I was over at Smart Bitches (an awesome place to hang out, by the way) and there was some funny chat and someone said something that brought on the idea of Tom Robbins writing romance novels. I laughed my large posterior off and shared this with Carolyn who immediately said, "Who is Tom Robbins?"
Despite that, I still love her.
For those of you who have the great good sense to know Tom Robbins (Still Life with Woodpecker, Another Roadside Attraction, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) then firstly, you'd know that Tom Robbins loves to have his heroines experience the butt secks.
Yes indeedy, the chocolate starfish is penetrated often (Kurt Vonnegut, you noobs!).
But even more than that: Tom Robbins writing romance. The thought boggles.
And for that reason alone... Lori's crazed vision of Tom Robbins romance writing:
Imagine the clit. The sweet little pomegranate seed that nestles in the forest of desire, looking like a delightful little fruit that you could buy at a roadside market from a toothless woman wearing crinoline. The clit. The clitoris. Not the Chloris Leachman.
How he regarded it. The nubby nubbin of nebulous need. The pulsing poppet of pleasure and perversion. The clit.
Almost regal in it's nest. The clit isn't a clippity cloppity kind of creature but rather the forest nymph of delight. It slithers and sings and sensuously stutters.
The clit is Betty Crocker making it with the Marlboro Man. She's an apron wearing dominatrix with a velvet whip.
Behold the clit. As he did. Then he rocked her in the ass.