Feeling Sexy and Brightening Things Up (pic included)

While standing in line at the grocery store the other day I looked over at the young twenty-something woman in front of me clad in t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops. Her light shopping put her in the rapid checkout lane just like me, and I too was dressed casually, toes showing. But where mine were a chic, neutral nude tone, hers were a vibrant hot pink. And I have to say… hers were ten times as sexy! Continue reading

The Search – needing to not be one of many

Told in Tandem with the Woodsman

There are some days when I should not allowed around sharp objects. Not because I would intentionally cause harm to myself or others, but because I simply have no business wielding a tool that could slice flesh.

Today is like that.

I’m in a fog. A dreamy fog. Even as I peck out these sentences, the words swim across the page, separating so I see two sets. Until I give up and just begin to type without seeing. Like a blind person.

When I picked up the box cutter knife to open the package at my desk, I stared at the blade and watched my disembodied hand. And I realized that’s how I felt for so long. Disembodied. I would see myself from the outside, watching my actions curiously, to see if the script in my head would actually play out. It often did.

I was blind for so long. I see that now. For years I went through life blindly bumping into people, hoping they were what I sought. Or worse, doing things just to feel alive, even for a moment.

So I would touch. And be touched. And that would help. For a little while. And then… it wouldn’t. And the search would continue, even though I didn’t realize I was actively searching. Because I didn’t believe what I desired existed. It’s odd to look back and understand I was on my own blind quest, not realizing it.

In the same realm, but separate.

In the same realm, but separate.

Continue reading

The Ethics of Masturbating at Work

As I sit primly at my desk, physically edging, plotting ways to have a release, it occurred to me… Is it ethical to masturbate at work?

Is it ethical to masturbate at work? I bite my pen and wonder.

Is it ethical to masturbate at work? I bite my pen and wonder.

I use the term ethical loosely, for I’m no philosopher. But really… wouldn’t it benefit employers to approve of getting one’s self off during business hours? Given the right stimuli, it only takes a few minutes and the stress-reducing aftereffects last for hours.

And when the need is raw and exposed… like now. And I am not able to focus on work because of it, surely the right thing to do is take matters into my own fingers. Flicking quickly, enjoying the silky wetness I produce, feeling my arousal go from warm to searing, I take myself to the brink. Yes. This is ethical.

Afterwards, the perfume of my sex lingers on my fingers. And I’m calmer, but not sated. No… it takes more than masturbation for that.


Emotional Helix

Told in Tandem with the Woodsman

When she and I first started this change in our journey, we were in ready agreement. Our nature… no, what we had grown accustomed to being, with others, made us understand our individual limits and needs.

Those limits always included limited exposure between self and others. If it wasn’t conscious, there would be some… spark… that withered and would be extinguished. Rather quickly. I had seen it in my past; I knew exactly what she meant when she described it.

That agreement was to proactively prevent that spark from dying. We both understood that if we faced the maelstrom we were starting together, and then would pull back from each other after a couple of brief days, we would have that chance to rekindle that maelstrom down the road. It wouldn’t be that ember going black, it would just smolder until the time was right again.

We were quick to agree that it would be that way. For both of us. Just a joining of intersecting waves that would cause a bright blip. Then the waves would bounce into their individual pattern again. And, if lucky, would intersect again.

But the blip apart hasn’t happened. At all.

I don’t know how he and I don’t smother each other. When I do the math on the amount of time we are in touch, in some way, it boggles my mind. And it’s still not enough. Maybe in time I will say ‘when’ and it won’t mean I-can-talk-now-please-call-me, but instead it will mean I-have-reached-my-limit-and-need-some-space. Or perhaps his introverted nature will catch up to us and say ‘enough already you crazy kids!’ and demand some time to regroup.

I keep waiting. Expecting it. But it hasn’t come. Not yet. And quite frankly the seemly limitless saturation has concerned me. Surely we have a limit. Surely! But we carry on, burning brighter. Hotter. Steady. Stable. Strong. Continue reading

I Should Post

I should post. I should write. I should capture in black and white the memories from his visit. I should let you all know whether or not my ass was deflowered. I should.

But not tonight. I miss him too much for that tonight.

