Fisk me harder, you savage beast!

My throat was dry from too much vodka, and her breasts, spilling out of pink pajamas, threatened my ability to. I was supposed to be excited, but I was bored and somewhat disgusted with myself, with her, with the whole business… and then whatever residual enthusiasm I felt for the venture dissipated, with shocking speed, as she nibbled at my ear and whispered — ‘You know, I’m on the pill…’ “

(Cynthia Yockey informs me that Lenten vows don’t forbid mere quotations. Andy recoils in reflexive gynophobia. And make sure you have plenty of brain bleach handy before you confront Dan Collins and the Mental Imagery From Hell.)

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