sit naked upon the toilet, your anus dangling, being lightly sucked on by gravity, and you will place your hand along your member, and you, holding the book in your left hand while gazing upon a picture that is perhaps not the most obscene but in some way the most revealing, the most revealing of—if you are kind and moral and lying—her pleasure at receiving his pleasure, or his delight in holding her, or maybe more accurately, in the grand scheme, their utter alienation from one another but their twinning, if foreign, individual pleasures in this unified effort at joy, and you will see all this holiness and you will thrust and throttle yourself until you feel the chemical explosion rising up from your belly, on up into your chest, spilling with the loose lymph of your system into the thoracic duct near the veins of your neck, plumping your cheeks and flooding your head, spilling physical specimen all over your leg and perhaps, if you are really throbbing and prehensile, the corner of the book you are squeezing. Which you can wipe clean rather easily. It is largely water-based, and whoever grasps it next will know nothing of your semen and not be hurt in the least by it, and perhaps we all know deep down that we are constantly touching the fluids that issue and ooze from discrete human beings.