I just don't wanna [bleep] you more than I already have… although I would, mind you. Just that I know what it's like to get prepared for a [bleep], and I wanna… well, [bleep] you. Like, ya know, get in one quick [bleep] before you head out. But I won't because I know that'll really throw off your [bleep]. That, and I would refuse to [bleep]… and grab onto your ankles and be forcing you to [bleep] – and that would probably hurt a lot, especially on the cement. I would get carpet burns, too. And I'm just not into pain. Although, there's a certain threshold that borders pleasure – but I haven't found that yet – and I don't think it would come to me if you were [bleep]. So… I just won't [bleep] you because I don't wanna have any [bleep].

Now hickeys, on the other hand (and from the other mouth) are a different skin bruise altogether. They're fun to make. I once had one in the shape of Abraham Lincoln. I got it on That's Incredible, the old show with John Davidson. I made it myself with precision. It's a skill, I tell ya. You just can't go sucking random points in the skin with random pressures. You have to really know what you're doing. I kinda lost that ability over time, much like you forget how to do long division. Well, I never really forgot it. I just… don't like doing it. I figured “calculators” were the wave of the future. And someone would always have one of those cool little calculator watches on hand – so I'd ask them to do it for me. That's probably why I was never any good at math. That, and the number Seven used to make fun of me when I wore red shirts. To this day, I can't even type the digit without losing it completely. It's psychological.

Like the voices in my head. They're telling me what to do, but I seldom listen – because one of 'em uses sign language. I call him Loretta. He smells like bologna.