I Think His Name's Joey by Mr. Nobody Reminicences of a coat check girl. --This is adult fantasy intended for mature readers. Don't read it if you think you'd be offended by either or both the sexual descriptions and the depictions of erotic violence contained herein. He's on his back on a big oak desk with his head drooping over the edge, looking at me upside down. I inch up, spread my legs, and mount him. Grabbing his scalp from behind my ass, I yank it hard and pull his face high into my crotch. Now I lock my foot behind my left Achilles and start straightening my legs...slowly, very slowly. My body twists as I torsion his skull. My shoulders roll back and my chest juts out. My tummy rhythmically bucks as my thighs sweat and constrict. I like the feel of his jaw moving. My asscheeks dimple like two basketballs sucked clean of air. With his skull at high fulcrum between my legs, my scissors begins to do damage. I dance my quad shanks to a drum roll and then snap them tight at rim shot. Like industrial stone crushers, this jerks his body like he's a sack full of rags. I start getting hot, building to a maniacal fury, spiking this fool with thunderbolts of leggy pain. He is obviously disoriented, looking backwards and upside down with his head trapped between my legs. His arms thrash about and grab for anything. My hand meets his and our fingers entwine. There's a contest between us and he loses. I bend his wrist like it's green wood and mush his knuckles. His fingers splay open in pain. As I stand over this creature, rearranging his hand, I feel so strong it makes me wanna leak. Breaking a man tingles me. The accoustical hums created as I muffle his screams between my thigh muscles...oh...it drives me nuts. This little lamb is caught in a farm implement. How he cries! How he thrashes! I'm gonna bust this loser in a way that makes it memorable. The lactic acid in my quads burns. I stare straight ahead. I torque his neck with a full body jerk that flings my sweat. I ease up momentarily. Then, letting out a husky grunt, the method repeats. Like a boa, I make most of his relaxations and I squeeze, I squeeeeze, I SQUEEEEZE, clenching my teeth, my jaw birthing thick tendons, my neck thickening, my traps looking like tectonic plates, my face morphing into something wanton. I lose it. I'm orgiastic. I'm wild. "Mmmmph... mmmmph... MMMMMMMMPH!" My crotch burns. Ooooh! Nicccce, fu...fuckingggg nice! "Ungh... unnnngh!" Come on, baby, harder now. Yeah, that's it, harder. Look at that musclegirl go! Harder! UNNNNNNNNGH!!!! BUST THE FUCKER! I pause, my chest heaving, my gym-top soaked and dripping. I stand there, gasping for air, crimping him unmercifully and looking for some sign, some physiological nugget, praying that some deep-seated trauma has occurred. Soon he convulses in a complete way, uncontrollably. A bulge forms on his neck and turns purple against his pale skin. I'm rupturing something. I lean forward and place my fingertips on the desk to stabilize myself. I look down on his prone body and am fascinated by his motions. I roll my thighs back and forth like tidal waves of heavy, wet plaster, slip-sliding his cheeks, loosening his jawbone until it emits clicking sounds between my adductors. As I go for it, I let out bimbo squeaks, jutting and twisting one of my fingers into the dimple on my smiling cheek, amused by his death dance. I scrunch up my sexy pug nose and bite my lower lip. A sadistic, playful grin. Yeah, that's it, grunt-bust this fucker some more! I do! Come on, fucker...get pulpy on me! Like a triumphant leopard that chomps its powerful jaw one last time to finish off the pronghorn's brittle neck, my legs do him. He shudders a little before going quiet. I milk my orgasm dry, sucking my index finger as I watch him twitch. I pull the finger from my mouth, smacking my lips as if I've just finished my favorite lollipop. I close my eyes and listen to the tick-tock of the captain's clock on his bookshelf. It helps pace my re-entry into normalcy. I can feel the sweat on my scalp run down my neck and tickle me. I smile now. I run my fingers through my soaked, short haircut. I suck on one. It's salty. Suddenly...my cellular phone! Shit! "Uh, uuuuh...Hiya Mom! Yeah...that's right...still at work. Pretty busy here." It's my mother. She offers to keep dinner. "No, you go to bed. Don't stay up. Bye to Dad...hey...gotta go, got more customers...b-bye..." I check coats at a local restaurant. I start at five and stay until the last customers are seated, usually around ten. Then I'm free to leave. Mom figures it must be busy and that's why I'm not home yet. Instead, I'm out with some guy who has hit on me at work, something that happens alot. I'm not sure who this guy is tonight. Fancy office in a highrise. Money. He's older and oh-so weak. I think his name's Billy... Part