Here, let me look at you.

Here, let me look at you. My God, you’re beautiful.

How could I have not seen your loveliness all these years?

Your face, round and smooth between my hands, your soft skin, rich and thick like pudding. What’s that green pudding with the nuts in it? Pistachio? Man, I do like pistachio pudding. But you look nothing like that. Your face is more like that white pudding with the rice in it, only without the rice.

And your neck, long and taut yet tender, smelling hazily of floral perfume. It’s a real shame you have to wear this neck brace for the next six weeks. I’m sure lots of people will stare and you and then look away when you notice, and some will laugh. I’m sorry I laughed at you.

Your breasts, sweet and big and large. I’m very attracted to you, and it’s not because of your massive knockers. You’re a lovely person inside and out. Here, I bought you a present. It’s a brassiere with the cups cut out. I’ll wait here while you put it on.

Have I mentioned how I love when you lie on your back, and you let me play Matchbox cars on your belly? Sometimes, there will be a fire in the Quaker Oats factory right by your navel, and fire trucks from Tits Town will race over the top of Hip Bone Hill, narrowly surviving an ambush by rogue army men, crashing through a Lincoln Log wall, only to smash into the factory after careening through a three-story loop, barely missing the closing jaws of a crocodile? I love that about you.

Your eyes, twinkling sapphires, see right through me, don’t they? What am I thinking right now? What do I most fear? And where are my G.D. keys?