“What did the milkshake lubricate?” If she says vagina, I’m going to die. “The coarse wool of my skirt over the corduroy of his dress slacks.” My nostrils flare, and I beg the high heavens to please help me not make a grossed-out face. “Well, that’s . . . an interesting mesh of fabrics,” Stella says. “The milkshake assisted with the velocity of friction.”
