Maybe the elephant isn’t in the mood yet. Orlando poses with the other safari props. A girl kohls the trail of hair up his belly, tickling.
Now, let us make love to this magnificent beast, the director declares, gesturing.
The handler coos soothingly — Orlando isn’t sure at whom.
It’s so big, he’s not riding the elephant, but the earth. And the earth is listing, roiling.
He expects the hide to burr his trousers, sliding off down the nose. But there’s just a brief warmth of friction. The real earth is hard, still.
The elephant blinks womanly eyes, snuffles.