I line you all up against a hotel wall and let my imagination do what it does best.

She disappeared slowly, then all at once. I miss her.

I threw S under the bus, and she called me on it. Now I’m earning her trust back, one picture at a time.

Folly is making a late-game push, and I’m not sure I’m rooting for wisdom.

P is spreadsheeting her orgasms for me, and every time she updates a cell, I get an e-mail. So. Fucking. Hot.

The game is tied, and nobody’s biting.

The tables turn, and I’m reminded: don’t be a biter.

A belt between your teeth, my tongue between your thighs, and a tap-tap-tap safe signal we both hope you won’t use.

A hotel room, a pillowcase, a tie, a belt, and a dress that doesn’t survive the evening.

The counterpoint to wisdom, of course, is folly. Here’s some of mine.