Sex on a swizzle stick. Sex as vodka soaked olive, tongued and chewed and swallowed despite Justin goddamn Bieber on the jukebox (some bars in America still have those but they usually play the wrong goddamn music) and the wrong goddamn hand on your thigh.
Are there wrong hands? Are there wrong thighs?
In The Book of Real and Imaginary Girlfriends there are no wrong hands, thighs, tongues, lips, penises or vaginas. It's all good it's all right and up all night high on cough syrup or something similar and shameless and blameless in its unholy writhe.
Eat this. It is good.