The Flying Pig

This is for Brandy Tomlinson: We went out to TGIF’s for Jack Daniel’s appetizers last week and then I walked you back to your apartment.
Okay. I just found out that do you want a cup of coffee is some sort of code for sex. And, in that case, sweet Jesus, YES, I want a cup of coffee!
Extra cream, please.

–Max

For any large-nostrilled woman:
The name’s Hunter, and my top fantasy? The Flying Pig.
Here’s how it goes: I’m doing you nuts-out from behind, and, just as I’m about to ejack all-the-fuck-over you, I slowly move my index and middle finger over the top of your forehead—quickly hook your nostrils, and pull back, causing you to squeal and to flap your arms and flail, just like a sexy flying little-piggie. Oink, oink.

What say you, ladies?
--Hunter Price (no phone; I mostly hang out in the alleyway between Washington and Wells or thereabouts)

You: an 85-year old, well-dressed man that came into the Nashville Hooters on Fifth St.
Me: your cocktail waitress, Caramel.
I couldn’t help but notice you had a respirator and thought I should tell you that I just love to play Nurse.
Bottom line, I’ll fucking ride you dusk till dawn for a piece of the pie. Dig?
Give me a call at the Holiday Inn, Room 57.
Bring a Notary.