He flew away from me this morning, sailing in the sky. And I’m painfully lonely. The distance feels greater than before.

I can still smell him on my skin.

But his touch is just a memory.

What Happened Last Night

I’m overwhelmed with work today but didn’t want to leave you all wondering how last night went so I asked the Woodsman to tell the tale…
I stilled my trembling hands, took a deep breath and said, “not tonight, love.”

Marian arched her back toward me, inviting… presenting.

“There is a human limit, even for me. Do you remember how many times I came?”

“A few?”

“A few. There were four yesterday and two tonight. It wasn’t holding back; each and every time I gave it everything I had. Remember what happened when I thought you were swearing at me?”

She didn’t say anything. Her mischievous, satisfied smile spoke volumes.

“Ok, fine. I’ll just say it: I’m utterly spent. You’ve done the nigh-impossible; I’m completely drained and I can barely move. Your ass stays pristine tonight, princess.”

I didn’t think the smile could get wider and more playful, yet it did as she nestled up against me…

In other words, the Woodsman ran out of wood.
Yes, I’m very pleased with my punny pun.

I Offered Him My Ass at Lunch

The innocent sprigs of white polka dots that dapple the blue fabric of my springtime fit-and-flair dress belie the risqué activity I just partook of during my not-long-enough lunch break.

A short drive from the office and I was crashing in the Woodsman’s arms. He smelled of man, soap and something peppery. His cologne perhaps?

“Mmmmm,” I sighed, “Having you minutes away is so much nicer than you being half a continent away.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” he murmured, his mouth moving from my lips to my cheek to my jaw to my throat to my clavicle to the swelling curve of my breast.

The polka dot dress was quickly cast aside and we piled into the waiting bed, not sure which was more appealing, a nap… or something more lurid.

Lurid won.

“How long do I have you?” he asked thirty pleasure-filled minutes later. I’m sure he felt as well as heard my disappointed moan from his perch on my thighs while his hands kneaded my lower back.

“I duuno,” I mumbled, “Not long enough.”

“You’ll be all mine tonight, when you’re done with work,” he comforted.

“I don’t wanna be responsible,” I whined.

The whine was cut short by a gasp. His hardened shaft had shifted from resting on top of my ass, to burrowing… Lube still coated it from earlier activities and it slid easily down, to the dark point of entry. I lifted my hips and pressed back against him, and felt it slip away.

“Ohhh…,” the disappointment rang through my voice, “Would you try again?”

“Of course, my love.”

And he did.

“Ouch! It slipped the wrong way that time,” I said, wriggling away the discomfort, “Try again?”

He obliged. I could feel him against me, not trying to seek entry, just waiting, letting me get accustomed to the sensation. I felt myself begin to relax, wanting to go further, wanting it. And then I looked at the clock.

“You have to go, don’t you,” he said. He had felt the change in me when I looked up.

“I do,” I admitted.

He dismounted, walked around the bed and kissed me gently. Seconds later I was back in my prim dress, and swishing out the door, knowing that tonight, I won’t have to return to the office.

The Last Part

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I stepped quietly into the hotel room, my head buzzing from the wine, bourbon and kisses. The Woodsman lay on the bed, curled up, facing away from the door. I slipped off my heels and padded barefoot to the bed, not able to tell if he was awake or not. Off went my skirt and blouse, so I was left in only my spaghetti-strapped, slim-fitting black slip. Sliding in bed next to him, I gently kissed his shoulder and felt him stir under my touch.

“You’re back,” he said, turning so he could wrap his arms around me.

I nestled, but only for a moment. He had to know about the evening before I could relax in his embrace, provided he still wanted to offer it. Moving so I was out of reach, I sat up, crosslegged on the bed, ready to tell my tale. He leaned back, relaxed, against the pillows looking at me with a smile.

“Well,” he said, in his deep baritone, “How was it?”

“It was amazing,” I exhaled, “The conversation, the food, everything… so many of my questions were answered. He didn’t hold back. There was really special connection. An intense one.”

I could hear my words coming out in a staccato beat, rushing… getting to the part he had to hear, and I had to tell. Or what we had begun to build between us would be a sham.

“And I kissed him.”

