Even fictional stories. They are killing me. I'm spending nights up, writing things so sad that I sometimes cry, and then I look out and it's morning,...the sun is rising, and I have to go to work. I work like a zombie. I fall asleep in my office, and only notice because the phone rings, someone enters, the computer makes a noise every now and them because I set it to. But I'm writing. All this time, when I'm talking to people, when I'm at one of those endless boring meetings that seem to be all. You know my viewpoint, that masturbation is its own good thing, an easy extension of fantasy."Rita rose, rearranging them until she was sitting, Susie's head on her lap, from which cushion Susie gazed at Howard and saw the front of his sarong begin to tent out.He laid his pipe on the chest of drawers and came to the couch, gazing at Susie's crotch. Her legs were sprawled apart. She lacked the strength to close them, though she was not sure she wanted to."Fascinating," he murmured. "Quite a. More

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