Kate Ryan

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.