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“I’m not freaking out. I’m turned on. I’m thinking about sniffing your bed pillows like a weirdo, contemplating if it’d be better for you to bend me over the island or the couch, and my ovaries are basically exploding—pew, pew, pew—like fireworks because you’re so good with Chunky that I can imagine you as the one of those dads who’d play tea party with your daughter. And all of that is making me hot and nervous . . . and . . . and . . . I should stop talking now.” — Lauren Landish
I’m not freaking out. I’m turned on. I’m thinking about sniffing your bed pillows like a weirdo, contemplating if it’d be better for you to bend me over the island or the couch, and my ovaries are basically exploding—pew, pew, pew—like fireworks because you’re so good with Chunky that I can imagine you as the one of those dads who’d play tea party with your daughter. And all of that is making me hot and nervous . . . and . . . and . . . I should stop talking now.