Kate Ryan

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.