“No spanking,” I whined. “Too sleepy.” There was a pause. Then Oliver said, “I appreciate I need a sleazy moustache in order to deliver this line properly, but we probably should get out of our wet clothes.” Trying to imagine Oliver in a sleazy moustache was sufficiently…something that I brain-knotted myself back into wakefulness and began peeling my T-shirt off. “Are you here to deliver a pizza?” I asked. “Is it twelve inches?” “Yes.” It was Oliver’s driest voice, which was pretty fucking dry. “I’m here with the twelve-inch hot sausage pizza you ordered. Also, my penis.”
