I reenter like a bat into hell. There’s a sensation down there of making it through the Sacred Gates of Labia. There’s a Brazilian chick on page sixty-four with a deep, golden tan. She’s so plump. So nice and plump. Like rotisserie chicken. She looks like what the Fleshlight feels like. Oh, yeah: Looks like what the Fleshlight feels like. She’s squeezing her nipples in her fingers. The heels of her palms are plunging into her tit flesh. Wow! I’m getting it. It’s gliding smoothly over my shaft while the Brazilian is graciously opening her pussy with her fastidiously manicured fingers in the next frame down. I plunge the thing over my dick to the hilt. Oh, yeah! Let the games begin! Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Hey, it…the thing is hissing. I loosen the rear cap and plunge again. PFFT! PFFT! PFFT! It’s hissing even louder. I take off the end completely, whether or not the fake pussy juice drips on my pants that are now bunched around the heels of my boots. The rotisserie Brazilian is so soft and plump, it’s gonna be an easy ride home from here. I’m admiring her lovely full lips when it occurs to me that this thing feels like getting a blow job—only no teeth.

But sexy as the Brazilian is, I need Virgin Cutie from page nine to finish. I’m flipping back to her spread, pumping like a deranged plumber. There she is: holding her breasts up to her mouth, licking her nubile nipple. I’m pounding the squish out of the thing till it’s bouncing off my nuts. Virgin Cutie is smiling, showing off the underside of her tongue while she licks her upper lip, showing off her labia, sphincter, and juggs. I get it! Finally, after years of writing this stuff, I get the whole pornography thing. See, anyone can do this. You don’t gotta be a stud, you don’t gotta be rich. You can be any fuckup in the goddamn universe, alone in your room and horny, pounding the bejeezus away at something that won’t scold you for leaving the toilet seat up. For just a moment, I’m lost in a sensation of bouncy, wet, somewhat virgin flesh, and boom! As Woody Allen would say, there’s no such thing as the wrong kind of orgasm. Even the worst ones are right on the money.

Then it’s over. I’m cold. The thing is dripping everywhere…and I have the urge to cuddle. The thing is quite unappealing right about now. I think about my sweetheart with her mid-January nasal drip, blowing her nose, but warm and huggable under a half dozen duvets. Virgin Cutie is still smiling the exact same smile from her frozen home on page nine.

“Hey, Joe!” Stephanie yells from outside my door. “Want anything from the fucking store?”

“Nah,” I wheeze absentmindedly. “Just a hot shower.”