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Ryan O’Dell (aka a small-town firefighter unaware that a dildo is about to change his life)
The bike has dildo handlebars.
“He was cheating on her with a sheep,” someone else in the crowd offers. “He earned that dildo beating.”
You are unicorn hair plaited in a beautiful braid, sprinkled with sugar and sunshine.
Dildos just want to make you feel good, Cass. Dildos are our friends, unlike dicks attached to actual real life men.
“Put the anal beads back and stay out of Savannah’s trash,”
his raccoon, who has flopped onto his back and is tugging at the hem of Ryan’s jeans as if to say, “Please can we ditch the geek, and go home and feast upon peen lollies together in manly silence?”
I find George chasing a vibrator—turned on, no pun intended—around my screened-in porch.
I love jackets and unpredictable fog.”
“You really should know better than to insult a person’s size. We short people are notoriously crazy when we’re angry. Just look at Napoleon. Genghis Khan. Tom Cruise.”
I don’t know if waffles are a good I’m sorry my raccoon fell on us while we were making out offering,
I have to go so I can go feed George his breakfast.” “He’s out in the square gnawing on a dildo right now.”
I need one of those flashy memory-wiping thingies from Men in Black. Where’s the app for that?”
do a double-take as I realize she’s standing under a birch strung with dildos tied to anal beads. It’s a Sexmas tree in June.
“They’re playing dildo-ball,” Ruthie May explains. “It’s like football, but with—”
“Here. You can put your dildo in my bag.”
“It’s like Lady and the Tramp, the X-rated version.”
“He’s not a dildo. I can handle him.”
pounce on Ryan like he’s a two-pound bar of chocolate at the end of a thirty-day sugar detox.
“You made me a giant metal dildo.” I nod seriously. “I did.” “With googly eyes
“Why, Mr. O’Dell, are you afraid of clowns?” “Afraid isn’t the word I would use,” I say, slipping an arm around her waist. “Then what word would you use?” “I’m respectful of their space. They don’t get too close to me, I don’t get too close to them, and no one ends up locked in an abandoned lion cage at the back of the carnival while a serial killer in floppy shoes sharpens his collection of polka dot-handled hunting knives.”
“How can I ever thank you for your thoughtfulness?” “You could take my shirt off,” she teases, dimple popping. “I think you’ve already disposed of it with your eyes. Might as well get rid of it in real life.”
Life’s too short to skip the jelly donut. Especially if it’s raspberry jelly.”
“And can I order a shower for him? He smells like smoky ass.”
