Finally we came to a stop, as if we'd arrived at her front door. We turned and faced each other.

"I had a really nice time tonight," I said.

"Oh, me too," she said. "It was the nicest date I've ever been on."

I leaned in and kissed her.

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