“I am one pair of roses away from the grave,” I told the midget with the twelve-inch erection. It wasn’t his—he was just holding it for a friend (that impressive penis belonged to a much taller man). Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“Listen: I don't have anything against autobiographies, so long as the writer has a penis that's twelve inches long when erect. So long as the writer is a woman who was once a whore and is moderately wealthy in her old age.”

“I frowned. This from a man who just watched a midget riding a gimp?”

“Sunday nights I get about two inches of sleep. But I make do, because that’s all the erection I can muster.”

“I stopped looking around when I heard a soft “mew” and I looked toward Tate to see he was crouched. He straightened and turned to me.I froze and stared.Tatum Jackson, ex-pro football player, ex-cop, now bartender/bounty hunter, tall, beautiful and more man than I’d ever experienced in my life was standing on the edge of his kitchen holding a cat.And it wasn’t just any cat and he wasn’t just holding it. He was cradling it.”

“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain," said he. "Results without causes are much more impressive.”