For the longest time my sexual fantasies involved me in a long pastel negligee, swanning into a sunny living room where a salt and pepper gentleman caller is awaiting me with a fully charged rabbit pearl in hand. Sometimes I’d swap the generic silver fox for Mr. Burt Reynolds himself. After having hours of sex in a bedroom covered wall-to-wall in vinyl monstera leaves, we’d go to the dinner theater where the conversation usually revolved around Mr. Burt asking how he could better prioritize my pleasure —the big band music roaring on in the background. …

Alexandra Szczupak

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