Martha Stewart’s erotic journal.

The first spark of realization came last night, as I lay in my four-post antique bed next to a total stranger named Claude, atop my pastel blue down comforter, protected from the ravages of our bodily fluids by an attractive denim coverlet. The antique ceiling fan with brass fittings efficiently dried the sweat from our bodies; spot-cleaning was done with a discreetly concealed cannister of baby-wipes in the top drawer of the bedside table. Exhausted, Claude slept deeply and heavily, making it very difficult to move his limbs into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. His proud manhood leaned decidedly and unfortunately to the left, ruining the symmetry of his repose. I solved this problem by covering it with an understated terracotta penis cozy.

Link Discuss (Thanks, kirstie!)