“Cold?” Christian asks softly and bends to lick and suckle all the ice cream off me once more, his mouth hot compared to the cool of the ice. Oh my. It’s torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream runs off me in rivulets on to the bed. His lips continue their slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly—Oh please!—I’m panting. “Want some?” And before I can confirm or deny his offer, his tongue is in my mouth, and it’s cold and skilled and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.”

“Want some ice cream?"His head bumped the frame. "Ouch! What?" His voice was back to normal. He turned around. "Don't offer me ice cream. I just broke into your room and threatened you.”

“Fuck me", Bat gasped, "It’s like an angel shat ice cream coffee rainbows in my mouth.”

“If there is shit all around me, how can I eat my ice cream?”

“Christianity without mission is like ice cream without frozenness.”

“In the middle of the night I am awakened by a sound. I sit up abruptly in bed. I hear it again. It's music. Wait, it sounds like the ice cream man, in our house. Is this some kind of twisted nightmare? The flipping ice cream man, breaking in to chop us all up in our beds to the tune of 'Zippity Do Dah'?... My heart slows. I remember. There is no psycho ice cream man here. It is just our new musical soap dispenser...”