by Brian McCloskey
Sod the whale and save the gerund. Forget abut it. What is love? You can’t pretend there isn’t still a racy quality, Judith. I would have voted for anything in pink knickers. Do a swap. We put it with some black hosiery. One does not thank logic, Amanda. Her face in every flower, her name in every rose. A gun battle next to a cheesecake factory. I feel if I see her I should speak to her, because she’s special in some way. I love kissing you. I haven’t even kissed anybody. Tossing her beautiful head of lustrous red hair, she pouts. Must never leave her side, will never leave her side, should never leave her side. And then you fall heavily, hopelessly, tragically in love. Learning to love a woman, experiencing sexual passion with a woman. His hands have been coming out from under her jumper. At first her warmth felt good between my legs. There is no badness anywhere as acute as the badness of no woman out in the world thinking about you. I have a good handful of her excellent breast now. You must ask about the chair. Kissing is not a science. All I want is a little love to take the pain away. The legs are starting to mimic the gesture of someone blowing a kiss. My bullock is the champion racer in my district. There are times when life seems not so great but better than anything else. I love a good mollusc. I can still smell the scent of your skin and your words.