Entry XXII--Prologue

AN OPEN LETTER TO ANY CHRISTIAN READING THIS BOOK

Hello, Christian reader. Now of course, I realize any/many devout atheists may be reading this as well, but this introduction, prologue, open letter, what have you, is specifically intended for those of the Christian faith, for it is their faith that will be continuously challenged throughout the course of this book. Especially in the second essay, when the topic of Faith (with a capital "F") is confronted head-on.

Therefore, since they will be confronted for some 200 pages, allow this humble missive to thank each and every one of you Christians for choosing to read the Bye Bull, and indeed, this very letter. I also intend to prepare you for what lies ahead, should you choose to read on, as well as cover some issues specific to the book itself, issues which will not be addressed in any manner in the Bye Bull's ten essays.

I am perfectly willing to accept, Christian reader, that you may well have purchased this Bye Bull to burn it. Or to use it as an instructional guide in some kind of Sunday School class; perhaps on how avoid engaging in anti-Christian thinking, or as a guide to “identifying the enemy”—in this case, the enemy being any anti-Christian. Anyone who agrees with the Bye Bull is someone to be converted by any available born-again ready willing and able to do the converting.

Regardless of your individual motivation, I know some of you are out there holding this “evil little book” in your sweaty little palms, a bit nervous at the prospects of blasphemy that lies just beyond the gates of this introduction.

I know some of you couldn’t resist the temptation and just had to buy your very own copy. Even if you’ll just end up burning it.

I won’t accuse any of you of stealing the book, as that would violate number seven of your Top Ten Commandments (number eight if you're not Catholic, Lutheran or Anglican).

Maybe you checked it out from the local library (if it isn’t on the banned book list already) because you just couldn’t stomach the thought of any extra money going into my pocket.

I can appreciate that, really.

The main thing is, you’re holding this book in your hands and you’ve made the committnent--you are going to read it.

If your faith is unassailable, you need not worry; nothing in these pages could possibly assail it.

And yes, I’m even referring to those of you who consider yourselves “liberal Christians.” The St. Francis of Assisi crowd. You may think this book is solely aimed at fundamentalist right-wingers who aim to transform America into a drab theocracy, where prayer is mandatory and any pleasure beyond Bingo is outlawed.

And this book is directed primarily at them, don’t doubt that for a second.

But you don’t get off the hook either. There are no compromises within these covers.

In the parlance of the illegal drug warriors in our government, this book has a “zero tolerance policy” when it comes to Christianity.

So don't you fret, left-wing Christians, those who strive to promote the socialist side of Christ that gets overlooked, downplayed or outright denied in our free-market America, you too will be offended by this book (but at least acknowledged as legitimate Christians, so take solace in that).

Neither will the book neglect all the fence-sittering Christians; the normal everyday folks who call themselves “Christians” but really lead regular "joe and jane” lives and aren’t really interested in turning over their lives over God/Jesus. They want to be assured a seat in Heaven when it’s all said and done because they "believed", but aren't interested in the myriad of moral restrictions Christianity places on the invidivual will. They want to be able to party and have random intervals of intercourse with multiple partners.

At this point, I’d like to issue a statement that the vast majority of you Christian readers are sure agree with:

The Bye Bull should never have been written.

Let me clarify—there should not have been a need for this book to have been written or for it to exist at all.

Not at this late date in human history.

Yet, alas, here it is.

Thus, it was written because it had to be written.

It exists because you, gentle Christian reader, won’t go away.

It exists because another book still holds sway over much of human destiny.

Correction: Over too much of human destiny.

Referring to the Bible, of course.

This book can be seen as the antithesis of the good book.

Call it the “better book.”

Bye Bull.

It's an abbreviation of the original, working title; Goodbye to Bullshit.

When combined as one word, Byebull becomes my version of bible.

And there is the etymology of this book's title.

It's as good a time as any to assure the reader, Christian or not, that there is nothing satanic on these pages, not even in an allegorical sense. Ultimately, Satanism and devil worship ascribe way too much power to Christianity; legitimizing it, in fact. If I am of the opinion that the Devil exists, then surely God and Jesus are just as plausible.

And assigning plausability to Christianity in any way is not the intention of this text. Rather, this book is carrying on the legacy of those writers and thinkers throughout history that have spoken out against irrational spiritual systems externally imposed on a spiritually confused culture that only result in stifling free thought and progress.

