An Open Letter To Figleaves.com
It's been weeks, now, that we've been locked in this delicious dance: you send me postcards...I come to visit you...I leave, spent, only to jump up at the mail truck and wait eagerly for the fruits of our congress.
I know you only want the best for me - that I always be utterly strippable in the best possible way, clad in the finest underfinery one can find - but my sweet, please understand: I don't have time for this relationship right now. We have to slow down.
I can hardly take it anymore. I'm gonna miss you, baby.
Until my next big paycheck, that is.