Michael Malone - Weebly

Ransom on the floor in front of her secret shelf. They
were wrong, too, for they had relied upon the (usually
quite reliable) Philistinism of Dingleyans to keep them
away from dusty learning on so lovely a June afternoon.
The two now stared up from the rows of dusty
theology, frozen as two rabbits caught in a headlight
beam, caught, appropriately enough, in the missionary
position.
The Fact, after so much fiction, was to one whose
view of Romance had come largely from Victorian
novels as unsettling to Polly as Norman Mailer would
have been to George Eliot. Mr. Blossom's far too hairy
buttocks jerked up, away from an emphatically
untanned width on the all too obviously female flesh of
Kate Ransom, whose collegiate allure and modishly
proletarian outfits Polly had often admired from afar.
But now Kate's clothing was inappropriately high or
low. Flowered panties like a wrist corsage dangled
around Kate's ankle, her tennis skirt was up to her
waist, her tennis shirt was up to her neck. Mr.
Blossom's pants were down to his feet, and his far too
white and skinny legs were squeezed between Kate's