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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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29 July 2005


Jefferson, Take Two


I am packed and ready to go. Miles and Jack have been at school since 7:45. I have to straighten the apartment, finish folding the laundry and take their bag to my mother. She’ll be keeping the kids while I’m in New York.

I have a client at 10:00, and then 30 minutes to run my last errand before leaving.

I had an IM with Rob, the owner of the sex shop, last night. He wanted to let me know that my rope had arrived; should he put it aside? Any chance I could come pick it up tonight? He’d really like us to have sex in the back room during business hours.

“Sorry,” I replied, “My kids are sleeping. I’ll stop by to pick it up on my way out of town tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York for several days”

“Oh, that’s great. Well, it’s too bad you can’t come in tonight; I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll leave a note on the rope to give you a 10% discount…and Madeline, I’d really like to tie you up with that rope sometime.”

“Man, if you want to tie me up, you’ll need to do a whole lot better than 10%.”

What would I do without Marcus and his sage advice??

(Probably pay for gifts…I know, baby.)

When I walk in and tell the guy at the counter that I’m picking up something for “Madeline,” he brightens and says,

“Oh! You’re the one who’s leaving for New York!”

…So much for Rob being “the most discreet person you’ll ever meet.”

At the airport I open the 'Shibari Love Rope' package while waiting for the shuttle to the terminal, toss the plastic into the trash and put the soft red rope in my suitcase, nestled beside my Orchid G, Silver Bullet, butt plug, anal beads, condoms, lube and the strap-on.

I was a little torn about whether to check the sex toys or not. If I checked them, there was always the possibility that my bag and I would end up in different places. If I carried them on, they would be scanned and possibly removed for inspection.

I have a little bit of a fantasy in which I'm standing next to a security officer, explaining the functions of each toy.

“Now this is a vibrator with a nice curve to hit a woman’s G-spot. FanTAStic orgasms with this one…Oh! That? That’s the strap-on dildo I use to fuck men in the ass. Here, let me show you...”

I checked the suitcase.

When I landed I texted Viviane, called Jefferson and left a message, collected my things and caught the bus. As we crossed the Triboro Bridge, Colton called. He was glad to hear that I’d made it safely, and excited to know the plans for this visit. How many people would we be having sex with? Is the sex crew on alert? What about Marcus?

I told him that Jefferson and I had talked about it, but had decided to keep things simple this time. Relatively speaking.

“But you never can tell,” I said, “it is Jefferson and Madeline, together in the big city.”

Colton laughed.

“Maddie, just do me a favor, would you?”

“What’s that, darlin?”

“If you have sex with a girl, will you ‘Colton it up’ a little? And, you know, tell her ‘this is from Colton’ as you eat her pussy?”

Shocked and aghast, I agreed.

I am off the bus and going into the subway for the final leg of my journey. It is hot as hell. I’m wearing a low-cut sleeveless jersey dress which makes my ass look like [PA-POW!], and a pair of strappy sandals. I’d changed into the sandals at the airport. They look great, but are not so good for walking long distances.

I emerge from the underground, hot and sweaty and a bit winded from carrying my suitcase up the stairs. Jefferson lives two blocks away. I decide to sit and phone him again.


“Hey honey, it’s me.”

“Hi! Where are you?”

”Two blocks from you. I’m hot, so I’m resting.”

“Well, get here and rest!”

“Okay, I’m just warning you that I am very sweaty and probably stinky.”

“Girl, get yo’ stinky, sweaty self ovah here.”

The sun is getting low, and there is a breeze as I make my way to his building, dodging people out for their evening constitutionals, their tiny canine companions in tow.

As I cross the street I instinctively look up, counting the floors until I see Jefferson’s terrace. There are two hands waving at me from between the bars. My heart jumps. I flash a smile, but don’t wave back.

‘Cause I’m cool like that.

I knock on his door. No answer. Again. Nothing. Finally I pick up the phone and dial him.

What?! Where are you?!”

“Where are YOU? I’ve been knocking on your door for like, five minutes. It’s hot! Let me in!!”

My body is slick with sweat. He opens the door. I’m thirsty and tired and oh my god, it’s really him, I’m really back.

I can’t stop smiling.

I wheel the suitcase in, drop my handbag, and toss my phone and sunglasses on the bookcase. I step out of my sandals.