I: Mr. Carlson The first was Carlson. The fool. I broke Carlson. I made the little chemistry teacher cry like a baby, and cry for his wife, and then I smiled into that fuckhead's terrified face as I snapped his neck. He flipped around alot, much like an electrified dummy. I find Carlson in his lab, late in the evening, waiting for me. He and his wife were at the restaurant earlier and he left me a note about meeting him alone later. I'm almost illegal in the way I look, in the way I walk towards him. My body bends and pulls my tight summer dress in several directions at once. Carlson can't keep his eyes off me. The dirty old man has a full-time hard-on whenever I'm in his chemistry class. Right now he looks anticipatory as I walk up and whisper something that makes his wan smile turn broad and cheesey. The over-the-top nature of my aggressive mien casts a spell over him as he stands there and sweats profusely, doing nothing to stop me as I move my arm behind his neck and run my free hand up and down his soft chest, cooing at him, slicing my leg between his two and coiling my calf around his leg to pull his thigh into my crotch. He smells old and uninviting, but I tongue him anyway. I buck my pelvis against his pantleg, pressing hard so he can sense how strong I am. I drive harshly into his mouth with a physicality that makes him tentative. I keep my eyes wide open for the full ride, staring at the pale face and the little eyes. Finally, he submits and bends backwards onto the lab table as I climb on. Try as he might, Carlson can't get it up. Too much too soon too fast. He explains with broken, gasping sentences that this is wrong, very wrong, and that I should leave. He tells me his chest hurts. I pull off and plop just beside his wheezing chest. There's a pissed, disrespectful way I look down at him and then gaze up into the corner of the room and mumble how I don't like it when I can't fuck a man. I ignore his gasps for air. I lift my leg and swing it like the arm of a crane over his face, holding it aloft while pointing and releasing my toe and asking for his opinion. "All the teachers go ga-ga over my legs, don't they, Mr. Carlson? How about you, Mr. Carlson?" I watch for his reaction. "You like my muscles, doncha, Mr. Carlson?" The innocence is transparent and sexy, and it threatens him. I'm very good at feeding this man's horny impulses at school and it shows in the good grades he pays me. But, it's the darkness of my disrespectful ways that scares him right now. "Saw your wife tonight...her legs are really small...puny, aren't they, Mr. Carlson?" I smile at my leg, reaching to stroke it, exhaling in admiration. I lean into his face, staring at his wide eyes. "Think mine are stronger than your cunt's? HUH, Mr. Carrrrllllssssonnnn?" I sit back and lower my calf against his nose and begin pressing. It's a tease that hints of unbridled audacity. My body courses with the urge to break this fucker. A slight, sensual bite on my lower lip as I press harder to flatten his nose. A self-absorbed, cocky moan. A quickening of my breathing. A sense of superiority over this weak man. My nostrils flare. My respiration builds. My upper lip curls. A contemptous sneer. I'm going to enjoy this. My deliciously sexy, bare foot lowers to his face and presses. "Lick it." I say it calmly, but the man is confused and doesn't. "Suck it, fucker!" My big toe pries open his mouth and my foot shoves in, making the man gag. I get violent. I grind it in; I bore him. Then I pull it out to see the strand of bloody spit between my toes and his lower lip. I slide the slippery ball of my foot around on his face, swabbing him roughly, shoving his flabby flesh. I pinch his nose between my toes. Two gas spiggots behind me provide anchor as my motions become more forceful. I slip the shin of my other leg under his neck, like a pillow. With my wet foot planted on his chin, I push down. The old man's throat arches as his neck bends around the contour of my shin underneath. He lifts his back in an attempt to counteract the curvature, but it's just not enough. I watch his hands as they grab at my foot and try to remove it from his chin, but it's cumgusher watching these weak hands grapple with me. My leg is very strong. Too strong for him. His heels kick the table surface, seeking traction to slide away from me. All this does is shove him along the tabletop to the edge of lab sink, until his head goes over the edge and down inside. I thrust more, pushing his head into the sink, bending his neck over my shin. I clasp my knee and lean forward into it, pushing my chin on my knee, throwing my neck and shoulders into it. All of this transmits through my leg into the ball of my foot and onto this fucker's little chin. His eyes wiggle. I grunt and push harder. With an explosion of youthful brawn, I