“I knew you were going to,” he said calmly, his demeanor not changing, “You told me you might before you left.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t just a quick kiss,” I continued. He had to know all of it. I couldn’t accept his grace, his love without him knowing. I swallowed. And told him the details of the kiss—how I initiated it, how I wanted it, how his lips had made me feel, how I had wanted more, how I had let him touch my breast, how breaking away had been difficult, how I had told that I had a man in my room, how I had stopped.

I paused for breath.

“I love you,” he said tenderly, carefully staying very still on the bed.

“You really do, don’t you?” I said, feeling my heart crunch and soften.

Was this possible? I had been completely open, ignoring the dominant side of me that screamed just tell him enough so that he thinks you’ve told him everything. He won’t want you if he knows everything. How could he? He’s been nothing but good to you, and look what you did. I know what I did, continuing the internal argument. You don’t deserve him. I know I don’t. What could you possibly offer him? What could possibly equal what he has given you? Nothing. I have nothing. Exactly. And now you’ve probably hurt him by being so damn open. When has being open ever led to anything but hurt? I don’t know. I’ve never been open. I’ve never felt safe enough to even try it. Well you are a self-serving bitch aren’t you? Someone cares about you enough so that you feel safe and look what you do. You leave him to meet another man. You kiss another man. And then you tell the one who loves you how wonderful it was! I know! I know! I may have blown everything up. But I couldn’t not tell him. I love him too much to let him love a sham. You love him.

“I love you,” I said.

The door closed and I knew this was a defining moment. If this had been a movie, there would have been a few seconds of flashback montage, highlighting points in the past of us together and my individual defining moments. All intending on building hype to the impact of which path the story protagonists choose, individually and together.

It played through my mind at a pace I could not consciously follow. I knew instinctively how things were now that they were fact. I’d known that for a week, before it became fact. But this was still a defining moment.

Similar to that moment when a response from admissions arrives via mail. You applied for entry into the school, and envision the response  – acceptance or rejection –  but it’s still abstract until you actually open the letter and read the response. You have a good, confident idea of the result but it’s still intangible until you read it.

That is what this was. I already knew what the letter said; I needed her to read it to me – no matter what it said. If she would read it to me, and make it real instead of abstract, without misdirection or lies, that would be everything I needed.

It didn’t matter that she had kissed him. It didn’t matter – except in good ways, for her – that it was wonderful. Just because it happened, and it was good, didn’t mean it took anything from me. She came back to me; she exposed her vulnerability by trusting me and telling me completely. A kiss is fleeting and fades with time, trusting and telling the raw truth takes courage – and builds true connection. She did that out of love for me.

He smiled and opened his arms. I bridged the distance I had been maintaining and clumsily crawled across the bed toward him, nestling in the spot that waited for me. My spot. The coupling that followed… well, you don’t get to read about that. I’m sorry.
That is ours.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll tell you a little about what transpires when he comes to visit me. Which just happens to be… tomorrow.

Waiting for Me

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What was the Woodsman doing, thinking, feeling while I met the Enigma? He shared this with me and has graciously allowed me to share it with you.


“When do you figure you’ll be back?” I asked.

She paused before opening the door, “Around 9:30 if it’s only comfortable enough to get through dinner. If it’s better than that, maybe we’ll have a drink or two and talk for an hour or so.”

“Ok, have fun and relax. I’m happy you’re finally getting a chance to meet him. I’ll see you later. I love you,” I said to the closing door.

I meant it. All of it.

Strange city, strange lights, the same food as back home.

My footsteps echoed from the sidewalk as I walked alone in the chilly night. Marking time.


I stripped and crawled into bed, alone in the room with only the city noise to keep me company.

Dimming the lights and turning on quiet background music, my thoughts drifted to her. Of course. It was 9:40.

Was she on her way back? It was easily apparent inside me that I hoped she was. But… it was balanced. I knew this meeting was important to her. It was something she had wanted for so long, I knew this. I fought that internal battle of self where the selfish desire to have all of our limited time together be… together. But that is frailty; more important is living the happiness of another.

I struggled with that as I drifted off to sleep.


I woke; I had to go to the bathroom. Still tired, I glanced at the clock on the way back to bed. 11:16 p.m.

