One of yesterday’s confessions referred to a certain pornographic video clip. The confessor remarked that she was sad she’d lost the clip; she also mentioned that it featured anal golf ball shenanigans and sports puns. Would you believe that a reader took pity on her plight and found the clip?

…Okay, if I told you it was Laramy, then would you believe it? I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. It fits the description (oh yes, I’m going to) to a tee.

If you’re reading, confessor, this is for you. It’s also for the rest of us, because I suspect we all wanted to see this clip. I know I did!

The following link is a VERY NSFW clip of an anal golf ball threesome (it took me a minute to decide what order to put those words in) with all sorts of elements that might offend you. If you think it might be objectionable, don’t click it. NSFW Here it is! NSFW

(image source)

My friend Crispin Hijanx selected three women to stand up with him at his wedding. He also selected a woman to marry, cause that’s just what our state is like these days! His best friendships really are with women, and he tends to loathe rigid gender boundaries, so it makes perfect sense for him to have groomschicks. Of course, in terms of the bachelor party I’m not sure if his selection was unfortunate or ingenious.

We groomschicks are determined to throw one hell of a party, but we’re a little handicapped by the fact that none of us has ever been invited to a bachelor party before, so while we know the movie-style ideas of what bachelor parties are “supposed” to be, we don’t have vast libraries of experience to draw from. And Crispin isn’t even interested in “hired strippers”, he says, so we have to get creative from scratch: no strip clubs, no boozing, nothing stereotypical. Did I mention that Crispin hates being stereotypical?

So I’ve been running around like an energy-impaired chicken with its head cut off lately trying to help plan this shindig. It threatens to be pretty fun, too. We’ve had lots of good ideas that reek of Crispin, but there’s one that makes me especially nervous. See, not too long ago, one of Crispin’s friends was getting married and he, along with a few other male friends, agreed to strip for her bachelorette party. I don’t think it’s mere happenstance that Crispin has mentioned this factoid about three thousand and six times since his engagement.

When you get to the point where you realize that one of your oldest close friends is asking you to take your clothes off in honor of his impending nuptials, what do you do, punk? In light of the fact that I’m terribly naked shy, my solution is to start with many clothes and end up with significantly fewer, but still some.

In stripping, is it still the thought that counts?

…Oh wait. Maybe it kind of is. Ugh.

Laramy and I watched porn together for the first time on Monday night.

Actually, it was the first time I’ve ever watched porn with a partner, and I’m not sure why I haven’t before. I’ve never been one to take exception to my partner enjoying porn, and I enjoy it on occasion myself, so why no one wanted to watch porn with me until now is a mystery. Maybe previous partners thought I’d get in the way of their enjoyment or something, gumming up their fantasies with my flesh-and-bloodiness.

This isn’t to say that I want to watch porn while having sex, especially not as a routine. I can’t imagine too many things more joyless than getting ready to get it on with someone and hearing, “Oh wait, let me just put on this movie of people fucking to distract me from the fact that I’m fucking you, non-buxom, non-blonde, pale girl without a tramp stamp whose name I can’t recall just now. By the way, could you move your head so I can see the screen? Don’t want to lose my erection.” That would be depressing.

In fact, as someone who usually masturbates to pictures or just doesn’t use visual aids, I think porn is fun to watch, but it’s very hit-or-miss for me in terms of arousal. But watching it with someone cool always seemed like it might be fun and sexy: laughing at the cheesy parts together, critiquing techniques and positions, getting turned on and forgetting the movie halfway through. All fun, right?

Never happened that way for me. The closest I’d come until recently was when Edwin Pomble’s roommate pulled out Pirates one night and informed us it was the funniest porn of all time. “This I have to see!” I declared. Edwin agreed that we could all watch it together as long as we fast-forwarded through the sex scenes. …Yeah. This was shortly before I realized I’d rather be fucking his roommate.

When Laramy asked me if I wanted to watch Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy, a 1976 musical porn starring Kristine DeBell, with him my only misgiving was that I find nearly everything made in the 1970s ugly–not people, obviously (call me), but TV and movies, etc. I’m not sure what went on with film processing or whatever during that decade, but it’s unacceptable. But hey, I finally had an offer to watch porn with someone hot, so I was going to take it! Plus, Laramy loathes musicals and likes porn, so I was looking forward to a hilarious internal conflict at the very least.