In fact, I’d go insofar as to posit that this book is not a negative commodity in the least, certainly not when considered as a gestalt, your faint Christian protestations to the contrary.

As you may or may not notice, the essays in this book were intentionally ordered to run in tone (more or less) from pessimistic>optimistic. That is, optimistic from an anti-Christian perspective. The early essays identify the problems both created, and in the case of pre-existing issues, exacerbated by Christianity, while the latter essays offer refutations (to Christian arguments) and solutions (to the Christian corruption of mind, body, soul (microcosm) and government and culture (macrocosm).

That may raise a question from the Christian reader: If christianity can be so readily and repeatedly dismissed in this book, why does the book even have to be written in the first place?

Christians turn to this argument when they accuse me of "protesting too much". As if there is no doubt as to the legitimacy of Christianity, and I am obviously just grasping for straws, a little too desperate in my futile attempt to deny the reality of Christ Almighty and His Father who Art in Heaven.

Or that I am bestowing too much power upon Christianity, lauding upon it an exaggerated measure of legitimacy by penning these essays for a book released by a major publishing house.

The unadulturated irony here is, it’s because Christianity is in reality so damn flimsy that the hand of the author was forced to compose this Bye Bull.

That Christianity, this superstitious hodgepodge of previous religions and philosophies, even after all these years, still has power to impact a culture in the manner in which it does, is a reflection of a culture at large that prefers comforting, yet gossamer lies, over painful reality. Or even over beautiful reality for that matter.

Bottom line, the day Bye Bull becomes meaningless is the day it will have achieved its greatest meaning.

Verily, there shall come a day when this book will no longer be necessary.

I suspect many critics and most (if not all) Christians will say that it’s day the book is released.

But the Bye Bull will only become obsolete when the Bible has finally been relegated to the status of myth on the cultural bookshelf, and is no longer required to satisfy the subjective whimsy of the spiritually corrupted.

That the primary objective is that this collection of essays become obsolete as soon as possible is unique among authors, it will be freely admitted.

After earning a living, it can be sincerely stated that the goal of many artists and writers is to primarily achieve a sort of immortality via their art, that it lives on past the confines of their mere mortal existence.

But not here. Not with the Bye Bull. Perhaps a future work this author will pen will see fit to stand the test of time (at least in the author's mind), but not this one, otherwise all my efforts will have been for naught. The faster this book hits the cutout bin, the more of a success it shall be deemed (at least in the author's mind).

Please do not mistake this for pretension on the author's part, there is no false posturing of wishing obscurity upon this book that the author labored on for the last nine months, and truly, for most of the author's adult life. Bye Bull is the culmination and the coalescing of all the author's knowledge and experience over the years of anti-Christian researching and writing.

The desired effect of this book would be to hasten the cultural abandonment of Christianity.







But...there are some Christians, who really aren't Christians, deep down. Or they're not sure what they are. Those that are just going along with Christianity to appease their husband, wife or parents. Or maybe to fit in with their community; Christianity conformity being especially prevelant in the small towns and suburbs of the Midwest and South.

If I could pick any 'wish list' of readers of this book, it would be fencesitting Christians, those that could be persuaded to see the light, as it were.

Otherwise, I'm preaching to the converted--as it were. Those ten percent of Americans that can be relied upon to be genuine freethinkers. Though I tend to think the percentage is higher, those numbers suppressed by 'professional market research firms in order to portray anti-Christians freethinkers as being on the fringe.

But even if our numbers are underestimated, ultimately, it's going to take some of those fencesitters to abandon Christianity, too.

To elaborate any further would take away from the power of the final essay.

And that reference segues nicely into my final point; I would advise that the reader read the essays in order, at least the first time around, as the essays were intentionally ordered in order to create a gestalt experience build to a unified vision in that final essay, where all the ideas that

Not that I would ever want to be accused of harboring Christian conformity. After you've read through it once, then by all means, read one essay a thousand times, read half of the book twice as much as the rest of the book or read it backwards.
Or be really wild and read it from start to finish a second time, to really absorb the content.

Of course, at this point in the letter I realize I must be addressing free-thinkers as I wouldn't think many Christians would bother to read it more than once. Most will read just to say they've read it in order to justify any refutation they proffer. And I will admit, there is some legitimacy to any protests they have if they actually have read the book, but I doubt they'll understand or allow themselves to understand the essence of the essays.

