Making love to me is amazing. Wait, I meant: making love, to me, is amazing. The absence of two little commas nearly transformed me into a sex god.


I make love with a focus and intensity that most people reserve for sleep.

She gave me money to buy condoms, and instead I bought a book of baby names. That’s life. That’s love. That’s fiscally irresponsible.


I'm a dog lover and sex addict. Those two things are unrelated.


Love is a banana. First you peel it, and then you roll on the condom.


The only time I drink milk is when I drink coffee. I make love the same way—contributing 2% as I just sort of lay there.


I make love like farm equipment—not to farm equipment. There is a difference, though my cousin can’t tell it.


Let me be clear: I don’t want to make love to a mannequin—I want to make love like a mannequin. Oh, if only I were that animated in bed.


I make love like a snake disguised as an elephant and a donkey. But I mustn’t talk about sexual congress and Congress simultaneously.