The film is pretty ridiculous. Which is fair, because Alice in Wonderland is a literary tribute to the sublime within the ridiculous. On the plus side it didn’t take itself too seriously, there were some crazy hot chicks in it (I watch gay porn for the men; straight porn is all about the girls for me), and there was one section where, shortly after a lesbian nurse scene, they actually had sing-along lyrics posted: “His ding-a-ling up! His ding-a-ling up! We got his ding-a-ling up!” referring to Alice’s  messianic lifting of Humpty Dumpty’s erectile dysfunction where the hot nurses had failed. Needless to say, it was a fun movie.

The problem was, neither of us found it all that arousing. Sure, there were a couple brief moments where I felt myself getting into it, but then some new absurdity would get in the way and they’d all have to sing about it or stumble through some halfhearted rhyming dialog. It felt a lot more like watching a hilariously bad movie than a hilariously hot one.

Oh, we still had awesome sex afterward. But we both agreed, not without a twinge of disappointment, that the musical porn we watched beforehand had very little to do with it.

I must say, I’m fairly excited to see the upcoming Erica McLean’s Alice starring Sunny Lane and featuring April Flores as the Queen of Hearts (see Epiphora’s glad tidings about the project here). Fleshbot indicated that maybe it was scheduled to come out on Monday, the very day we watched the old Alice, which would’ve been a freakish coincidence since I thought it was coming out later. But I’m not so sure that it has, since the website doesn’t seem to have any clues as to how to get it.

Anyway, our porn-watching experiment was a blast, and I think we’re going to make this a regular thing. Musicals, probably not so much, although I did make him suffer through The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. early on in our relationship. Love me, love every single one of those 5,000 fingers, dammit.

*Or maybe it’s just our dirty, dirty minds and he was just being very nice to that little girl. The world may never know.

I think Lemon Party is kind of cute. I’m not attracted to the men in question, I’m just happy to see those old dudes having fun and getting it on in their declining years. It gives me hope for the future. I honestly don’t get why people are so horrified by it.

When I was a teenager, I used to stick my tongue up my boyfriend’s nostrils and sometimes I’d pull his nose hairs out with my teeth. I thought it meant we were very intimate.

(When I was a teenager I thought my boyfriend leaving a surprise  context-free dog collar on my car for me to find the morning after a sleepover with my girlfriends was weird until he explained that it was romantic. Not why it was, just that it was. Ah, to be young again.)

My friends host porn parties sometimes where we have a potluck and mock the porn story lines and techniques. I mock the porn, too… but secretly some of it turns me on.

(Porn turns me on too, buddy. We should start a support group.)

One of my best friends in the whole world has been in love once in her life. She’s over 30 now. She was dating a guy who was a bit dickish. I was friends with him too, but he was a dick. He talked behind her back about how she wasn’t right for him and he felt trapped. He started off using her for sex but it got out of hand and he didn’t think he could ever have feelings for her.

One night him and I were hanging out while she was out of town and he tried to kiss me. I dodged it and told him he was out of line. I never told her about the kiss that almost happened. He dumped her about a month after that. I told her she was better off, but I’ve never brought myself to tell her that he tried to cheat on her with me. I think it would destroy her.

I still masturbate to nekkid pics of 2 of my exes. They think I’m destroyed the digital images, but those are really hot women were talking about. Deleting them is worse than smashing a priceless painting. It’s a mite shady, but I’m being the gentleman considering I could have them all up on the internet right now.

I laugh louder than anybody at homo/fag/gay jokes…unless my gay friend who’s dick I regularly suck is listening. My girlfriend thinks I’m being sensitive, but really I don’t want him to be offended and stop our secret ‘movie nights’.

I tweeze the stray hairs around my nipples religiously. When I move in with my boyfriend I’m going to have to be very sneaky about my tweezing, because he always talks about how his ex had nipple hair and how grossed out it made him. I always carry tweezers in my purse in case we get trapped on a deserted island.

