Ned moves his hand out of the way, rests back on his elbows and parts his legs wider in tacit permission. When Ginsberg looks at him he gives a tiny nod. There's such care in his movements; Ned knows part of that comes from his lack of self-confidence and from his belief that he's going to mess this up somehow. But it's also, simultaneously, out of a desire not to hurt him, and Ned appreciates that consideration.

"You're doing good," he assures, consciously relaxes the muscles in that area as much as he can. "It feels nice. You can- move it, if you want. If you, um..." Ned reaches between his legs, nudges Ginsberg to twist his arm so it is palm-up, "If you want it to feel really nice, you can sort of hook your finger forward, like..." he demonstrates with his own hand. "And then kind of feel around- ah!" his sentence is cut off by a rather loud cry, and he arches his hips off the bed, hands twisting into the sheets at his sides. "Do that again," he says, and it's meant to be an instruction, but it comes out more like a plea.