The word had always come to his mind, Pneu's mind, as a breath and sometimes a breeze, an invisible wave that was sine or cosine in his geometry book. He had always conceived in his mind an image of Molly's hair, the roots at the part on her scalp that were dark and the subtle shades of brown and then the hue of orange rendered by the reflection of light on her peroxided mane. This was titillating to Pneu, stimulating to the cockles of his balls, his eggs where the sperm cells were incubated, awaiting the ejaculation into the air, that flight to freedom from the confinement of his scrotal sack, Sad Sack balls with a halo of hair. Molly's glowing mane, the Ur-ejaculation. Pneu, sitting at his desk in seventh grade behind Molly, gazing at her orange hair with dark brown roots. Then, to revel in the image of it in his mind at home on his stomach in bed at night, awaiting the slow, gradual, inevitable erection.
Sad Sack Pneu when he tried to stick his member into the tight cunt of Nancy, the Chinese girl Ricky made available to the gang of beavers who were Pneu's friends, sharing her like a prebend, a little plot of pussy to be stamped and perforated. No, it wouldn't go in, the ejaculation was an ululation through an embrasure in the wall, hitting the window of Pneu's attic room. The sperm whistled through the air, expended, without hitting the ball spot. The moral turpitude of the act, yet there was so much pleasure in it that was the cosine of its sine wave, the friction of the palm of his hand against his bongara. Howsoever it happened, weighed heavily on his conscience, it had little to be desired in the designs it had to encapsulate the quandary of his soul, which was to be rectified before the authorities. Matson Smith even confessed it jocularly, how many times he masturbated, when confessions were heard in the high school gym. He thought it was a joke, the act of contrition an ejaculation itself to God, the sperm giving up its spirit to the denizens of the air, who may be demons for all Pneu knew, uselessly chucked in the toilet bowl or bathroom sink. Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit. The endeavor to conceive of the thing itself, the orange glowing follicles of Molly's mane, the idea of it! How could there be any credibility, or objectivity, in the matter of the televisual thing? To masturbate to it? Conceived by the Holy Ghost, give up the ghost. Later the Church changed it to the Holy Spirit. The body is not the soul, is merely a prebend for the lucky winner in the lottery of souls waiting to attach themselves like postage stamps, to come into the world as immigrants or aliens. A premium on souls because too many bodies. All that sperm wasted.
Prevarication or asseveration? Which was it? Pneu knew enough not to know the difference. It was the same to him whether Scott Key lied or continued to lie. There was no one instance of a lie, it was a continual, reassuring lie, like a constant in a mathematical equation. A running lie, a series of lies, as if asserting the same thing over and over again, whether going to the right on the number line, or going to the left of zero on the number line. Geometry was all about uniformity, and Scott's lies were uniformly a saying of yes over and over again, asserting their falsity or truth value, there was no difference, whether positive or negative, it was all the same to Pneu's bent ear.