He’d misspoken. She wasn’t a blow. She was a hydrogen bomb directly aimed at his solar plexus.

I kinda felt like the first slice of bread in the bag. Everyone touched me, but no one wanted me.

He was a drool-worthy, panty-drenching, yummy work of masculine art.

Hazard of the job. That's Ode de Anal Gland you smell.

Just about every available female--and some unavailable--seemed to think the way to his heart was through his blood sugar levels.

That dress was designed to be a kill switch for rational thought.