It wasn’t just dinner, and it wasn’t just drinks after. But I knew that before she left.

Would she really tell me? I could see how easy it would be for her to just say that they’d lost track of time. That evasive truth that would protect her… and me. That was her nature. But would it be her nature? Would that be her choice, knowing I see past it.

I wondered how close she was before I drifted back to sleep.

Just a few more minutes.


My eyes fluttered open and I turned to the clock at the side of the bed. 12:21 a.m.

It wasn’t a couple of hours. I was… alone.

Dinner, drinks, and more…

Was she coming back?

For a full second, I doubted.

In that pure moment, I had a Choice and that choice had to be made before she came back. It had to be.

I had to choose whether to doubt or whether to believe fully, everything of me, in her. If I chose doubt, where I didn’t believe that she would come back…

Could I be myself, to open that wide, to trust that someone could accept that I can be that accepting? Without her succumbing to that human instinct to mistrust simple words that contradict intuition? Intuition. That was the key. Would her intuition see me as I am, how I feel for her? Could be enough for her?

I couldn’t—wouldn’t—give her part of my faith; no fucking conditionals or situational shit. Either decide I had been lying to myself with my belief, faith, and trust in her, or decide that it was real inside me.

believed she would come back.

That didn’t make it fact, and it didn’t do anything to the question of that second. But in the seconds and minutes following, it made the question cease to exist.

The soft haze of sleep almost reclaimed me until I recognized the new sound.

The door lock was buzzing open.

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Looking Up

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We donned coats and stepped into the brisk night air. In my four-inch high heels I came past his shoulder, but just barely. Teetering bravely down the sidewalk I kept up with his strides before taking his arm as we crossed the street.

“You can leave your hand there,” he said as I was untangling myself. So I did. He was warm. And comfortable.

“I’m in this city every day and I forget to look up,” he marveled, “Those people who have reached the top level of those buildings have a very different view than the regular people. I’m very much a street-level guy.”

“I was told not to look up,” I said, “because that would mark me as a tourist.”

“Well, you’re with me, so you look up all you want.”

So arm in arm we went, block after block, me happily gazing at the beautiful, tall buildings and him unsuccessfully searching for a bar.

“I’ve never walked so far in this city and not come across a bar!” he exclaimed. “Where’s your hotel? Does it have a bar?”

I told him and confirmed that it did indeed have a bar. A few moments later we were in a taxi and headed back the way I had come a few hours earlier. He held my hand in the taxi, but not in a leering way. Not even in a way that implied any expectations. It was simply what felt right in that moment.

The drinking establishment at my hotel was a complete fail, full of twenty-somethings preening and music so loud one had to shout to be heard. We walked in and right back out. The doorman gave us two other near-by suggestions. The first was more of the same, but the second was quieter, with a private corner where we could slide and in sit close, but not too close. Drinks were ordered and served. I added water to my bourbon. He sipped his scotch neat.

In that secluded nook I basked in the moment. And while I can’t transcribe the conversation, for it would be wrong to splash things so personal in harsh black and white text across the vast internet, I’ll carry it always in my heart.

Perhaps it was the bourbon that caused my barriers to finally relax. Perhaps it was the mutual sharing. Perhaps it was him. But something prompted me to reach out and lay my hand along his cheek.

“See, I’m not so scary,” I said, referring to a text he had sent me months ago.

He leaned gently into my open palm, increasing the pressure of the caress. I pulled my hand away. Because you see, My Enigma had skirmish within himself during the time we discussed meeting. We both recognized that we had a connection, a seductive connection. One that, given free reign would flare, and burn hot and fast. But he is committed to someone. And giving into the potential passion that lurked just beneath the surface, while brilliant in the moment, would result in regret for him. So I had promised to be the gatekeeper. The one who would not let him go down the tempting path we both could see. He didn’t yet know to lengths I had gone to ensure I kept my promise.

It was time to leave. Time to walk the three short blocks back to my hotel. Another countdown. But this time it seemed so very final. We walked holding hands and words slowed for the first time. And then I stopped.