I had a girlfriend for a while who was both kinky and had self-esteem problems. And was religious. I could hit all her buttons and make her forget all of that and do whatever I wanted, whatever she wanted… and then she’d come off the endorphin high and wallow in regret, and come back to me so I could make her feel better again. I don’t know if it was rape. She said yes after she said no, does that make it okay? After her brain chemistry changed because of things I was saying or doing, and she was willing to do things she explicitly told me not to do, is that rape? She didn’t think so, my friends didn’t think so, my psychologist didn’t think so, but something inside me keeps saying it was. But if it was, why don’t I feel bad about having done it…

My college boyfriend didn’t want to have sex before marriage, but I convinced him that oral sex wasn’t sex (something I don’t really believe) and, after he said no more oral, that it didn’t count if I gave him a handjob and he only finished in my mouth. I feel kind of bad about it, but mostly I’m just annoyed that he didn’t want to have sex with me.

…These last two confessions are particularly interesting in juxtaposition to each other. Without clarifying details, they could easily be describing very similar situations, but one confessor’s partner was female and the other was male. Was one of these more disturbing to read than the other? I’m really curious what everyone thinks.

Anything you’d like to confess? Anything with which to shock and amaze this corner of the internet? Lay it on me.

First off I would like to say this……..I’m one of those “curvy” women that another poster talked about and I would like to just throw this out there. Not all people are “curvy” because they eat all the time or bad food. I personally don’t eat junk food,drink a gallong of water daily, walk almost 10 miles a day, and I still have my curves. So ease off the assumptions.

I was in a relationship for seven years with my exhusband and during that time he kept telling me that he wanted me to be with another woman. I’m so confused I don’t know if it is because he brow beat me about being with one, or if I’m curious? But I could never be with another woman because of all the protesting I did with him……..

I try to catch up with girls I knew back in elementary school because I wanted to fuck them then and it still sounds like a good idea.

An old boyfriend used to go down on me during my period, not at my request. The more dark blood, and clotted tissue he swallowed the more he seemed to enjoy it. I thought it was super nasty when he said I was “feeding him”, but who’s gonna turn down oral sex. After we broke it off I don’t expect boys to do that for me. It would be super gross to ask and I didn’t even like it that much. I also know this was all part of some gross fetish he has. Even so, I can’t come up with many other things a boy could do that would make my vagina feel SO ACCEPTED.

I secretly long for the day that robots become advanced enough that I can forgo having to interact with human women and can instead buy myself a robotic girlfriend. It isn’t that I don’t like human women, I like to imagine I could download updates that would allow for free will and what not for my robotic girlfriend, but I like the idea of something (effectively) immortal ‘loving’ me with the sort of single minded devotion (I fantasise) only a robot to have. Compared to this human women seem to erratic and short-lived. My only regret would be that a robotic lover could never bear a child.

(This may or may not be comparable to my regret that I’ll never be able to bear puppies or kittens. They’re so much cuter than human babies, and the whole time they’re growing up you never have a teenager on your hands.)

I want my housemate’ girlfriend. He fucked my girlfriend whilst we were all living together. I was the bigger man about it all for a long time, but I can’t resist it any longer. I fantasise about her, and even cuddled with her in front of him one evening whilst we were all out and tripping. When next the opportunity presents itself I will seduce her and feel no remorse, she wants it, I want it. And I will feel good about it because he fucked my ex while we were together and still believes I don’t know about it. The icing on the cake is that my ex was his girlfriend’ best friend, it shattered the friendship, my relationship with her and went on to ruin a good social circle. Fuck him.

My mate and I have an Agreement we live by that is very similar to the infamous “Contract of Wifely Expectations” that feminists and vanilla people on the interwebs had conniptions over a few years back. In fact, we were inspired by reading it. We have never been happier. We don’t tell anyone about it for obvious reasons.

(The original Contract of Wifely Expectations.)

I love my fiance. I’m absolutely ecstatic that I escaped a borderline abusive relationship at the right time to luck into finding my fiance. We’re very sexually compatible – similar sex drives and kinks. I do have one regret, though. I never slept with a woman before we had sex. I’m bisexual and he’s supportive. He wants me to be able to sleep with a woman if that’s what I want, but I can’t… he has herpes. I don’t have it (yet – fingers crossed) but the woman I want to sleep with won’t sleep with me because I was honest about his herpes.