We kiss. It’s sweet and slow and reminds me of the last one we shared; the evening he left me at his apartment in April, on this same patch of floor.

“Welcome back, baby. I’ve missed you.”

“Sweet Jefferson, I’m so happy to be here. I’ve missed the fuck out of you.”

“Are you thirsty?”

“Very. Thank you.”

He pours waters and bourbons and we carry them back to his room. The air conditioner is working overtime.

“Come sit, sweetheart. Get your bearings. We have lots of time. Do you want a shower to cool off?”

Truth is, I could have used a shower, but I have this thing about body scent and sweat. I want to smell and taste like me; not like freesia or rice flowers. Plus, I really didn’t want to take my lips off him or be bothered with using my hands for anything but touching him.

I set down my drinks and peel off my dress in front of the air conditioner. Crawl onto the bed and sit on my heels next to Jefferson. I have on black boyshort panties and a bright pink camisole.

I tell him about the flight, and about Colton’s request. He cracks up. I fill him in on the latest episode in the “Discrete Rob” series. I am laughing, shaking my head and burying it in his chest, covered by a t-shirt.

“Honey, you’re dressed…did you put on clothes for me?” I ask.

“I did, in fact! I couldn’t very well answer the door in the nude. What if Mr. Lansky had been walking by?!”

He takes off his clothes. I lose the rest of mine. Finally.

We are on our knees on the bed, the cool air hitting our bodies. He is licking the salty skin of my chin and lips and neck. He pulls back, holding my face.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“Baby, I love you.”

Jefferson pushes me onto my back puts on a condom and pulls my legs up straight, holding my calves and rubbing his freshly shaven cheek against them. I touch his face with my feet and he sucks on my toes as he fucks me.

I alternate between pulling my legs straight back toward my face and spreading them wide, hands holding my heels. We are fucking slowly, savoring every second, kissing and watching each other.


His right hand strikes my cheekbone, sending searing pain across my eyes and toward the bridge of my nose. I gasp,


I wait, and smile as the warmth spreads over my entire face.

“……again…please. Do it again.”

He does, and then sets to fucking me hard. He brings his hand to my throat, watching my face, never looking away.

I am nodding, smiling because it feels so good.

He lets up, and I gasp.

He pulls out and moves his head down to my pussy. His mouth is on my clit, sucking and biting it the way I like. I cum, arching my back and pressing myself onto him. I can’t focus my eyes; the building could be collapsing around us for all I care. I just want to feel this for a long, long time.

We are covered in my sweat. Jefferson is looking at me, sitting back and stroking my pussy. He holds a glass of water to my lips, and I raise my head to drink. As he replaces the glass on the nightstand he slips two fingers into me, curling them up to my g spot. I press down with my hand just above my pubic bone; our fingers rubbing against the muscles which separate us.

The bottle of lube is on the nightstand. He drips some onto my pussy and his fingers. I know what’s coming. I stare into his eyes. They are intent and fixed on my face.

I take a deep breath, and relax my entire body.

Jefferson starts with his two fingers already inside. He adds another, then another. I breathe deeply, and release tension in my legs and hips and shoulders. I lose count at four fingers and float away. It’s a good technique; like Peter Pan, I just think lovely, wonderful thoughts and up I go.

I am full, fuller than I've ever been. My nerve endings are on fire; the sensations overloading them as his fist rocks inside me.

Soon, I am splitting in two, and cumming harder than anything, and it’s too much. I am jerked back to the feeling of a balled-up fist in my cunt, which is being rammed back against my pelvic bones with the force of my orgasm. THAT hurts.

I am moaning, “Ssttoooooooppppppppp.”

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes, please stop….”

He unclenches his fist, and slides his hand out slowly, bringing the sweet stuff with it.

Tears are running down to my ears. I start to calm down as he kisses them away.

When I could speak, I looked at him, still petting my hair.

“Jefferson… that was fucking amazing… What was that? What were you doing?”

“Fisting your pussy and fucking you with my dick.”

“At the same time?”


“There was a fist and a cock in my pussy?!”


“Oh, my dog.”

We were both a little shocked.

