The story goes from her shoulders, down her back, to the end of her tail. Jackson writes,
I slid my hand down and felt my tail; it was slightly tacky, and the longer hairs at the tip were stuck together. My friend rolled over and looked at me. I started explaining: my tail wandered in its sleep, I had no knowledge or control, it had happened to me many times, it should have occurred to me that something like this might happen one day, I should have kept my jeans on, I didn't mean it. I stopped. She gave me a long, strange look, her brows knit. What? I said. She plunged her arm under me, closed her fist firmly around my tail, rolled me onto my side, my back to her. Then she guided me inside her. I lay there staring perplexedly at the wall while she panted and strained behind me, sketching out a new world for me.