How to Right Erotica.

...Clarissa, engorged by the sweet pie probably was turned on by Garret's timid rippling muscles, wet with perspiration from nervousness. It was then that he suggested, "Let's get another slice," probably. He may have also asked in a voice, not quite audible to Clarissa, if she had a sister or a brother, "I couldn't remember," he muttered once more. Too much peanut butter from the sweet pie kept her mouth locked shut, "Mmm, hhmmm." It was a pie consisting mostly of peanut-butter and powdered sugar, no crust. Bending closer, to hear her confessional words of love, maybe, Garret assumed and was assaulted by breathy bursts of that which had escaped being eaten, in a sexy way. And Clarissa, now only three to twenty-seven inches away, somewhere in that distance, it was like-a wavering sort of distance, was able to smell heavily the must of man on Garret. But it wasn't this man, in front of Clarissa, it was a much more handsome, less-balding, man. A man dressed just like the Brawny Paper Towel man. As if Clarissa had a magical wishing pot, and after casting in six or seven dollars, thought dispolitely about the Brawny Paper Towel man, and what if he took actual, physical corporeal form. Like maybe, maybe he steps out of a mirror, and it's not a murder mirror, it's a love making mirror. A mirror where a handsome paper towel man steps out and instead of murdering people with, he has an axe I think, he like uses his axe-like dick to murder that vagina. Or if it were a metaphor, I guess Clarissa would think, something like: that Brawny Man, Chandles St. Souflons, arms embracing the world held tight Clarissa and the wings of an american bald eagle swept her away metaphorically to the clouds where it was cold but there was plenty of precipitation, if you know what I mean.

Part 2 of 7.