And one final thing, and this goes for all readers, Christian and free-thinker alike; at the risk of contradicting my anarchistic leanings and issuing something actually resembling a “rule,” I would advise that all of you read the essays in order, as each relates to it’s successor, the pessimism>optimism device I discussed previously.

Though I’m sure the average Christian reader will decry the book as just “endless christian bashing,” I ardently sought to avoid being redundant, and I regard each essay as intended to stand on its own, to be revelatory in and of itself. Therefore, you should read the treatises in order the first time, to experience it as a gestalt, a unified vision. Or at least read it in order so you can determine if I pulled off that stylistic intention--or just to decide if you even want to pick up the book a second time.

And that’s about all I have to say to you in this opening missive. Now is the time for you to begin the book, Christian reader, if you dare venture further beyond this communiqué.

It’s going to get a lot scarier, I promise.

See, as far as this letter goes…I went easy on you.

Sincerely yours,

Darwin Grimm

That's suitably poetic, I reckon.

As much as this book wasn't supposed to be written, this moment wasn't ever supposed to come to fruition.

The moment that I finished the book. The impossible deadline has been met, and made possible.

I've actually written a book that will be published.

And yes, maybe some day obsolete.

With 4.2 seconds to spare...

Digital clock reads: 4:59:55

Ms. Cabal gave me until five to send her the just completed Prologue.

Funny that it was the prologue that I wrote last, but that’s just the way it worked out. Besides, the Prologue--that “open letter to Christian readers”--was pure spontaneous joy, no pressure at all, so better to save it for the end, like dessert.

It didn’t even approach the arduousness of writing a single sentence in any of the essays.

Could have spent six months on each essay; as it was, I had less than six months to write all ten of them. So knocking out a whimsical prologue wasn’t shit.

Don’t even need to reread Prologue, let alone edit it. Came out in just the spontaneous manner intended; the thoughts and the words to express those thoughts just rolled off my mind and onto the screen.

On the other hand, not going to write an epilogue. Debated it, but it seemed like the conclusion of the final essay pretty much summed up everything I wanted to say. An epilogue from that point was going to be sheer redundancy, if not worse—anti-climactic.

But I definitely wanted some kind of intro, with a decidedly light tone—especially since the first essay opens so heavy.

The “open letter” format lets the reader know straight away that this book is more than just a dry collection of essays.

And despite the address, the “letter” is actually addressed to the freethinking reader, to give him/her a laugh and also realize that he/she is finally reading a book written for him/her

No compromises when it comes to either the mainstream or hardcore Christianity, no concessions to their power and sway.

No worries about offending anyone.

Best thing, Ms. Cabal won’t be editing a word of it. (Not that she is planning to revise much of the actual essays). Though I haven’t seen her since that night I was at her house, and haven’t spoken to her once on the phone in all that time, we’ve been in constant email communication and she told me I had full “artistic freedom” when it came to Prologue, so long as it wasn’t obscene.

It isn’t, but of course, any christian will find Prologue—and the whole book—obscene.

None of that matters. I’m more thrilled that Ms. Cabal and I will no longer be confined to emails. She promised me that we would meet face-to-face once I finished the book, but there were to be no distractions in my life until that point.

So, am I more excited that the book is finally done or that I’m finally going to see Ms. Cabal?

Honestly? The latter.

Kind of hate myself for not letting my writing, my creative art, being the central motivator and source of joy in my life.

Can pretend it is, but that’s all it would be, pretending.

It’s been painful not being able to see her all these weeks.

She’s a goddess. Make that Goddess with a capital G. If I ever chose to worship anything or anyone, it’d be her.

Which reminds me. I still need to write the dedication.

Create a new document and type:

To D’mona Cabal and Sister Hermann. This book would have never have been written without the inspiration of those two women.

Didn’t bother to explain the significance of either mention. Acknowledging Ms. Cabal is obvious, of course, but the Sister Hermann reference is meant to be cryptic, an inside joke.

