It was the sixth month anniversary of her last sexual encounter. Times were desperate, and she knew her trusty friend, the Bullet, would be at home waiting for her.
When she walked into her bedroom, clothes and books carefully strewn about, she noticed little red nubs conspicuously piled atop the bed.
Sweater pilling? Random lint?
She looked at her dear Bullet in horror.
BAS!
The cat had taken her vibrator to town. The wire connecting remote and device was severed, as was her hope for a pleasurable end to a bad day.
And the memoir begins.
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