The next morning, after I rub Arnica cream onto the bite marks on the inside of my left thigh, I open my jar of Egyptian Magic. It is very soothing and just the thing for a recently fisted pussy. Jefferson notices the jar and says,

“So is this what makes your pussy so magical?!”

26 July 2005



Marcus enjoys giving gifts.

Before we even met, he bought me a gift. How does one buy a gift for someone they don't know? Ask Marcus, 'cause he's really good at it.

This was not a conventional gift; and before he presented it, he had a tale to tell about its procurement. The original story, now so full of private jokes and innuendo, is pointless to share.

The gift was an odd piece of Americana: An antique child's bowling pin, made from heavy canvas, and hand sewn, with a leather base stitched onto the bottom.

Its shape resembles a cat sitting on a fence. It is made to look like a cat, with stylized ears, eyes, nose, mouth and whiskers.

The bowling pin was, obviously, part of a set. Marcus bought one for himself, one for Jefferson and one for me. Each cat is unique, and now, sadly, separated from its friends.

Jefferson's sits on his bookshelves in his living room. Marcus keeps his in his living room on a bookcase. Mine sits on a bookshelf in my living room, just inside my front door. We joke that, one day, perhaps the three cats will be together again.

When Marcus came to visit me, he arrived with another gift.

It was late on Thursday night, and he had just walked in an hour before. He'd dropped his bags in the living room and we made haste to the bedroom.

Afterwards, as we lay on my bed, Marcus kicked himself up to sitting, then slapped the mattress with both hands, grinning at me.

"I brought you a PRE-sent!"

"Stop! You did?!"

Now I was sitting up, drawn into his enthusiasm, even though it was almost 3 AM.

"Of course I did, beautiful!"

He leapt off the bed, ran to the living room and opened his suitcase. He brought back a rectangular package, wrapped in plastic. He tore the plastic off as he bounced back onto the bed beside me.

I knew what it was. A Seatbelt Bag.

I slapped his arm while bouncing up and down like a kid on the bed.

"Shut UP! No You DIDn't!! GodDAMN you, Marcus! This is so expensive! It's too much!"

"Do you really like it?"

I laughed.

I love it.

25 July 2005


Meeting Marla

Marla meets us at the door; Jefferson kisses her hello. I am greeted with a big smile and a kiss. She leads us back into the restaurant, where her new boyfriend awaits, and where they are serving free wine at the bar and pizza fresh from the brick oven.

Marla’s new boyfriend is hot. Introductions are made, and he excuses himself to make his way around the restaurant. He is involved with the event that's going on. We comment on how cute he is, and how sweet on Marla he seems. The girl is definitely happy.
Jefferson stands with Marla at the bar getting our drinks and sends me scrambling for slices as they come out. All I have to do is turn around, since we are standing right next to the oven. I am prepared now for my service in Hell. It is so fucking hot, and I am sweating buckets.

I am reaching over other patrons lined up to grab their slices. I drop cheese onto my foot. I turn to Jefferson and Marla, handing them each a plate. Jefferson and I have not eaten all day. I dive into my mushroom pizza and take stock of my surroundings.

Jefferson has described Marla perfectly in his blog. She is tanned and very pretty, with long wavy hair streaked with blonde and red. She has a great ass accentuated by perfectly fitting jeans, and fabulous tits made even more fabulous by her halter top. I'm a little in awe.

Marla asks me a question and, as I am responding, leans in closer to me. She takes her finger and pulls the neck of my shirt toward my shoulder. She looks up at me, her eyes gleaming.

“That’s some bite.”

I look at Jefferson, smiling. I told him she’d notice the bruise just above my collarbone.

“By the way, Marla, I wanted to thank you. For, you know, introducing Jefferson to rough sex.”

“Oh, my God. It’s the best, right?! Have you always liked it? Do you have any more marks?”

"Well, yes, let's see...on my arms here, my tits, some bruises on my ass and a few caning marks."

Marla beams at Jefferson.

"Good to know you're working on your repertoire."

The conversation turns quickly to this topic, and we move toward the door, the stifling heat of the pizza oven finally getting the better of us. Marla goes to check in with her boyfriend, and then comes back to the cool doorway.

Marla tells us of the first time she kissed her boyfriend, when they were dancing, and he pushed her up against the wall, a hand on her throat.

