The dance is all about simulation of stimulation without appearing creepy. It can't constrict enough to cover all the spots but what shows is more of same (lousy at basketball but lucky at love).

Race to the meridian of the global realization. OK, maybe it's just my projection but it's great when you 3 part the harmony Osmond-like and more sensual when you get overcome with that we got the place to ourselves feeling.

After freeing my mind from the Helms/Wallace/Thurmond memory the following episode played out:
the moment of actualizing takes place and the green light triggers dream and the guy sees the ON light and says, "Excuse me for digressing but I have this bizarre post-hypnotic urge to flash my breast because my boatman looks very phallacious . . . . ." Thoughts immediately go to answering that Minnesota dizbag screener test back in buyer days that womanhood was a fantasy and I had to go thru the head injury-like interrogation. Sorry, but there's if there's a woman trapped inside me, she's a laparoscope.

Johnsonian satisfier is on the fire so here's to HTWSTP (hint: weeny and putt).