I love my boyfriend. I’m very attracted to him. Our sex life is great. I think he’s probably the only guy I could be this happy with. But he left town for a week recently, and I picked up a guy in a bar and took him home with me. I’m in my 40s, and I wanted to see if I still had it (I do, apparently). I wanted a night of anonymous sex with a new body (and it was pretty good). I wanted to prove to myself that if my boyfriend and I split up, I’ll be able to move on (the guy I picked up would have been happy to see me again, although I refused). I’m also quite convinced that my boyfriend cheated on me while he was away, and for the same reasons. I find the idea kind of hot, even though I don’t really like to think about him with another woman.

(This is some O. Henry shit right here.)

I’ve wanted to have sex with a girl with small boobs for so long that when I date a girl with a teenaged little sister I catch myself wondering what she’d look like topless. This is the case with the girl I’m currently dating, and I’ll prolly marry her. This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop hoping to see her sis’ rack.

I spent every penny my Concentration Camp Survivor grandfather left me in his will on prostitutes and pornography. Thanks, Zadie.

…There it is. Your weekly dirt. To keep ConTuesdays going, I need your secrets! Send me your anonymous confession now, and experience the glorious catharsis.

I say I specifically want a Fleshlight because I’m a little wary of some of the other toys out there. Like with any partner, I have some standards for my sex toys. I’m not saying that my masturbation aids have to be charming, witty, and have pretty eyes. I’m saying that they need to not creep me right the fuck out.

Fleshlights are cute, with a range of neat little orifices and inner textures (lotus, twista, ultra tight, vortex…), many of which seem appealing. The coin-slot “stealth” orifice is the closest these things come to being creepy (I can’t help but think it’d be like fucking a Barbie piggy bank, if there were such a thing), unless you find the hilarious “Succu Dry” vampire-toothed mouth off-putting.

Another  masturbator that seems pretty cool is the Tenga Flip, which looks like a hyperbaric chamber for your cock, or possibly something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It might seem a little sexless and sterile for some people, but since I have a well-known robot fetish I’d have no trouble putting my equipment in this docking station. Hopefully the tech wouldn’t revolt and the ending wouldn’t be totally inscrutable.

There are other sleeves and masturbators that seem pretty great. But there are many, many toys for guys out there that seem like catastrophically bad ideas. They’re designed oddly, marketed awkwardly, rendered patently unattractive, or just seem weird somehow. I realize that a vulva or a mouth is more aesthetically complex than, say, a penis, and that might account for some of the problems I’ve seen. But let’s face it, it doesn’t explain away all of them. Let’s examine some of these issues a little more closely:

Terrible Marketing Copy

The Super Head Honcho Masturbator has the following quote in its description: “It’s as good as a blow-job. Women will be dancing in the streets.” You know what guys like to think about while they’re masturbating? How much chicks hate giving them blowjobs! If my boyfriend had one of these and we were about to have sex, I’d definitely just hand him his Super Head Honcho Masturbator and a bottle of lube and tell him, “Enjoy your foreplay! Let me know when you want to fuck. I’ll be on the couch playing Pokemon.”

…Except how I like putting cocks in my mouth and the Head Honcho doesn’t have anything to do with that. That quote is just reinforcing the “Hey, consumer, you can’t get a woman to blow you, so you’d better buy this!” stereotype that I already mentioned I hate. This also seems like a rather dim marketing strategy.

Hilarious Details

Some guys are turned on by a full bush. I’ve had zero real guys complain that I shave mine, but I had a phone sex client who would always treat me to a diatribe about how I was hurting my “poor little peach” and crippling my sexiness whenever I forgot his preference and told him my character was smooth. So there’s a market for pubic hair.

The Full Bush Vibrating Cyberskin Pussy isn’t just a clever name: it was clearly meant to cater to the bush-loving demographic. But I can’t help but think that something went wrong in the execution. Something about it seems a little… off. I don’t think that pubic hair grows the way they think it grows. I vote we rename this “The Swedish Cleft”.

…which brings us to…

Dealbreakingly Embarrassing Name

The design could be absolute genius, the orgasmic promise superb. Still, I just don’t see myself buying a Flip A Sister Over or an ATM (not referring to banking) masturbator. Where I come from we try to keep our masturbation devices classy, thank you very much.

Resembles Something Deeply Troubling

I may never learn why anyone would choose to give the Kinky Virgin Masturbator a scalloped detail around its gaping suggestion of a vulva, but I hope they realize that it gives the toy an eerie vagina dentata/hookworm flavor to it.

