Swoon Swain

It was with raw need and an intrepid spirit of going deeper into the matter I began explorations into Penthouse.

I was aware a Penthouse was a fine, luxurious room or lodging in either a hotel or apartment building. Not in a motel, though. Motels don’t have penthouses.

It had been with delightfully raw reed need and blast past I had delved into what I now saw was quaint and curious and tame, unpassionate, matter-of-fact erection material in Playboy.

It was true then, and now, the sight of boobs, and plump, ripe buttocks alone set me red cocket rocket buttock it and will not mock it, aloof.

Excelsior! More, Give me more, give me more, more, more!

I knew of, through indirect sources, and deep throat references, whispered in car ports, dockets, sockets, screens, silver screens, cathode ray tubes screens, blocks, rocket-in-my-pocket —

Public hair.

Neither Oscar nor Hef felt that was funnin, fuzing, or gunnin, and Guiccione stole into the lead.

Would the Playboy dynasty, built on curvaceous, all natural, not hippy, or bippy, or go into withdrawal, compromise? Wiggling walk but not waffle, atrocious slow, languid, turn on a dime, or as inflation made that impossible, turn on a Susan B. Anthony dollar, Or a JFK one, or up there where Oscar had produced two fine, immaculate sons, discretion not letting that part of the story enter the narrative.