Tomorrow we will see the Wizard. We have been traveling for a very long time, hiding from the Witch. Just over the horizon, the Emerald City glows, like the flash of green we sometimes see just before the sun sets. I wonder if we would have been here sooner, years ago, if Dorothy had not lost the ruby slippers. Everyone is anxious. Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion cannot sleep. So they are fucking. The Lion whimpers as he approaches orgasm, and his eyes are squeezed tight; Dorothy is riding him enthusiastically, awkwardly, since she should really be on all fours, beneath him, but he won't: he's afraid. Finally he growls deep in his chest. Dorothy urges him on and the growl rises in pitch -- as he comes, she comes, yipping once like Toto used to. Then she falls forward onto him, his soft long belly fur sticking to her sweaty body. Maybe now they will sleep. I have never slept, being made of straw. The Tin Man used to sleep; he told me about it on a night like this, before Dorothy had grown quite so big. (She is over eighteen now.) When he was a man of flesh, the Tin Man said, he had dreams. By the light of the moon, I can see the Tin Man's phallus. It's a tin can, studded with rivets along the bottom, and the end is capped with a hammered-out half-globe of tin. His nuts are real nuts, of course, large and brass, and they hold his phallus on. It's all generously proportioned, like the rest of the Tin Man, but I think that's more because the tinsmith's eyes were fading, and he hated delicate filigree work. Dorothy and the Tin Man might do it tonight, if she wants to, but maybe not. He's still afraid of rust, and she says the oil irritates her down there. Mostly she does it with the Lion. She has to sneak up on him while he sleeps and stroke him to erection; she has to mouth him before mounting him; she has to avoid making a sound because, although the Lion enjoys it, he's afraid to admit it. Tomorrow we will see the Wizard. The Lion is already asleep, purring softly and maybe he is dreaming of courage. I asked him once why he wanted courage more than anything else, and he yawned cat-like and said he would be king of the forest. I asked why he wanted to be king; he stroked his whiskers -- his muzzle is quite gray now -- and said, "Droit de seigneur." That means the right of the lord; I know that much. But his pose and the lazy swelling of his penis hinted that the answer carried more meaning than the words do. Would I really understand if I had a brain? Dorothy still cannot sleep. She rises from the Lion and crawls to the Tin Man. She is graceful and predatory; the lines of her back are clean and strong, the muscles of her thighs bunch and smooth as she stalks the Tin Man. The Cowardly Lion's seed spills down her thighs. Her small breasts sway. She is not a little Kansas farm girl any longer. The Tin Man sets his axe aside and lies back. Sometimes he is on top, but then there is a squeak in his hips that reminds her of bedsprings, she says. It reminds her of home, and that makes her cry. She has not spoken of Kansas, of Aunty Em or Uncle Henry, since she grew hair down there. But now, here, Dorothy is in control. She does not need to make the Tin Man hard; he will last as long as she needs. They do not kiss. She takes her time. I hear her slowly work herself onto his large tool. She is wet -- she squishes and squelches as she pleases herself. The Tin Man strokes her breasts and fondles her the way she taught him. A very long time later, she moans and tosses her head. Her hair is a black river in the moonlight, her back is rigid with orgasm. The Tin Man groans, a creaking sound. Slowly Dorothy softens, sagging until her dark nipples brush against his metal body. "Thank you," she whispers. "You're welcome," he says. Tears flow from the corners of his eyes. They drip onto the ground. What they've done has made him cry. She comes over to me. She smells of sweat and her own arousal and oil and feline musk. As she makes herself comfortable on my straw-filled body, I can hear the sounds the Tin Man makes with the oil can. My straw body shifts and adjusts to fit her curves. They get hard for her; I soften. She mumbles a goodnight to me. Now she can sleep. She lies with one hand beneath her head, the other resting limply on her belly, her fingertips grazing her pubic hair. I cradle her. Eventually, the Tin Man stops oiling himself and takes up guard again, his axe settled across his knees. The Lion rolls over, swatting at something. Dorothy shifts slightly and her breathing slows into the deep rhythms of sleep. Some nights she dreams of Kansas. Perhaps she will dream of me tonight. But I'm a bag of cloth stuffed with straw. I am as floppy as a mattress. I cannot have her the way the others have her. I have her afterwards. She sleeps with the others; she sleeps on me. It's special, but it's not enough. She sleeps. I yearn. Tomorrow we will finally see the Wizard. I will not ask him for a brain, I know that.