push hard and begin smelling his piss. I feel his neck popping. Suddenly, Carlson gives. His head sinks down. His body flops a little like a fish out of water. I slouch back and drive a hand under my panties. My head rests on my shoulder and my mouth hangs open with a devil- may-care insouciance, watching the old man shake. I work his skull like a soccer ball with my foot. I get rough. It feels sexy, kicking it hard, then harder. I close my eyes and picture in my mind his wife watching all this. The old bag drops to her knees in the chemistry lab... ...screaming at me, begging me to stop. But I simply stare back and tell the bitch to watch the musclegirl pound the living fuck out of her man. My leg pulverizes his neck. It makes a nauseating sound, like a piece of driftwood twisted until it rips. She turns away and sobs uncontrollably, coughing and hacking, sometimes shielding her eyes from the sight. I work his head, watching her all the way. I tell her to look up and see what my big calf does to his throat. I point my toes to harden up my muscles, pushing his Adam's Apple back into his neck. The compression lifts and bobs the fucker's head, as if he's still alive. I pummel him, each lunge of my leg reciprocating like a big sawblade, the jagged edge of my calf clipping his neck and knocking him back and forth. I become fascinated by the reddish, mishapen quality of his neck. Hitting Carlson with unstinting harshness makes me come, especially as he gets rubbery and his head rolls about loosely. I jam both hands into my cunt and autobang. I'm so frenetic that my body shakes the lab table, scooting it across the linoleum floor. "Ooooh...yessss!" I keep at it, pulling one hand free to examine the grey cobweb of cuntcheese that glues my fingers together. I rotate my hand before my face, making a fist to squish the goo from between the seams of my fingers. Then I slowly lick the little ridges of snatchgrease, and, with a backward tilt of my head, curl my tongue and let the fishy tapioca enter my throat. I slip off the table and lower into a full squat inches from his wife's sobbing face. Extending my shiny finger to elevate her chin to my glaring smile, I force her to look into my eyes as I knucklefuck myself with a fury that vibrates my entire body. With a predatory smirk that bubbles up the spit on my lips, I loudly swallow the rest of my cum. She's next. Part II: Liz and Larry the Pig I see her several times in the lounge of the restaurant. There's something enticing about this woman's middle-age friskiness and the way she looks at me. I can tell she covets me. In a brief conversation I learn she teaches acting. She likes role-playing. I ask her if I can take the lead some day. She smiles knowlingly and returns to her party, leaving me a note with directions to her home. Later this week. Late. I should come dressed like a lumberjack. Her home is deep in the woods and her husband is supposedly out of town. Both of us are together on a frigid night, warmed by a roaring fire in her cabinesque living room. On the floor, near the hearth, she's placed a large, unzipped sleeping bag where she says the two of us will play as campers all alone in the dark forest. I stand in the center of the room and let her open my lumberjack shirt and lick my pecs. She takes my hand and we go to the camping spot. It's worship time. I swagger, a nasty smile on my face that says I'm her banquet. There's something powerful in my butch ways. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and her running commentary about my body. The woman is entranced with me. She asks my age. I tell her and she squeals in amazement. So young and so developed. I tell her I'm very strong, too, and she coos with anticipation. I watch her little fingers spread apart when I go up and down on my toes, pumping for her. I like her teasing exploration, the way she drags her pinkie back and forth over my muscles. She looks at me with a sexy wink, looking back at my legs and extending her frog-like tongue to lick the deep dimples I make in my quads. I hear her mumbling to herself, aroused as she drags her lips across my skin, hugging me for dear life. Her head lowers and her tongue traces a large vein up to my ass, leaving a shiny trail of saliva. This works wonders and I immediately drop to the floor and allow her to climb me like a Sherpa. At night when I'm in bed, I pinch and pull my clit until it's covered with a mucous. I get so feverishly turned on that I create sloshing sounds in the pool of juice that fills my labia. With this present opportunity, I tell her to do the same with my clit. Suck it. Tell me you've never seen one this big. Her little face slides down my tummy. Her thick lips eventually burrow in my puffy bush with the impatience of a dog that's found a bone hidden under a rug. I hear her sigh