“Oh, the strawberries don't taste as they used to and the thighs of women have lost their clutch!”

“Oh fuck, he was right there. I was wet as hell and he could probably smell me now. I should have eaten strawberries or melon or a dozen roses or an entire mint plant. Did that work for women? I read an article that it worked for men. Their spunk tasted like what they ate. Did my vagina taste like spaghetti right now? God dammit! I shouldn't have eaten dinner!”

“Guys don't want women with good taste, guys want women who taste good.”

“One must ask children and birds how cherries and strawberries taste.”

“A wing or a thigh? Ah, I'm afraid we don't have any thighs left.”

“What,” came a deep male voice, “is this?”Silence froze, her hand still outstretched, clutching a damp, dirty cloth. Oh, dear Lord. Slowly she raised her eyes and found herself face-to-thighs with Mickey O’Connor’s extremely tight breeches.”