Yet an inside joke with a grain of truth, as all good jokes possess. Sister Hermann was the nun who was my 4th grade teacher back in cath-o-lick school. Since I was the class clown, always seeking approval and acknowledgement in the laughter I’d generate with my jokes and hi-jinx, Sister Hermann decided I was on the “wrong path” and would frequently make me stay after school, and “talk to myself” because “I liked to talk so much.”

Sister Hermann didn’t know it at the time, but that sexless bitch had in fact planted the first seed of the harvest that became my free thinking--and my eventual, complete break from christianity.

So without Sis Hermann, I might not have become the person I am today, capable of despising christianity with such a dispassionate clarity that could produce such a book as Bye Bull.

Besides, it seems apposite to dedicate the book to women, given the feminist leanings of many of the essays.

(Although, in that spirit, I will leave out the fact that Sister Hermann was appropriately named, since she sprouted facial hair and had a generally mannish countenance).

Gaze dreamily at the screen until sober necessity bitch slaps me: Shit! So self-satisfied with what I just wrote, forgot I still have to email these documents.

Quick glance at the clock shows it’s past five o’clock.

Dammit, late after all. But I'm half-smiling.

Wonder if Ms. Cabal will hold me in violation of my contract? Technically she has the right.

Without pausing, attach the documents titled PROLOGUE and DEDICATION to an email apology to Ms. Cabal's assistant and send it off.

Now I can relax and legitimately claim I'm done with the writing, the book is out of my hands and in the icy grip of Ms. Cabal.

So…what now?

For the first time since she commissioned me to write back in March, I’m not under any pressure, facing no more deadlines, there’s nothing I have to do.

Most anyone else would be celebrating the moment with a bit of the bubbly, but I don’t want any.

Really don’t. I’m over drinking--don’t want to go back to that place.

Still, finding it hard to wind down. Antsy, like there’s still something left to be done.

Reckon I could go outside for a walk, burn some energy and experience the rest of the day, outside, like normal people do.

But this isn’t the day to start becoming normal. Normal didn't get me here.

So I stare at the phone, waiting for like a good lapdog, waiting for Ms. Cabal to make it ring.

8:41 in the evening and still nothing. Stomach starting to grumble, but am not going to move out of this seat till I hear from Ms. Cabal. Ignore the hunger—my appetite for her is more powerful, anyway.

Digital clock “strikes” 8:42 PM, and as if on cue, summoned by the new moment…

R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-N-G!

Know it's her.

Still, I play dumb when I answer it with a snatch of the receiver by the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Darwin.”

Of course it’s her.

“Hello, Ms. Cabal. It’s good to talk to you again. How are you?”

“I am fine, thank you Darwin. But what you really want to know is what I thought of the Prologue.”

Not true. More excited to speak with her than her opinion of my writing—and she should know that. But as always, I submit: “Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

“I enjoyed the Prologue, although I think it could mislead a potential reader who thumbs through the book in a store. She or he might think it is a humor-oriented book as opposed to the more sober series of philosophical essays that it in truth is.

“However, there are touches of sarcasm throughout your book, such as in the “Fallacies” essay, so I think the tone of the prologue blends well with those passages.

“Regardless, as I promised you, the prologue will appear word-for-word. Most potential buyers read the sleeve to glean the nature of a book, not a prologue. It is just that it is important for this book to be a commercial success, to have the most impact

“I took all those things you said into consideration, Ms. Cabal. I just wanted a…flippant prologue to contrast with the rather heavy opening to the first essay.”

“In that case, mission accomplished, Darwin.”

Hmmm…can’t tell if she’s really pleased with it or not from that remark. Feels more like she’s just tolerating Prologue.

Regardless, her next words couldn't come more inviting: “Darwin, we must have a drink to celebrate your accomplishment...and Apogee Writ's good fortune. There will be a car waiting to pick you up in front of your building at nine o’clock.”

“Uh, I don’t drink...anymore..."

"Then there will be no alcohol in your drink. The car will be waiting outside your building at nine sharp. Goodbye, Darwin.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Cabal.”

Wince as I hang up. What the fuck was I thinking, making that comment to her? Who gives a shit if I don’t drink? She sure doesn’t. Ms. Cabal wants me over--that’s all that matters.

Glance at the clock—it’s already 8:30, meaning I've only got a half-hour to shower, shave, change and run downstairs to meet her car.

I don't care about the driver, but he's probably on a timetable and I don’t want to make Ms. Cabal to even wait for a minute. She deserves better than that.