However, I don’t have time to worry about The Kinky Virgin. I’m too busy praying to Paul Verhoeven Almighty that the My Cocoa Stroker isn’t hiding under my bed. I can confidently state that this is NOT what pussies are supposed to look like. Why why why would anyone put a body part inside something that looks like the brain bug from Starship Troopers? I loathe the people who brought this abomination into the world and I hate everything they stand for.

WHAT?

The reviews for the UR3 Pocket Ass are really good, and maybe I’m missing something, but does the disembodied finger tugging open its “life-sized” anus add something positive to this toy, or is it just really, really funny?

Real Dolls are arguably kind of creepy, but their anime-inspired Boy Toy line is far creepier. “Hey, Dawg. I heard you like the uncanny valley, so I put your sex doll in the uncanny valley so you can be unsettled while you fuck fake women.”

And don’t even get me started on ROXXXY. Robots are keen, but I’m with Holly on this particular one. I wouldn’t touch this “companion” with a ten-foot arc welder.

In closing, dear god what IS this thing?

Which is why I was surprised when I started training to be a phone sex operator. To me, the vocal Viagra archetype has always been along the lines of Kathleen Turner, Scarlet Johansen, Dr. Girlfriend (…too far?): deep, throaty, seductive. When I got hired on part-time at a phone sex company, I was ready to exercise my contralto range. Turns out, what I would consider a “sexy voice” wasn’t my work horse. At all.

Millicent, my boss, was a seasoned PSO who oriented me over the phone. I was sitting in my apartment and clutching the landline phone that I’d bought especially for my new career, leafing through the training booklet she’d sent me in the mail. I was a little nervous to get started; I’d had phone sex with boyfriends before, but who was I to know what complete strangers liked?

“You have a naturally sexy voice,” she assured me, after teaching me how to simulate the sound of fingering myself by using my hands and a little spit. “but you’ll find that guys tend to react better when your voice plays into their fantasies.”

“Like a Jessica Rabbit-type thing?” I offered. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. Who doesn’t want to play patty cake with Jessica Rabbit?

“Not really,” Millicent dashed my fragile dreams. “Actually, they usually like it when you make your voice higher and giggle a lot.” She demonstrated for me; it was like she was the most vapid demon-possessed helium junky on Earth.

Really? Huh. I followed her lead. I immediately wanted to punch myself in the face. “Perfect,” she said.

I was skeptical, so I decided to split the difference. Millicent suggested I create two stock characters based on the pictures I’d be assigned on the website. (No, fellas: those pics are not actually the broads you’re talking to. Cry for me. Mmmm, your tears are so yummy and sweet!) Faun had light brown hair and a gymnast’s body, and she was a perfect candidate for the squeaky, maniacal rodent voice. Thumper had dark hair and blowjob lips, so I gave her what I considered a sex bomb voice, a little lower and smokier than my regular timbre. We would just see who the men liked better.

Would we ever!

Faun and Thumper had about the same number of calls, but Faun’s shrill laughter and adolescent wonder at everything the masculine mind could think to utter consistently kept the call times longer and the callers happier. Once, a guy actually gave a lame excuse to get Thumper off the phone, called the company back for a new girl, and then talked to Faun for hours.

I’m willing to accept the possibility that my Jessica Rabbit impression is crap, but it’s also possible that there’s something more sinister at work. It’s troubling to think that a me with an ice cube thrown down the back of my shirt may be more aurally enticing to the average man than a gagging-for-cock me.

I appreciate shows and movies that portray sex workers as real people who aren’t predators, victims, or addicts. I do understand and acknowledge anyone who feels compunction about glamorizing something that can go so terribly wrong, especially when that glamor might threaten to blot out the stories that need to get told. The tragic injustices exist: hell, they abound. Prostitutes can and do encounter violence and exploitation, and please let’s not forget the nauseous abundance of women, children, and men forced into sexual slavery to fulfill the global demand for sex workers. There are major problems with the sex-based sector of the economy, some of which of arise partly because so much of it has to operate underground, accountable to very little, and even less that’s ever concerned with the health, independence, and well-being of the participants. Misplaced moral outrage and criminalization chase sex work into the shadows, and we know all too well what happens in a darkness like that: that’s how Sméagols become Gollums.