at my size. My fleshtab becomes a hard walnut, a powerfully erect trophy. I raise my leg between her legs and force her to ride me like a bronco. As she humps me, the downward slide of her body thrusts her face into me so that her skilled mouth can pull, suck, and lick my she-cock until I start flowing like the Mississippi. I grab her head with both hands and hold her in place, pressing her face into my sloppy bush and screwing it around and around in a rotating fashion so that I can bang her against my clit. She struggles for release, but I control her quite completely. She tries to pop free, but I'm too strong for that, pressing her until she has difficulty breathing. She coughs. She chokes. I like using her this way, moving her around at will, engorging my labia until they're bright red, my strong hands, wrists, and forearms veining up as I work this little skull, working my she-tool like some sort of human dildo. I spread my legs wide and slowly point them to the ceiling, creating a big vee-shape, closing by bringing my feet together, clasping her skull just as a nutcracker does to an acorn. She jolts. I coil my lower legs as I tighten up the scissors. The flickering flame makes shadows on my musculature and perspiration runs like rivers of mercury. I let go once she seems delirious and roll her into the sleeping bag. Then I zip her up, leaving her face exposed. I climb on top and smile at her in a smug, satisfied way, examining how my scissors has turned her eye-sockets dark purple. My tongue tickles her nose, indifferent to her injuries, teasing her, drawing out child-like sobs. "Beg me. Beg me not to hurt you." She screams in horror. I lap her teary face with the spitty fatness of my big tongue. I swab her neck. I shove my tongue into her mouth and twirl it around. I French my toy, opening my mouth wider, grabbing hard at her little skull and shoving so deeply that she chokes, working her head around and around in a circular path as my tongue remains stationary and reams her. The more she struggles, the more violent I become. I roll off and move right-angle to her body, slipping one leg under her back and slapping the other across her tummy, just below her ribcage. I clasp my hands behind my head and start scissoring. It feels like an innertube full of semi-rigid objects suspended in a gel-like medium, all of them colliding against each other under the pulsating force of my rock-hard massage. A groan heaves deep from her chest as I squeeze. My back arches for additional leverage. I dig my elbows into the floor for anchorage. I bend my body to maximize the pressure on her spine. Her gurgling sound makes me throw everything into it. My legs burn. My squeeze draws her body against my crotch, the rhythmic pulsations of my legs causing me to soak through my cut-offs and onto the sleeping bag. My top quad is like a big wave of power busting over her lower ribcage. A giant rolling pin. The sleeping bag jerks wildly like a giant burrito filled with rabid squirrels. I bend her like a drinking straw pinched between two fingers, her head and feet going up and down with each snap of my legs. Her ribs are staves on an old wooden barrel as I systematically crack each one, making the shards of cracked bone sink into her lung tissue. The bitch is beyond screaming now. In the relative silence of the room, I listen as my legs make the fluids in her chest rumble. No amount of practise on melons, beachballs, or stuffed animals substitutes for the real thing. I roll on my back and point my legs to the ceiling one last time, holding her aloft between them. They look like suspension cables on the Golden Gate Bridge, hard, shiny, and tightly bundled. I open them and let her fall to my chest, slapping her sides with nutcrackers, each salvo jolting her body and bouncing her face up and down on my pecs. My legs change position and I assume a figure-four. My hand grabs my boot and tugs on the leg cutting across her lower back while the other hand pushes hard against the center of her chest, as if to shove her away. I fold her backwards far enough to test the limits of a spine. One arm shoves. The other pulls. Clenching my teeth, I can feel it. I can feel her back break. I'm so fucking strong. Her name's Liz. She reminds me of Larry the Pig...a guy I break in my dreams. The muscular girl... ...pulls off Larry's slimy rod. She strokes it, looking at him as she pumps globs of his nutoil on to her tummy. He shakes his head at her craven ways as she smears his pearly moisturizer around until it turns tacky. He takes a cigaret from the bedstand, distracting himself and not noticing that she's slipping her legs around him. Presto! The musclegirl starts breaking Larry. The coiling legs make his cheeks do blowfish impressions that pop the cigaret from his mouth. His words are cut short. She