Under a blissful stream of steaming hot water, make sure every nook and cranny of my
bod is scrubbed squeaky. More attentive and nervous right now than before any date I've ever had in my life, including the one that lead to my losing my virginity, back in college.

Find my best collared--which happens to be my only clean shirt with a collar, combined with my black dress slacks and leather shoes and I look as good as I have in months, especially when you throw in the shower and the shave.

Have been pretty much a hermit since I stopped drinking and started writing these last four months, so just going out at night to interact with another person is probably more than I can handle.

Still I'm out in front of my building at 8:59 PM and actually use that full minute to catch my breath before the sedan pulls up, the driver emerging to hold the door for me, and off we speed to Ms. Cabal's stately abode, leaving the Chinatown crassness far behind...


“Here is to the completion of your book, Darwin, and to doing it under the deadline, which is the best gift any writer can give a publisher-- as equally important as a well-written book—especially when that publisher is fighting for position in an increasingly competitive marketplace.”

Ms. Cabal smiles and I laugh politely accordingly and lift my apple cider to meet her raised glass of outstanding Bordeaux champagne (or so she tells me, I'm too coarse too be aware of such things)—and then quickly retract my hand with sufficient embarrassment when I realize she’s not done toasting.

The consummate professional, she flashes me a disapproving look for my lack of patience, while finishing the toast with total aplomb.

“Of course, that was an industry joke. Nothing is more important than the book itself. And under tremendous pressure, you have delivered a book that Apogee Tomes can be proud to publish. Each essay you wrote is truly a work of profound art, a wonderful coalescing of the philosophic and the creative streams of your unique thought processes.”

“You should write my reviews.”

“I will help craft your PR, and if crafted the right way, the PR and the press releases will become the reviews. Now let me finish my toast to you or you will be punished.”

(Is that a promise—or a prelude?)

“And I find it most fitting that the final submission was the Prologue, because tonight, though we toast the end of your writing, it is just the beginning of our affiliation.”

Not exactly sure what she means by that, but I’m down for anything that means I’m going to stay a part of her life—even peripherally—I’ll take that.

And still, Ms. Cabal has yet to complete her toast:

“Finally, here is to you, Darwin, and to Bye Bull”

At last, we can toast, as she extends her glass to meet mine in the ceremonial clink and smiles at me while taking a more generous drink than I; can’t take my eyes off her, screw the cider—it was ceremonial, anyway.

Imbibe a slight sip of cider to be polite--and proper.

Just that sends a rush of heartburn racing up my esophagus. Ignore the discomfort for the simple fact at this precise moment I am seated on the same couch next to Ms. Cabal. Her majestic, flawless legs loosely contained in a white cotton skirt that serves in utter contrast to all the tight skirts and dresses (not to mention leather Dominatrix garb--in my "freakout fantasy" in her presence). The material and the more casual fit are appropriate for this unusually warm summer evening in San Francisco./district she's in.

Those aforementioned legs of perfection are crossed in such away that one of her sandal covered feet dangles tantilizingly near my knee. So close, the slightest abrupt movement by either one of us would result in physical contact; so far, her open toes might as well be dangling in China.

I actually match her; purposely wore my loosest fitting slacks because I knew there was more than a distinct possibility being in her presence would leave me aroused--and my choice is proving to be a prudent one right about now.

Still, feel as relaxed as I ever have in her presence; maybe it has something to do with the book being behind me, maybe it has something to do with the apple cider.

Too relaxed when I blurt out, "I'm so glad the book is what you wanted, Ms. Cabal."

She instantly correct me, "It has little to do with what I want, Darwin, but that you produced a book that will have an influence on the culture."

Find myself locked in her mysterious eyes once more as I ask, "Do you really think it's possible for the book to have that influence?"

"I would hardly waste your time--or more importantly, waste my time if I thought otherwise."

As always, Ms. Cabal immediately supplements the cloud-dwelling idealistic with the down-to-earth practical, "Naturally, in order to achieve such a lofty result, the book must be marketed properly. As you will see in the coming months, Darwin, I have an unprecendented publicity campaign designed for Bye Bull; certainly unprecedented in terms of nonfiction publishing."

Insert a quick quip: "Well, we are competing with the all time best-seller, they say that's nonfiction too, don't they?"