I believe it’s time to make a clear distinction between sex crime and sex business. These horrible infringements on human rights shouldn’t find it so easy to ape a harmless transaction between consenting adults any longer.

But how about people who are drawn to prostitution and other sex work because it’s fun, because they enjoy both money and sex? Why the hell that should present a problem to anyone is beyond me. The self-created happy hooker who makes a deliberate career choice and executes it with responsibility deserves more play. That’s the kind of sex worker we should encourage. Secret Diary portrays a call girl’s vocation as difficult and complicated, but also rewarding and sexy. Plus, there are times I feel sure I could compose a panegyric to Billie Piper’s ass.

The show is loosely based on the real experiences chronicled by the real owner of the really fake pseudonym Belle De Jour, who maintains a blog and wrote bestselling books, remaining completely anonymous until early this week. Turns out (via sexoteric), she’s 34-year-old scientist Dr. Brooke Magnanti, a respected specialist in developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology. These days she’s spending her time researching children’s cancer. Yep, she’s a science geek who’s trying to keep kids healthy: your move, naysayers. She spent 14 months selling sex to support herself while she worked on finishing her thesis, and she doesn’t regret it at all. In fact, she enjoyed it.

Good on you, doctor, for coming out and proving that a whip-smart woman (who is not, as it turns out, some man’s wishful invention or a writer’s fantastical thought experiment) can choose to participate in prostitution, have a great time, and walk away when she’s good and ready.

Now, to wait for season 3 to start…

The stories I came up with weren’t the worst to ever infect the genre, but that may be the best I can say for them. Once in a while I’ll linger over the old backup files because I need a good laugh, and will I ever laugh! At the two-dimensional characters fucking through showers of synonyms and tinny dialog (ex: “You geek, there’s no such thing as a superhero. I am, however, a super-human screw, if you care to try it out,” after which the character gives a saucy wink, naturally. Sweet Christ why did no one stop me?) At the more and more absurd scenarios I manufactured as paper-thin pretexts for ineptly written sex scenes. At how altogether silly they seem now. Occasionally, though–out of nowhere, I’ll find a sentence or two that’s almost hot… to me. Usually these sentences tend to somehow invoke the concept of tension.

I was still a virgin: a technical virgin, the most hilarious kind. Believe I knew tension. I’d fooled around with my oddly sex-adverse college boyfriend, but “sex-sex” was an odd taboo between us. Showing too much interest in intercourse was tantamount to spoiling for a fight back then. My inexperience may have thrown the wrenchiest of all the wrenches bogging down my fledgling erotic writing career. Of course virginity really never stopped anyone from writing about sex (I’m looking at you, fanfiction.net), but when a 10-year-old boy first draws two concentric circles and calls it a boob is it really fair to call that erotic art? And he certainly shouldn’t expect anyone to hand him $20 for his trouble. Getting paid to clumsily explore one’s sexuality is, of course, a pretty nice job if you can get it, but the results are bound to be awkward.

When I reread my old erotic fiction it occurs to me that although I knew the rudiments of orgasm, I didn’t really understand how sex works: the logistics, the sensations, the movements and blistering chemistry of bodies really overlapping. I also didn’t, DID NOT, understand attraction. It was all but impossible for me to navigate the murky waters between rawest acquaintance and bareback. All too often that transition was settled with a jaunty “wanna fuck?” proposed by one of the characters, usually the girl because the porn site was (brace yourself) targeted to men, and it seemed to me the kind of thing a guy might like, having a hot-as-only-fiction-allows female offer sex completely unsolicited. Come to think of it, my reasoning there was fair.

If I’m being honest, I still don’t have a handle on attraction, but we’ll revisit that some other time.

It’s odd to me that I never got any complaints from the client. They seemed perfectly happy with my work, although frankly, who reads erotic fiction on a pay site anyway? I could’ve gone on for decades. Maybe I would’ve hit some kind of stride, once I had a little more familiarity with my subject.

Eventually I just lost interest and stopped writing smut. One of the most frustrating things about writing for a glorified Girls Gone Wild porn site with a (for lack of a better term) frat boy demographic was the fact that as much as I didn’t understand my own sexuality I just absolutely,  7,000 times more, didn’t understand theirs. I mean, it’s possible… just barely possible… that that saucy wink I threw in really spoke to them. But if I knew that for a fact, I really couldn’t live with myself.