lowers to his face and whispers. "Do we hurt yet, Larry?" There is no response. Her total attention is on the way her legs pump spit from his mouth, bubbling up and popping as she snaps him with her thighs. "Come on, cry, Piggy! I can't hearrrr youuuu, Piggggeeee!" For the final act, she rolls herself on to Piggy's chest and grabs the back of his soaked scalp, pulling his face into her striated cleavage so hard he can't breathe. Her neck is a tree-stump of exaggerated musculature. She gives off gutbusting grunts like she's taking the Mother of All Craps, her legs wending their way into a killer grapevine. Her eyes close and she issues a sickening smile of pleasure as she breaks him. The Ringmaster screams at her... "...Stop it, Girl, STOPPPP!!!" The Girl ignores him and continues to bust Piggy. Her legs do things too nauseating to witness. The crowd is shocked, horrified. No one moves. No one rushes to help Larry. You can hear people gag as they watch the girl's legs pop Piggy's knees. The Ringmaster shakes his head helplessly and proceeds... "Ladeeees and gentullllmen! In the center ringggg, 'Piggggeee aaaaunnnnd....The Girrrrllll!'" Like a juggler, The Girl hoists Piggy, but the crowd gasps when they see Larry the Pig can't be curled into a ball and balanced on her feet the way he has so many times before. A child cries out. "Lookeeee momeeee, Piggy's broken!" Other mommies in the audience shield their children's eyes. The crowd silently exits, most not looking back, some covering their mouths. The Girl plays on with Piggy's body, amusing herself, ignoring the crowd. The Ringmaster backs away and dims the lights in the emptying tent. Part III: The Reverend Joey He sits on the floor, his back resting against the lower front of the sofa. Medieval furnishings give the chancery the feel of a candle-lit sex chamber. He lets his pastoral robes fall open. I lick my lips at the sight of the mammoth sacramental that hangs between his legs. I'm glad this preacher gave me his address at the restaurant. I think his name's Joey... Joey scoots up on to his Ottoman and I sashay backwards towards him until I'm right up between his legs. I bend over so that my sweet, shapely ass greets his face. No panties. I let him marvel at the pink of my swollen cuntlips and the puffy crown of my adductors. "Lick me, Joey." He's like a little boy with his ice cream on a hot day. I reach down and grab his cock through my legs. Joey grows bigger with each slurp of his fat tongue on my butt. He grabs the front of my legs and pulls himself into me, scooting to the edge of his Ottoman until his face nuzzles my crack. His hands reach around and squeeze my teardrop quads and slide up and down the front of my thighs and shins. I back into him as tightly as I can, slapping the jagged interiors of my calves against his tube. This isn't difficult. Joey is practically laminated to the rear of me and his organ is of such enormity to make it easy to grip. I work him masterfully with slow calf flexes that pinch his pipe and make his tip veiny and engorged. Then I take his Dick Rover and purposely stall it between my calf peaks. He starts leaking on me like a ruptured garden hose, so I grab a church collection plate from the coffeetable nearby and, BLEWWWWAGHHHH, his gelatinous pearliness unloads like lava onto the pewter. I milk his sausage relentlessly, squeezing him with a full handgrip, pulsing him so hard he cries softly. We release each other and I stand up for the first time since our embrace began. I turn to him and set the cum splattered collection plate back on the table, reaching now for a candlestick holder sitting next to it. Joey watches me take the head of this shaft, spread my knees, and shove it in. Its rough, ornate carvings work me like a pewter French Tickler. "Mmmmphhhh ...mmmmphhhh ...mmmmphhhh!" Venal, selfish sexmoans fill my chest and spill into his parsonage. I grunt maniacally, out of control. Joey is breathless from the intensity of my automasturbation. "Nnnnghhhh! NNNNGHHHH! NNNNGGGGGGGGHHHH! Oh, Jo-oeeee... it's... so... fuckinnnnggg... nicccce!" The head of the shaft creates a suction, so I let the holy dildo hang free and sway to the undulations of my sphincters, not unlike the movement of a connecting rod on a submersible pump. Running my fingers through my hair, my lower jaw rocks hungrily with the pendulous pewter. I reach for the collection plate and pull the shaft free, tipping it upside down onto the plate. We watch the thick syrup drip onto his pool of gizz. To make sure nothing is wasted, I place the candleholder to my tongue and rotate it, squeegeeing it clean. My finger mixes our pooled fluids and scoops the liquid cheese to my mouth. I suck my fingers, pulling them one by one from my mouth, making a squeaky popping sound and bimbo-ish sexgiggles as each digit