“I was like, ‘Oh, my GOD!’ I was so excited I called Jefferson and said, ‘He’s a choker!!’”

Except that Marla is from Brooklyn. So it was more like, "Oh, my GOAHD! He’s a CHOkah!”

We laugh.

She says that he is a natural at the rough stuff, but could use a little work; his sweet nature taking over occasionally. He recently asked her to give him a blowjob. Like this: “Would you please suck my cock?”
She continues, "When what I really wanted to hear was, "
and we say it together:

“Suck my cock, bitch!”

Marla, Jefferson and I laugh hysterically, loud enough so that the G. Gordon Liddy look-alike standing near the door knows exactly what we were talking about.

There we were--two kindred spirits. One from the heart of Brooklyn, another from the heart of America. And Jefferson between us, smiling and nodding.

The place was so hot, so crowded, and Marla wanted to return to her boyfriend. Jefferson and I decided to head back into the cool night air.

We turned to leave.

“So, you guys going home now to fuck?”

We smiled at each other, then at Marla.

The next morning we woke up, blinking and stretching. Jefferson turned to me, a look of amazement in his eyes...

"What was IN that pizza, anyway?!"

21 July 2005


The Teaches of Peaches

As I was buckling the boys into their car seats last week, I was humming a song under my breath. I hum the naughty bits, and sing the clean parts when I've got the kids around. The song is Fuck the Pain Away, by Peaches. Marcus played it for me on our trip to Kentucky. The sound is industrial, techno and completely enveloping. It is perfect fucking music.

So the words go:

Suckin on my titties like you wanted me/callin me/all the time like Blondie/check out my Chrissy behind/it's fine all of the time/like sex on the beaches/what else is in the teaches of Peaches?/Huh? Whut? Right? Uhh...

fuckthepainaway/fuckthepainaway/fuckthepainaway/fuckthepainaway (Repeat and fade.)

But of course, I don't sing the sucking part or the sex on the beaches or the fucking part. But Miles loves when I do the Huh/Whut/Right/Uhh.

"Momma, how do you know the Teaches of Peaches?"

Someday, when I am dead, he will be like that poor son in The Bridges of Madison County who had to read his mother's journals.

I have returned from my time with Jefferson. I'm working on the chronicles. And trying to remember details from within my endorphin-charged, blissed-out mind.


14 July 2005


Jour de Bastille

These are the boots I wore April Fools' Day, the first time I met Jefferson In the Flesh.

I'm not wearing them today. Cos it's Bastille Day. Duh.

And you'll forgive my sporadic posting, yes?

Perhaps you'd like to use the next several days to review April's posts on Madeline in the Mirror and One Life, Take Two?

Because, my darlings, as rains from the recent tropical storms move up the Eastern Seaboard, I'm off to catch a flight.

(She smiles)

12 July 2005



Does absence make the heart grow fonder? Without question. But I also know that it can make other bits ache as well.

Time for a little visit to my local sex shop.

I was looking for something in particular, so I called the national chain store first. They tend to have a wider selection, and I thought the chances were better they’d have what I was looking for: Rope. Silk or Hemp. Preferably in a pretty color.

“Uh, we have, um, restraints…”

“I’m looking for just rope. You know, like for Shibari?”

“…fer, whut? Um, ours have the wrist and ankle cuffs and a strap-thing.”

Christ on a stick, do I need to give a seminar to these people? How can you work in a sex shop and not know about bondage?

“Okay, thanks. I’ll check someplace else.”

I called the independent sex store in town. I’d taken Marcus there in April; it’s where I prefer to shop, supporting local businesses and whatnot. I dialed the number.

“Thanks for calling the Toybox; may I help you?!”

“Hi, I have a couple of questions for you. I’m looking for Bondage Rope. Preferably something that’s not nylon or cotton. And I’m not interested in cuffs; just the rope.”

“Okay, well, we have Japanese Bondage Rope—you know, for Shibari—which is silk and comes in Red or Purple. Except it’s on order. It should be in next week. Would you like me to save you some?”

“Maybe…do you have any Maximus lube in stock?”

“Yes, we’ve got two sizes. Oh, and that rope comes in three meters or five meters. And if you mention that you are experienced with BDSM you get a discount.”


“Okay, yeah, that’d be great. I’ve got some experience with that.”

