Orlando knows what he's not talking about. He only wishes certain thoughts could materialize without any effort on his part, to make communication less difficult than it is, when he doesn't feel like phrasing things which move in him and have no defined boundaries.

When he's in this mood, there are too many words he can't choose from to depict the experiences he's known. There are also words he doesn't like and tries to avoid. Most of all, p-words, like pumpkin, which is what Robin calls him when she's mad at him for being stubborn, but refuses to let it show. She likes p-words, Robin. Then there's publicity and payroll, there's promise and pretend, protection and passing period, there's please with an emphasis on the last syllable and perfect, smug and content. There's the word pussy, of course, but that has nothing to do with Robin. He likes cunt better, anyway.

Yes, he prefers words which begin with c or l or Viggo, though there are definitely not enough words of that last kind. Orlando suspects it's because he's the only one, so far, who has discovered the fact that the entire universe can easily dwell on Viggo's hip, the one on which he always sucks longer – and usually harder – thanks to knowing that Viggo's sensitivity there, is just the right prelude (there are exceptions to p-words as well) to going down on his lover, his favorite time having been that once, when Viggo was leaning naked against his desk, a muse having cut his shower shorter, notebook still open nearby and water dripping off him and into Orlando's hair.

He loved taking Viggo by surprise in his den, when he made the man not only curse, but quote Shakespeare as well and as his own reply, he sucked Viggo off to the subtle rhythm of Communion, in with 'Bloom' and out, gradually and greedily, with 'of - com-pa –' and a short, sharp grazing of the head with '- ssion.'

Viggo's head was tilted backwards and in Orlando's hushed throat, words hummed, like poetry and pelvis, like powerful and pure. Like, poison. Maybe love is finding the way to counter anything bad, even some horrible p-words.

Viggo's cry sounded like nothing in particular, but still echoed his name and to Orlando's satisfaction, they never made it through to the last line of the poem.