The abruptness pulled him up short. I took three steps back into an alcoved doorway, our fingers still interlaced. We stood, facing each other, and I lifted my face to his, making it plain what I wanted. He bent his head and our lips met, hungry. Mouths opened. I tasted the scotch on his tongue. He straightened, pulled me around the corner out of the glare of the streetlight, leaned back against the stone building that flanked the sidewalk, pulling me close, and kissed me again. My arms wrapped around his neck. It was a deep kiss, a storybook kiss.

“Where you really not going to kiss me?” I breathed against his neck.

“Oh, I was,” he said, “But I had planned to wait until we were at your door.”

“In front of the doorman?” I questioned.

“Not that door,” he said, his voice lowering.

“Oh… but you wouldn’t stay outside the door.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

I tilted my head back so I could see his twinkling eyes and smiled. Here was where I would keep my promise. I had been waiting for this, unsure if I would need to be the gatekeeper until he spoke the words.

“You can’t come up,” I said softly, but with an unmistakable firmness, while my eyes swam with lust and desire.

“I can’t?”

He read my face, searching for the meaning behind the words. Understanding washed over him.

“You have a man in your room,” he said, certain, with no questioning.

“I do,” I said, “A wonderful man.”

“And he knows you were meeting me?”

“He does. And he even knows I wanted to kiss you. He understands me, in a way I haven’t experienced before. And I care about him deeply.”

“And you are going to make out with me on this street corner and then go upstairs and fuck him.”

“I am.”

“I’m not gonna lie,” he said with a chuckle, “That’s hot.”

The dynamic shifted. And I kissed him again, with more fierceness, letting him feel the passion I had been tethering.

“It’s my way of protecting you. From me. And from yourself. If my room was empty, I’d be very tempted to bring you up. But having him there, it helps me do what I want, for the long-term. Don’t get me wrong… it would be magical. We would explore each other’s bodies until dawn, taking turns giving and receiving pleasure. And then you would leave. But because of the regret you’d feel, you’d push me away.”

He tilted his head back against the cold stone, arms around me, my chin resting on his chest while I looked up at him, watching him look up.

“Yeah, I might,” he admitted, bringing his gaze back down to me.

“Mmmmhmmm,” I murmured, “And I don’t want you to push me away. Crazy at it may sound, maintaining a relationship with you… I’m not sure if we call this friendship… but I don’t have a better word… but whatever this is, it’s more important to me than having your cock.”

He was quiet, retreating back to the enigma state, but I didn’t push. In that moment I had all I wanted. He had opened, he was real, he desired me and I had proven I would keep my word. Not only to My Enigma, but also to myself. And the man waiting for me four floors up, who from this point on shall be known as My Woodsman, had given me the strength to be the woman I wanted to be—a woman not driven solely by passion and lust, but one who could put aside her baser desires for the good of all.

We kissed a while longer, but now with a relieved innocence. And even though his fingers did slip inside my blouse and caress my breast for a lovely ten seconds, mine never wandered past his chest. We parted, intending to say goodbye, but instead I felt myself pressed firmly against the concrete corner, his hands knotted in my hair and his breath and kisses hard against the back of my neck. I turned and he took my face between his hands, and his mouth ravaged mine, leaving me no doubt as to what could have been.

“I can’t promise,” he said, “that on some night after drinking too much, I won’t text you that I want your mouth wrapped around my cock.”

“This mouth?” I teased, offering it to him to kiss once more. He did.

“You know I won’t mind that at all,” I smiled.

“I’m gonna limp home on three legs now,” he said, grinning.

“Goodnight,” I said, as he stepped away and turned the corner out of sight.

I crossed the street to hotel, looking up at the fourth floor. The doorman did his duty asking with a knowing smile, “Have a good evening miss?”

“Why, as a matter of fact, yes,” I demurred, pretending he hadn’t been able to see me canoodling on the street corner for the last forty-five minutes.

Walking to the room, my heart began to pound. I would tell the Woodsman everything. Of that I was certain. But how he would react felt far from definite. I knew what he had said, and I believed he meant it, but I had put everything to the test. Could he truly care for me in spite of myself? Could I really be that open with someone and not be rejected? I slid the keycard in, unlocked the door and turned the handle. I was getting ready to find out.