“Great! You know, I thought the BDSM scene in this town would have been bigger, but what’s really taken off is the swinging community! There is a swingers club—“

“Excuse me?? Where is the swingers club?”

“Oh, twice a month there’s a guy who hosts parties at his house.


“Are you into that?”

“I could be, depending on the circumstances. I’d like to get some information first.”

“Why don’t you come by the shop this afternoon around four and I’ll print out some info for you. I know everyone in this city; and I am the most discrete person you’ll ever meet. Oh, and I can get you a good discount on toys!”

“Sounds great! I’ll be there later.”

“Looking forward to it. I’m Rob, the owner.”

“Madeline. See you then.”

After a couple hours at the pool I drove over to the store. I walked in and said hello to the guy behind the counter. I’d shopped here before; I knew who he was. Average height, light red hair, glasses, thin lips. If he’d had a better nose and cheekbones he’d look a bit like Conan O’Brien, whom I find really sexy.

Rob took me over to a corner to talk, as there was a couple shopping in the novelties section by the counter.

“So you said that you’re into men and women?”

“Yes. Are the parties couples-only?”

“No! In fact, as a single girl who’s into men and women, you’d be very popular. You have no idea. The next party is the beginning of August, and I just spoke with the host a couple hours ago. They’re looking for height/weight proportionate people, which you definitely are.”

“Cool. Well, that sounds great. It’ll be nice to be able to plan on regular sex.”

(My mother told me last week that I should be getting laid more regularly…I swear to dog.)

“If you’d like, we could be friends and even go to some parties together. Sometimes it helps put other women at ease if you’re part of a couple. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you have a beautiful body. I’d love for us to get together one-on-one and party sometime.”

“Well, let’s chat about it. I need to go get my kids from school now, but it’s been nice talking with you.”

He walked me up to the front of the store. That’s when I saw it.

The thing for which I have been pining for months.

The Holy Grail of vibrators.

The Rock Chick.

It was rotating on a lucite stand in all its purple silicone glory.

I gasped. Really. I actually gasped.

“Oh, you know what this is??”

(He gestured to the stand like a Price is Right girl.)

“Fuck, yes, I know what it is. I’ve been wanting one.”

“You would love it. Here. Feel it.”

This was akin to handing a bottle of hooch to an alcoholic. I cradled it in my hand. Turned it on. It was all I’d ever wanted in a vibrator: Smooth, curved, silicone and packing a nice buzz. Plus, we all know my affinity for purple sex toys.

“Very nice.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I’d love to use it on you. I’d love to watch your orgasms. You know, I only have one of these left. I’d give you a 'friend discount,' then split the cost with you. You’d only have to pay for half.”

“Wow…well, that’s something to think about. But I really must get going. Let’s chat later.”

He walked me to the door. Put his hand on my shoulder and kissed me goodbye.

On the drive home I was thinking:

Even though he doesn’t turn me on, could I ignore that fact if I’m getting what I want from him? If we’re honest about the sex part being just that, and nobody’s going to get emotional, wouldn’t it be nice to check out the parties and if we didn’t click as fuckbuddies, just to leave it at that? If the parties were good and the people were cool? Would that be a big deal?

What about the Rock Chick? Goddamn, I want that thing.

I got home and Marcus was online.

Madeline: Hi, you!

Marcus: hi! oh shit!

Madeline: oh shit what?

Marcus: john the doorman just pulled his dickhead up and out of his pants to show me

Madeline: nice!

Marcus: it was hard and very nice

Madeline: honey, i have a question for you.

Madeline: if you were a girl

Marcus: i leaned over and grabbed it

Marcus: yes go on

Madeline: (shut UP!)

Marcus: and it....

Madeline: …smiled at you?!

Marcus: sorry, go on

Madeline: you know the Rock Chick vibrator i've been coveting?

Marcus: yes

Madeline: so it's like 70 bucks

Madeline: if you were a girl and you had someone tell you they'd like to use it on you

Marcus: yes? god this is taking forever..

Madeline: and they'd give you a discount and then pay for 1/2 after that, would you whore yourself out to get it?

Marcus: how much would i have to spend in the end?

Madeline: about 25 bucks

Marcus: no fuckin way

Madeline: even if you got to keep it?

