That time of the month for a woman with a good lover is an unwelcome vacation.

It's not the sex that gives you pleasure, it's the lover. For the remainder of my life, I plan to give this woman as much as she can handle, and then some. Often. Repeatedly.

When a man finds the right woman, there will appear a black hole to remove any and everything negative in his life. Once this task is complete and he's in her presence for the very first time thereafter, there will form in him a natural inclination to scream FUCK THE WORLD. And it is not just because she's near him. Her proximity to him gives him proof that she herself is alive and well in the universe itself.

Gentlemen, the secret to achieving the gift of an ultimate climax for whomever you happen to love is locked away in an impenetrable vault within her mind. If you love her, you'll fight like hell through Venuses maze. You'll find the elusive vault. And, for her sake, you'll release the motherfucking valve. This is what she wants.

I have something to say to the men who know, have known, or will ever know this woman. Lord KNOWS I got this.

I'm a person who is unpractical and idealistic. A rebellious dreamer plagued by night terrors. An affinity for the story of Superman, drinking, sex, jazz, writing, drugs, activism, golf, family, cooking, eating good food, reading books and savoring their hypnotic bouquet, for me, is like stumbling over a rock and recovering my equilibrium. This is the story of me.

If you are writing a scene involving sex and you are not balls to the walls horny, that scene sucks.

When I look into your eyes, I'm curious to know what you see?

Your love and your love of literature, like song, should flow seamlessly in an unbroken rhythm.