escapes my thick, sexy lips. Joey doesn't seem to mind the take-control way I tell him to climb on his desk. He does so, with his face up and his head drooping over the edge. I stand at his head and slide forward, down his body until my face reaches his crotch. I don't recall seeing an organ this impressive, especially in church! I play a fugue on Joey with my tongue...delicate rotations and protracted, screwing descents of my head, my spitty lips and tongue basting the veiny exterior of his phallus. My cheeks dimple under an industrial-strength suction accompanied by rapid head thrusts. A slippery lather quickly builds. My lips O-ring his shaft, shoving the spit and cum down to his base where I open up, full throat, and take in every inch of his massive column, fish-lipping the milky froth that has soaked into the nap of his pubes. Joey flows on me like Moses down the Nile, down his Pillar of Ramses and through his tall reeds of hair, syruping across the Pharaoh's Balls swaying to and fro in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I lap up the pools of cum that form on his hard, ribbed tummy and in his navel. With a considerable amount of Joeyjuice now sloshing around in my mouth, I tilt my head back and gargle it, smacking my lips as I swallow. Then I slide my face around on his skin as if to chamois his belly. His polyurethanesque mangrease sheens up my cheeks. I want to see if Joey can keep it hard during a scissors, so I mount his head and begin pressing it with the insides of my hard thighs. This throws a switch in Joey, as high- pressure hydraulics pump more and more manoil into his shaft. I look up, smile, and gargle his gizz once again. I suck this fucker like no man has been sucked before. I suck Joey raw. But, eventually, he flags. He squirms and asks me to climb off. He starts hurting. But, I don't stop. I get into what my legs are doing to his skull. I push up and hold my body above him, my mouth hanging open in a lazy, insolent way, my legs working his skull, harder, and then even harder. I can tell he's suffering now from the way his hands no longer seem to grip my arms with as much strength. Joey shakes and soon falls still. I stand up, my legs gripping his head, pulling him across the top of the desk as I back up. His feet fall to the floor and the rest of him dangles from between my thighs. I spread and he slumps to the Persian carpet like a duffel bag full of wet sand. I roll him over with a shove of my foot and sit on the floor at the crown of his skull with my legs spread. He breathes slowly. I scoot forward, lifting his face and sliding my crotch up against it. I do a figure-four across the back of Joey's head. One of my legs crosses his shoulderblades while the other captures my foot in the crook of my knee. Then I lift up, forwardly, off of my ass, and shift my entire weight on to the leg that crosses his back. I'm like Toulouse-Lautrec on half-legs. Joey is smashed between the Scylla of my bush to his face and the Charybdis of my leg to the back of his skull. My pelvis goes up and down against his face, the tempo ratcheting up to a series of almost imperceptible micro- movements that form a seal against Joey's face like those rubber doodads you lick and press onto a smooth surface, or a window pane. I hear the sound of squeaky airtightness as I buck against him. It sounds like I'm squishing petroleum jelly between my hands. I stare at the wall. The syncopated gyrations commence an orgasmic moaning like I'm an old schooner in heavy seas. "Uggggh... UGGGGHHHH! Mmmmm... mmmm... MMMMMmmmm!" I'm a machine, a piston. I'm an oil derrick, a Corliss Machine. I pound, push, press, and rub the fucker with rat-a-tat thrusts. "Uh... uhh... uhhh... uhhhh... UNNNNGGGGHHHH! UMMMMPHHHH!" This is a facefuck unlike any before. I'm going fucking crazy with this man, barking, yelping, flashing a deliciously evil smile each time I jerk him with a slap from of pelvis. It's Saturnalia time, Joey. With his head bent back crazily, the force suddenly overwhelms his neck, splintering him inside like he's balsa wood. Whatever connects his body to his skull I proceed to work until it's soft, like wet bonemeal. I keep riding the fucker's face until I hurt between my legs. With some hot water from the sink near his robing area, I wipe myself clean with paper towels. On my way out, I stand in front of a mirror. It's too high on the wall, so I use Joey as a step. With a few tosses right to left, and left to right, my hair is once again bouncy. I look good. Healthy. I lick my teeth sexily, admiring myself, smiling, looking down and giggling as my shoe twists back and forth on Joey's head. The wad of soiled toweling, the collection plate, the candlestick, they all go in the trash at a gas station on Route 10 near my house. I sleep well that night, very well.