Ms. Cabal flashes me a knowing grin, amused by my comment, not minding that I interrupted her.

It's weird, but it feels like how it would be if Ms. Cabal and I were in a...relationship.

The very notion is so proposterous, it's immediately dashed from my mind, and return complete focus to Ms. Cabal as she proceeds to explain:

"Every possible medium will be utilized to promote Bye Bull. There will be an intricately orchestrated and coordinated publicity campaign, running the gamut from TV commercials to news reports to public appearances."

That last one is a hook in my mouth: "As in me appearing before the public?"

She frowns at my fragmentary syntax as much as my trepidation: "Of course, Darwin. You will be sent on a promotional tour in November, commencing just after the book is released on Halloween and ending just before Thanksgiving."

Palms dampen at the prospect; my typical fear of the unknown overwhelms me. Much as it pains me to do so, gotta confess: "Not sure I can do that--and even less sure how well I can do it, Ms. Cabal. I'm a writer, not a personality."

"Nonsense. You never wrote a book until these last few months. If you can accomplish that, you can certainly read excerpts from the book, sign copies and field questions>"

"It's that last one that gets me. Having to be spontaneous and answer questions off the cuff aren't my specialties. I'm not interested in looking like some kind of jackass when I'm supposed to be this new hotshot author on the scene.

Ms. Cabal can't scoff fast enough: "I fail to understand why you are so paranoid, Darwin. Your voice has fine timbre and you have a strong presence--when you care to display it. However, I will hire a public speaking coach and we can stage mock interview sessions, featuring typical questions you are likely to face on your publicity tour."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

My acquiesence pleases her and she takes another drink and I join her with another nip of cider. Maybe it's the heartburn, maybe it's the fructose in the cider, maybe it's my fear of public speaking, but I feel a strange sensation coming over me.

It leaves me kind of spacey, yet it relaxes simultaneously.

Either way, don't let it overwhelm me--it's going good with Ms. Cabal, don't want to mess this up.

"For the time being, Darwin, I want you to relax. You have the rest of the summer off. Your first appearance won't be until Halloween, when the book is released. There will be a launch party at a public location around that time, in late October. The details still have to be worked out, as does your travel itinerary for the promotional tour."

Coming to the chilling realization that promoting the book is going to be far more of a bitch than writing it ever was.

Also come to another realization, this one more acceptable: "I'm done writing...and I have enough money to live comfortably. It'll be my first real summer vacation since I was a kid."

"That's what I was trying to tell you, Darwin. This is your opportunity to relax."

The emphasis she places on the word is enough to send me drifting off to sleep.

True to form, my eyelids grow heavy...

Enough that I blink for a sustained moment...

And when my eyes open, they are not secretly looking at Ms. Cabal's crossed legs, but instead are pressed up against her inner thighs.

Yes, incredible as it seems, impossible as it seems, my face is buried in Ms. Cabal's pussy. Her legs are spread sufficiently wide, skirt hiked up on her hips, panties completely removed.

Am momentarily stunned; hesitant as to how to proceed.

As always, am instructed by the sure hand of Ms. Cabal, and she turns my head towards the inner thigh of her left leg.

This isn't the time to dream, but to act!

Instinct kicks in, and along with that, a sense of lucidity; the first rule is not to let my out of control lust get the best of me and ruin the cunnilingus for her.

Slowly suck on her thighs, using lips and tongue to tantilize Ms. Cabal, and apparently it does just that, generating a gentle sigh of pleasure from her. Even with both ears pressed up against her flesh, I hear her soft moan. How could I not?

An old girlfriend who loved for me to go down on her on a nightly basis once said that a woman's thighs being licked in foreplay really stimulated her naughty bits, and I've always kept that to heart.

Switch to Ms. Cabal's right thigh--mustn't ignore that equally suculent delight! Delicately gnaw on that one until I've built ample tension. Catch the first whiff of pussy juice, bringing with it a sense of accomplishment, that I'm getting her excited.

With that comes the confidence to edge my face close to the edge of her waiting, wanting, moistened box.









PAY ME THE REST OF THE ADVANCE?










Phone rings sharper than usual, as if my senses have been heightened by my accomplishment, like the afterglow of a mind-splitting orgasm.

Before picking it up,I know who it's her.

"Hello, Ms. Cabal."