Marcus: baby, let me take you to Whoredom 101.

Madeline: hahahah! we don't pay for anything, right?

Marcus: you DONT PAY FOR GIFTS. And you accept them whenever they're offered!

Marcus: exactly.

Madeline: lol

Madeline: that's what i thought you’d say!

Marcus: especially when the person wants to use it on you!

Madeline: exactly!!

Marcus: they get the joy of doing that

Marcus: (that is worth WAY more than even $70)

Madeline: oh, Marcus.

Madeline: you're too sweet.

Marcus: so if he/she wants to stick that thing up you and watch you wriggle

Madeline: (i'm just looking at that thing online and it feels so good!)

Marcus: then it fuckin BETTER be worth it for them to spend $70 on that experience

Marcus: and YES you keep it when s/he is done

Madeline: I know you are right. I just really really want that vibrator.

Marcus: god, the things i have to teach you.

Marcus: that is why you need me as your pimp

Madeline: i so totally do!

Marcus: stupid bitch

Madeline: say it again.

Marcus: dont make me mad

Madeline: please say it again

Marcus: and DONT tell me what to do, you fuckin' CUNT!

Marcus: (slaps her face now)

Madeline: thank GOD!

Marcus: I’m done
Marcus signed off at 5:27:09 PM.

Sigh. That’s Marcus. Always looking out for me. And, you know, for the occasional queer doorman.

01 July 2005



“Once there were two towers side by side. They were each a quarter of a mile high; one thousand three hundred and forty feet. The tallest buildings in New York City.”

I am sitting on the couch between my children, reading The Man Who Walked Between the Towers by Mordicai Gerstein. It is early evening, before dinner, and they are each leaning into a shoulder, the screaming match from five minutes ago forgotten.

I really like it when they’re like this.

I can feel their soft cheeks on my bare arms, Miles has his right hand on my leg, patting it for emphasis when he talks about how hard it must have been for Philippe Petit, a French street performer to walk across that huge space between the unfinished World Trade Center towers in 1974—posing as a construction worker, smuggling his heavy gauge cable and supplies up to the roof of the south tower, and waiting until nightfall to rig the tightrope.

People watched all morning as Philippe stayed out on the wire, walking back and forth, lying down, suspended in time and space hundreds of feet above their heads.

Philippe was eventually apprehended, and did community service for his stunt, but his story is one of dreams and hope. Even today:

“Now the towers are gone.

“But in memory, as if imprinted on the sky, the towers are still there. And part of that memory is the joyful morning, August 7, 1974, when Philippe Petit walked between them in the air.”

Reading that passage, I inevitably blink away tears. I know it’s natural to get choked up remembering the worst attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor, but my sensitivity goes beyond the tragic loss of lives.

I have a very strong sense of smell.

I have lived overseas, in a country that experiences terrorism on a daily basis. I have been minutes away from the site of an attack on civilians, and should have really been among the casualties, but for the fact that I forgot my bag at my apartment and had to go back for it, missing the bus that would have put me there.

I know what burning flesh smells like. I can feel the acrid, singeing molecules in my nose and throat. I know the smell of death. I think about how the site must have smelled in the days and weeks after the towers fell.

I think about how there are smells associated with so much of life.

The blood and sweat smell of childbirth gives way to the smell of a newborn (just put your nose in the folds of his neck and breathe). Babies make stinky messes and then become preschoolers with stinky messes of playground-sweaty hair. Adolescents become adults. Adults age and become old people who use mothballs. Old people get sick and die.

If you can close your eyes and imagine it, there is a smell we can associate with the stages of our lives, and for every significant memory we can attach a smell: freshly-mown grass on the weekend, the smell of sulfur on the Fourth of July, coffee brewing in the kitchen, the smell of the city after a summer rainstorm, the way an apartment smells after a weekend of sex, the smell of a nursing mother, the smell of hospitals or nursing homes; the smell of lilies at a funeral.

Sometimes I get carried away with my senses. While I realize that my sense of smell may be more acute than most, I don’t think I am alone in my associations. Still, I was surprised and awestruck and a little sad when, at the end of the story, little Jack put his nose in the crook of my arm and inhaled.

“Momma, you smell big. I smell little, but you smell big.”

Stay small, little one.