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Meeting My Enigma

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Sixty-fifth, sixty-fourth, sixty-third. The blocks acted as a countdown. The lower the number, the closer I was to our pre-arranged meeting point. I took long breaths, trying to calm myself. My fingers splayed wide on the smooth, plastic leather-like seats, balancing, getting ready. How was I at fifty-second already? Only a few more blocks…

“Your stop, miss,” the driver said.

I swiped my card, added tip and spilled out of the cab into the cool night. He was just inside. Him. The man I have read for an extended amount of time, whose stories never failed to simultaneously touch me and leave me with questions. I rarely read his works less than three times, each pass revealing more, but not enough. Always more questions.

Many moons ago I reached out to him, unsuccessfully at first. And then he began to open just the slightest bit. But not enough. Only enough for me to see that there was even more to the puzzle. This man had become my own personal enigma.

And I was about to meet him in the raw, real, breathing flesh.

As I approached the restaurant I remembered the words of his text. I’m absolutely not standing you up. And then, a short while later, I’m in the bar. He was at the bar. Waiting for me. I’m not sure I have the words to explain the impact that moment had on me, as I walked, doing my best not to stumble, toward the sectioned off bar.

I paused at the columned partition and looked down the length of the sparking granite counter flanked with cushioned high-top stools. No one matching his description sat there. I took two steps, entered the space and looked to my right. He sat, almost tilted back in the chair, one ankle casually resting on a heather gray clad knee.

I breathed his name, not as a question, but as a confirmation.

“Marian,” he said, standing to his full height.

I don’t remember if we clasped hands or embraced first. But I recall focusing on his hands as I attempted to calm myself. They were large, with wide palms, long, evenly sized digits and bitten nails. Capable hands, I thought, and he picks at his cuticles just like I do. I found comfort in that.

I attempted to sit in the chair opposite him, but found that simple task difficult. Where was the woman who directs projects requiring hundreds of man-hours from dozens of people? She had abandoned me. And left me, the vulnerable one, to face the Enigma alone.

The bartender walked over with a drink menu and I stared at it as if it was ancient Hebrew, written backwards and upside down. The words literally swam across the page.

“What are you drinking,” I asked.


I looked at the swimming page a little longer. Hoping to settle on something. I didn’t want to order what he was having. That would be too simple.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still gripping the menu, “I’m normally so decisive…”

“It’s ok,” the Enigma said, “Take your time.”

“You’re really here. And you’re really real. And just right there,” I marveled. “I’m having a bit of a time getting my head around that. I really need a drink. I really need to make up my mind.”

So I did. And the order was placed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, apologizing for the second time, “I’m trembling. And I can’t seem to stop.”

“It’s ok,” he said smiling, and reached out to lay a hand on my knee. The trembling increased and he pulled away.

“Am I what you expected? Were you nervous at all?”

“No, I wasn’t nervous,” he said, still smiling, “And yes, you are as I expected. I expected you to be nervous. Which is why I made sure I was early. I didn’t want you waiting. Even for a moment.”

My drink was delivered. I took a breath, willing my nerves to settle, and took a long sip.

“Thank you,” I said, with a depth I hoped he understood.

“So,” I continued, “Tell me about…”

And he did. He words began flowing and the Enigma who I had read for so long slowly began to open. Sentences turned to paragraphs and paragraphs became complete explanations. And in those, I finally began to see the man. And the man was good. And beautiful.

Sometime later we adjourned from the bar to the dinner area and were seated at a table with a view of most of the space. It wasn’t private, but with few people around, the conversation continued unchecked. Every mystery he chose to explain, every leaf he decided to reveal was a gift. I drank it in, soaking up his stories that paired with the chef’s tasting menu even better than the sommelier’s wine selections.

“I’ve never told anyone about that,” he said, after one particularly sad and poignant story, “and I didn’t even mean to, it was all because I wanted to tell you the beginning to make you laugh.”

“Stories are funny, huh?” I said, my eyes asking for more when my mouth wouldn’t.

And he gave me more, from first course until dessert. With dinner complete, there was no reason to linger. But I wasn’t ready for the evening to end.

“Shall we find a place for a nightcap?” he asked.

“Oh, yes please.”

Thankfully, the evening was far from over.

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